Mirrors (Curse of Lanval Book 1)

by Dodson, Rebekah

  “It hasn’t changed much, has it?” Jules pushed open the door to the guest room we had shared as children. I looked past her to see the two twin beds, both covered with pink and blue quilts, the water landscapes hung on the wall, the window seat with its faded yellow padding on the far side. It was still as immaculate as I remembered as if my aunt had expected us to return every day. Even the dresser in the corner had the clean washbowl with a pastel blue cloth draped over the side, a reminder of simpler times. I opened the door to the right and saw the tiny bathroom with a sink and shower was just as spotless as the rest of the room.

  “It’s like eighth grade all over again,” I murmured.

  “Maybe we should actually go up to the attic this time,” Jules whispered, sitting on the bed. “Remember, we swore it was haunted?”

  I felt a shiver run down my back and sat on the bed next to her. “We used to lay awake and hear the creaks of this old house and make up ghost stories.”

  “Even back then your stories still had sexy women,” Jules laughed.

  “It wasn’t just those stories. You remember Allisone Burnnett?”

  “She used to live down the street,” Jules nodded. She eyed me with a groan. “Oh God, Gill, what did you do?”

  “I fingered her right on this bed when we were thirteen.”

  Jules let out a sound of disgust, butt shrugged. “I did, too, but I was fifteen.”

  “Seriously? I never knew Allisone was into us both.”

  “Allisone was beautiful, all legs and blond hair. That was the first time I realized I was…”

  “Gay?”

  “Yes, Gill.” She scoffed. “I always knew I was attracted to women, but she really rocked my world, like no one else in high school ever, did. I was sad when she moved back to the city.”

  We sat in silence for a few minutes, then I hooked my arm around her shoulders. “I know high school was hard for you, but you made it.”

  She smiled and hugged me back. “We both made it. And surprisingly, you made it without getting anyone pregnant.”

  I winked. “Goals.”

  She laughed again and then reached into her jeans pocket. “Wanna see those pictures I found?”

  “Sure.”

  We both stared into the large screen of her phone as she flipped through site after site of dates, ancient portraits, and epitaphs, each one more ancient than the other. “Ah, here it is.”

  I knew immediately from my history studies the painting was early period, maybe twelfth century, with the elongated face and blocked textures. Art, especially medieval the period, was one of my specialties in school. “Is that him?” I whispered.

  “Why are we whispering?”

  I nudged her with my shoulder. “Shut up. Is that the count?”

  “Yes.”

  A few things clicked in my head as my history studies flooded my brain. “Is he related to William the Conqueror?”

  Jules took the phone from me and slid screens for a few minutes. “Yes, but William was the illegitimate child of…”

  “Robert, brother to Richard II of France,” I supplied.

  “Damn, you’re good,” Jules murmured. “Count Guillaume is William’s brother. Wait, why do they have the same name? That’s confusing.”

  “It’s a popular French name,” I admitted, “but if I recall, William was born first, but because he was an illegitimate heir, he wasn’t eligible to inherit anything.”

  “But history talks a lot more about that brother,” Jules said, looking up from her phone.

  “Because the bastard son was the one that conquered England, and his half brother didn’t do anything that spectacular.”

  “History is weird,” Jules said. “Here it is, Guillaume, half-brother to William the Conqueror. Born around 1050 or so.”

  “Twenty years younger than his brother?” I took the phone from her. I didn’t see the same resemblance that Jules did. The same pointed French nose and high cheekbones, as well as dark eyes and hair. He was clearly royalty, but looked nothing like me. Of course, the painting was from some tapestry, and probably dated around 1100, so it was hard to see any connection. At least, I thought so. I told Jules as much.

  “Come on, Gill, you’re not looking hard enough.”

  “It’s what, twenty generations, or more? I don’t get what you are seeing, besides that fact, we share a name.”

  “And maybe a love for women,” she said, scrolled down the page. “Here’s his list of countesses.”

