by Emma Mills
Genevieve: A WitchBlood Story
By Emma Mills
Copyright © 2013 Emma Mills
All Rights Reserved
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This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organisations is entirely coincidental.
Genevieve: A WitchBlood Story
Copyright © 2013 Emma Mills
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Outskirts of Paris 1793
The air was freezing. A young girl crouched down and traced her finger over the intricate petals of frost, sparkling on the cobbles. She was the only one foolish enough to be outdoors. Driven by necessity, and lurking in the shadows of the rotting wooden door, she scoured the alleyway before stepping out. A quiet moan reached her ears and she turned back to the dilapidated cottage, whispering reassurance.
‘I’ve got to go, Maman. We need food.’
The girl’s mother lay half-hidden in a dark corner of the room, curled up beneath what had once been a finely woven blanket, now spoiled with mud and snags. The woman’s breathing was shallow, her body unaccustomed to the hardships of the last month, her emotions unable to compute the loss of her family... the betrayal of her eldest son.
‘Stay, Genevieve. Please?’ the mother begged, her eyes filling with tears as she stifled another bout of coughs.
Genevieve’s face creased with worry and her head pounded. Unable to remember when she’d last eaten, the muddy water they had shared churned in her stomach, making the hunger pangs worse. She knew they should stick together, but her mother could go no further and they needed food.
The girl tugged nervously on the peasant trousers her younger brother Alfred had found for her, just days before Philippe had gone and betrayed them all. The trousers were loose and felt strange against her skin; the shoes were too big and slipped whenever she moved forward. She pulled her long cloak round her tiny waist and tucked the wisps of dark hair back into their hiding place beneath the hat she’d stolen. She felt small and vulnerable without the enormous panniers, corset, double petticoats, and dresses. Panniers made her three times the size of the male courtiers and her wigs had made her a foot taller, but now she felt like a child again.
Pride no longer an option, Genevieve had become quite adept at stealing over the past couple of weeks. She had no choice. Frowning, she thought of the diamond earrings she’d received as an engagement present on her fourteenth birthday; it seemed a lifetime ago. So much had happened in five years.
The foundation of the National Assembly, followed by the imprisonment of the king, had saved her from an arranged marriage and a dull life sitting pretty in Versailles. Yet her parents had snubbed Alfred when he had urged her family to flee. They had too much faith in their breeding; their royal blood. They were to be respected, admired. Papa refused to call it a revolution; to him it was merely political unrest which needed a strong hand. Unfortunately for them all, King Louis XVI was never revered for his leadership and, like much of his Court, he was known instead for excess and frivolity.
Genevieve sighed and took a final glance at her mother’s shivering body.
‘Buy something for us then. We still have coins?’ her mother queried.
Genevieve patted her waist. She still had the gold charm bracelet and a purse full of coins. She’d hidden them beneath the bandages wrapped tightly round her chest, in an effort to hide her curves. Life would be so much easier if she could only sell the jewels. The proceeds would pay for somewhere warm to stay, and food to eat, but she knew she couldn’t risk it. The coins in her purse weren’t the dirty coppers befitting of a peasant; they were shiny golden francs. Knowing that proof of any kind of wealth would mean their disguise as peasants would be null and void; not only that, but what would follow could only get worse. Age or gender didn’t matter. She’d witnessed childhood friends and their mothers beaten, raped, tortured and ridiculed. With their heads shaven, they were paraded through the mean streets, only to meet their ultimate demise alongside the rest of her family. No! The girl shook her head. She would find some bread. She would survive. They would survive.
‘I’ll be back soon,’ she whispered, before stepping out into the street and pulling the door behind her, hoped no-one came to investigate her mother’s sobs.
She had no real idea of where they were. They had made it past the city walls a week earlier, but even outside Paris, the streets were crammed with shacks and cottages, forcing them to travel at night. The peasants outside the city walls seemed hungrier and more blood-thirsty than their neighbours, all baying for blood, hungry for their humiliation. Genevieve had half-dragged, half-carried her mother the last couple of miles and the relief that had washed over her on discovering the derelict cottage was acute. Now all she had to do was find some food before dawn.
The lane led towards a village of some kind, with several other lanes joining in the centre. Most of the cottages had their shutters firmly closed, whilst others were hanging off the hinges. A baby cried out somewhere to her left. Genevieve scurried away from the sound and fled down another dark passageway.
For three days they had survived on nothing but river water. Her mother had refused the dandelions Genevieve had picked… the only plant she knew was edible, and it was this last refusal that had brought them into the town in a desperate search for food. As the first snowflakes fell she began to shake, her frame convulsing in response to the harsh wind and freezing sleet. She couldn’t give up; she had to carry on. She licked her dry, cracked lips and pulled the cloak tighter. Later she would find some branches from the riverside and build them a fire. Not that she knew how to, but she was sure she could learn. She’d have to.
Sometime later she found herself stumbling along a narrow muddy lane, a back street really, which ran directly behind a line of brick buildings belonging to merchants and traders. She could see the odd candle or oil lamp flickering in the windows as people began to stir. Soon it would become too dangerous to be out. If only she could find some rubbish carts, she might find something edible. The sudden smell of freshly baking bread drove her on; down the street until she reached the back of a building with a warm flickering light emanating from its windows and the low hum of the baker singing as he worked. It was all she could do not to rush to his door and collapse inside, begging for the one thing she had taken for granted her entire life. Instead she tiptoed across the yard and, doing her best to ignore the rotting stench, began rummaging through the pile of rubbish by the door. She stifled a shriek as a huge black rat scrambled out from its centre and lunged at her hand, before she swatted it away. Last night’s stew had been dumped on top of the heap, leaving a trail of gooey brown slime covering the potato peelings and ash from the bread oven. Genevieve licked the gravy from her fingers and grimaced as the ash clung to her teeth. She pushed the top of the pile away and dug deeper until she found what she’d hoped for… two small, burnt loaves of bread. They were hard, black and stale. Even the rats had discarded them, but Genevieve smiled. They would do.
Without warning the shutters above the yard were flung open and a shrill voice began screaming. Genevieve jumped back from the rubbish, clutching both loaves in her hands as she fled down the street. It was still dark, but dawn happened late in the winter months and as Genevieve ran through the lanes, more and more rooms were being lit… the village was waking. Ducking around a corner, she ran straight into the chest of a tall man. She leapt back but his hand shot out in a quick blur of movement to steady her, grabbing her bony shoulder. She squealed and pulled back in alarm, before looking up at him. Her eyes widened. There was something familiar about the aristocratic features, but she could trust no-one anymore. Genevieve quickly pulled away and darting round him, ran on. The man’s hand fell limply to his side and he watched her go, a crease of concern flashing across his forehead as he whispered the word, ‘Evie’.
Genevieve bolted down the next street, keeping to the shadows and avoiding any noise or disturbance, only pausing to catch her breath some minutes later. She recognised him, she was sure, but from where? She wondered if he was a member of court, also on the run; but as her brother had illustrated only too clearly,