  The list was long, almost never-ending. I counted fourteen, over the space of one hundred years. “Who would marry a hundred-year-old Count?” I whistled. “There’s no way those saggy balls could pleasure anyone.”

  Jules laughed. “Women back then married for money and titles, you know, and he had both of plenty. It’s rumored he had a torrid affair with Queen Eleanor of Aquitaine, about 1150 A.D.”

  “No way,” I said, “He would be over one hundred at that point.”

  “Well, she was beautiful, I read, but I couldn’t find a picture of her. Who knows. Times were different back then.”

  I racked my brain for that title. “Eleanor,” I said softly. “Queen of England and France at the time. She got around, apparently.”

  “I read that somewhere,” Jules agreed, “she lived to be almost eighty years old.”

  “Old for back then,” I said.

  “Not as old as this guy,” Jules said, “Look.”

  She pointed to a picture of a magnificent tomb, with the inscription: Guillaume, son of Robert, d. 1223.

  “That’ can’t be right,” I said, “He was one hundred and seventy-three years old? That’s way off.”

  “I know, right?”

  “Why haven’t any actual historians looked into this? It’s been like eight hundred years. Someone should have noticed this by now.”

  “From what I saw, people think it’s another descendant with the same name, and it’s been overlooked mostly. Guillaume died under ‘mysterious circumstances,’ and it’s lost to history where he’s actually buried. Weird, huh?”

  I shook my head. “We have to be missing something.”

  “Why don’t we go and check?”

  “What?”

  “This castle is only about forty miles from here, in Mayenne.”

  “And?”

  “Maybe we can convince Andre to let us use his car.”

  “I don’t know. We’ll see.” As much as I loved castles and had explored many with my Uncle Richard, I wondered why he’d never taken me to the home of his ancestors. Interesting.

  “But first, we have to get through this funeral.” Jules pocketed her phone, then and she pushed up from the bed. “I’m gonna get a shower.”

  I stood just as quickly and shoved her back down. “Me first!” I raced to the bathroom, slamming the door behind me.

  “You asshole!” she called from the other side of the door. “Don’t take forever!”

  I threw the ancient brass handle on the shower and shouted back, “Can’t hear you!”

  That pretty much summed up my relationship with my older sister. Always trying to be first and making her mad, but deep down I knew I’d do anything for her above all others.

  I had no idea how much I was about to be tested on that very point.

  Chapter Five: A Funeral and My Sister’s Find

  Of all my years in France, this funeral was my first. It wasn’t my first funeral, of course, as I vividly remembered when my grandfather on my father’s side died when I was ten years old. American funerals are certainly depressing compared to the vivid life celebration of European countries. The first thing I noticed, of course, was my aunt’s vibrant orange summer dress, even in the chilly late September weather. My mother and sister dressed accordingly as well, in white shirts with puffy sleeves and flowing skirts. I had packed for a funeral, with a gray dress shirt, a houndstooth jacket, and black slacks. I stood out in the crowd, especially with a dark gray fedora tilted over my auburn curls.

/>   My aunt and uncle weren’t die-hard Catholics, but no one would have guessed with the presentation of the funeral. The procession of priests and choir boys was enormous, the church even more so. The vaulted ceiling and the stained glass windows almost made me believe I was transported to another time, as did the Latin words of the funeral dirge. The church was packed from pew to pew, and I never realized my uncle had been so popular. Of course, he knew so many people and had grown up in this little village, so it shouldn’t have been a surprise.

  About half way through the ceremony, everyone stood. My mother pressed a jingle of Euro coins into my hand, and my sister and I both dropped them into a collection box that went around. Afterward, we were given tiny vials of a clear liquid, some holy water I imagined. We followed the long line to the open coffin at the front of the church.

  I tried to brace myself for the swirl of emotions that hit me when I saw my uncle’s weather-worn face, eyes closed, hands folded across his chest. He was dressed in his Sunday best, of course, but growing up I had rarely seen him in anything so casual. Looking around at the array of brightly dressed family and friends, he looked look like the only one attending a funeral. It was strange to see him like this, and I decided I didn’t like it. I didn’t cry, but my heart thudded slowly like the veins were too sluggish to pump the blood correctly. I felt a lump rise in my throat.

  Everyone was sprinkling their vials elaborately over the shiny exterior, and my aunt was openly weeping, leaning on my mother for support, who also allowed the tears to flow down her cheeks. In my haste to sprinkle the water over the coffin, I dumped it beside his cheek and panicked. As I had seen my mother do, I leaned in and kissed his cheek, the smell of formaldehyde and sweet perfumes overwhelming me to the point I felt my stomach leap.

  I wanted out of here, and quickly.

  I felt my sister grab my hand and squeeze lightly as she sprinkled her vial and we returned to our seats in the front row. She was crying as well, silent tears that dotted her rosy cheeks. I sat heavily, exhaling and leaning forward with my hands clasped between my knees. It was hard to breathe in here.

  There was no eulogy, and a single wreath was placed over the coffin as the lid shut for the last time. The priest and choir sang once more, as the sound of tears, ruffled tissues, and wails filled the air.

  God, I was so uncomfortable. I’d rather be sitting in a math final, naked, without a single hour of studying, in front of the world’s most beautiful teacher. When the priest urged us to stand and escorted us down the aisle, I resisted the urge to run. Instead, I followed behind my mother, focusing on the worn scarlet carpet at my feet.

  In France, my mother had explained on the way here, only the most intimate of family attended the actual burial, and in this case, my uncle was to be buried in the family tomb at the local cemetery. Although Jules and I were welcome, she said, it was mainly for Andre and Alberta.

  Jules and I politely declined. Since we’d come in both Andre’s and Alberta’s cars, Andre oddly gave us his keys to take his car home. Although he didn’t shed a tear throughout, his shoulders were slumped, and he didn’t look anyone in the eye. Everyone grieved differently, I supposed.

  I drove since Jules admitted she wasn’t comfortable driving on the other side of the road from America. It took a little getting used to, I have to admit, but on this lazy Sunday, there were few other cars on the road, which I was thankful for.

  “Do you feel like a field trip?” Jules said quietly.

  “Where?”

  Her phone was in her hand in an instant. “Chateau Mayenne.”

  “Jules, it’s like four in the afternoon. The sun will set soon, we don’t have time to traipse around a castle.”

  “I need something to get my mind off that depressing shit we just went through,” she murmured, scrolling through her phone. “Damn,” she said, “all these pages are in French, the translator on my phone is awful.”

  I veered off to the narrow side of the country road. “Let me see.” She handed me the phone.

  I tapped through a few pages on history, events, attractions. “Here it is,” I said, mumbling in French as I muddle through the text on the website. “Closed to the public after 6 PM.”

  “We have time!” Jules said, sitting up straight.

  “We aren’t dressed to go hiking in a castle,” I protested, merging back onto the road.

  “Gill, please,” Jules said. Her voice was so small and pleading, unlike her normal commanding tone she used on me. “It’ll take our minds off things.”

  The sight of my mother openly weeping, her frail figure supporting the significant form of my aunt and even the sadness that enveloped my normally unpleasant cousin flooded my vision momentarily. “All right,” I said finally. I turned off the country road onto an open highway, or rather, the French equivalent, which was two lanes instead of one. A sign for Mayenne, 65 Km, pointed in the right direction. My brain struggled to convert kilometers to miles, which was about forty or so, as Jules had said yesterday.

  The narrow roads of Mayennne were difficult to navigate; nothing like the six-lane highways that marked our traditional American landscape. No, not in Europe. Most of the roads didn’t even accommodate this tiny car. Thankfully, this late at night most of the residents weren’t on the road. I knew from my childhood that like any small town in America, much of rural France rolled up the sidewalks just before dusk. The sun was setting quickly in front of us to the west, and the shop doors were all battered shut. For famous castle, however, I didn’t see a sign of it, not so far.

  “Fuck!” I yelled as I swerved from a large truck barreling toward us, our car sliding within inches of a baking shop marked Patisserie.

  Jules gasped and grabbed the dash. “Jesus Christ, Gill,” she breathed.

  I slowed nearly to a stop and exhaled. Driving in France was hella scary. As we merged back onto the deserted road, I finally found a sign that pointed around the corner to Castle Mayenne. I rounded the windy street along the canal, and there it was, right in the middle of the goddamn town. It stretched almost the length of the sleepy village.

  I whistled. “Huge,” I said. Jules didn’t comment, and I saw she was on her phone. “What are you doing?”

  She held up a finger and whispered, “Voicemail.” She turned back to the phone. “Hi Mama,” she said, “We are just sightseeing. We will be home for dinner,” she said and clicked her phone off. She looked at me. ”You know she worries.”

  She didn’t, actually. My mother never checked up on us and never seemed to be concerned in the least, not from what I remembered. She was a very free spirit. My father was the worried one, all the time, it seemed. It was my father who had yelled at me about three times since I set off for college, but it had been two weeks, and my mother hadn’t even called to see how I was doing. It wasn’t that she didn’t care, I didn’t think, but that she wanted us to live our own lives. After all, her own parents had set her off to America for college, without so much as a phone call. Of course, thirty years ago, the world was a different place, and international calling was expensive.

  “Should we call Dad?” Jules asked.

  “Why?” I pulled into the parking lot east of the castle, a small area with only three other cars scattered across the pavement.

  “I don’t know, maybe he would want to know…”

  “He didn’t come, so why would he care?” I shrugged. I turned and saw Jules’ look of concern and sighed. “Look, I know Dad’s not much of a funeral type person,” I said, thinking back to his father’s funeral.

  “He could have come and supported Mom, but his job was too important, I guess.”

  I ignored her last comment, but knew she was right. I pointed up to the castle. “It’s enormous.”

  “I wonder how much was there in Guillaume’s time.”

  “I don’t know,” I admitted. “Probably not that much, for sure. This town, even.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Counts and Kings love to add t
o castles,” I said, “It’s a sign of prestige. Plus, the twelfth century was very much the feudal age, so this town would have been wooden buildings run by the peasants. Thatched roofs and shit. Maybe more farmland, I don’t know.”

  “You’re a nerd,” Jules said, and I glanced over to see her smiling.

  I grinned back at her. “Duh.”

  “Do you ever let women see how smart you are? You might find one that’s attracted to more than your biceps, you know.”

  I frowned. “Really, Jules? Women don’t want a nerd. They want a guy who’s good in bed.” I suddenly thought about Selena and her slap across my cheek. Girls definitely did not want a nerd, even if they had the voice of an angel like myself. They wanted a guy that could sweep them off their feet, with tight abs and a huge...

  “That’s what you think.”

  I didn’t answer her. I was thinking about Becci now, and her fiancé, a business analyst she’d met on some professional training session for the EMT union. I never saw a picture of him, but I imagined he probably looked great in a speedo and made around six figures. Why else would she be with him?

  I felt drained after the events of the day, and it had been a long drive, combined with a long flight yesterday. Selena and Becci merged in my head, a grotesque conformity of dark eyes and hair in the back of an ambulance. I gazed down the length of the castle, with the high wall that bordered the murky water. According to the clock on the car’s dashboard, if Jules was right, we only had about thirty-five minutes until the castle closed for the day.

  “You really want to do this?” I said, turning off the ignition. “Couldn’t we come back another day when we could do more exploring?”

  “Well, I didn’t really dress for it,” Jules said, “Besides, how long does it take to walk around a castle?” She eyed me.

  Jules’ look of incredulity was the same the lady at the front gate gave us as she pushed our Euros through the little plastic window for our entrance fee. In French, she said to me, “Thirty minutes until close.”