The Angels' Mirror Pack 2: Books Four through Seven

by Harmony L. Courtney

  “This can’t be happening,” he said, shaking his head still more violently. “Warren is going to walk through that door and-”

  Suddenly, he stopped and looked around again, as though with new eyes: the furniture his brother would have hated. The new paint job, though he’d only painted it three years before, and not five. A new stove, and different dishes – dishes that were piled up, dirty, for him to see.

  Warren would never let dishes pile up. Never get oak furniture. He would know he didn’t need to repaint so soon.

  “Warren… he’s really?”

  The woman stood, her knees cracking as she did so. “I’m afraid so, Peter. I wish someone had told you and your family before this, and I don’t understand why it was such a big secret. I mean, people usually want their families to find out sooner than later, wouldn’t you think?”

  Peter nodded sullenly, no longer caring about the rain that soaked him through, or that he was starting to shiver.

  But was he shivering from the cold, or the news?

  That was a question he might never know the answer to.

  “How did he-?”

  “I’m sorry, but… I think Mr. Hilliard would be better able to explain what happened, or direct you to someone who can. Do you know him?”

  Peter nodded his head.

  Mr. Hilliard had been father’s friend the last three years of his life, and become Warren’s banker when he’d begun fishing; it was Warren who’d introduced them, in fact.

  “Thank you. I guess that means I’ll have to see if I can find where he lives, then, since I cannot be back during the week,” he said, trying to calm his racing heart.

  It just couldn’t be true! Rosie, then Father, and now Warren?

  He wasn’t so sure he could take much more of this.

  He reached for his old St. Peter medal, which had hung around his neck since he was a child, and prayed for strength.

  “I believe he lives over near the church,” Mrs. Carmichael said softly. “Three or four doors down on the left from the back.”

  Peter nodded again, unsure what else to say. He nodded again and turned to leave, numb. “Thanks,” he said finally as he opened the door to face the rain once more. “I appreciate it.”

  What else could he say?

  Thirty Two

  Paris, France… May 30, 1707

  Louis stood at the window, his eyes not focusing on the workers bustling about, or his wife and her niece roaming the garden, but on memories. Memories that felt as though they were happening to him all over again.

  Why Edward was all of a sudden in his near-nightly dreams again, he couldn’t be certain, but there had to be a reason.

  And not just Edward, but his wife; a woman Louis had never met; would never meet.

  It fascinated and frightened him at the same time.

  And there were others; people he didn’t quite recognize, one of whom looked vaguely familiar. Could it be that brother-in-law of his? Louis hadn’t looked much at the rest of the photos, aside from the pair of lovebirds so unexpectedly thrust upon their knowledge.

  But what sort of places was it he was seeing?

  None of them seemed the sort of place Edward would go; not on purpose. Not the Edward he used to know and love. And some of the places didn’t even look real.

  Maybe he’d finally overdosed on chocolate, because some of the images were so peaceful yet so… unspeakably beautiful and unreal-looking that there was no possible way he could be seeing something that was happening in Edward’s real life, was there?

  He was miles – and years – away; years not into the past, but the future. Living in a city that doesn’t even exist as yet.

  He’d had dreams before, with regard to Edward, but these were completely different. These were so lifelike it was as if they met face to face. And in some of the dreams, they had.

  Louis sighed and tried to retrain his focus to the tangible world around him, to no avail.

  “What’s the use of standing here if I’m not actually watching what’s going on,” he murmured to himself, stepping away and moving through the room, down the hall, down the stairs, and into the kitchen, his stomach growling. As he went, he tried to shake the dreams off like cobwebs, but it was no use; the images were still in residence.

  Now, why hadn’t he eaten breakfast as heartily as usual?

  His appetite, generally, had decreased since the dreams had begun; even for chocolate. Why, he was only drinking it once a day now, with everything else occupying his mind and frothing up his emotions. It was as though someone had paused his life in order for these dreams to overtake him.

  Louis heard the bustle of skirts as two of the cook’s helpers bowed low before him, and he bid them rise without even stopping to appreciate the gesture.

  “C'est quelque chose de mal, Sire? Avez-vous besoin de quelque chose? Mlle. Jean Louise ou je peux vous apporter quoi que ce soit vous cherchent. Pour quoi n'avez-vous pas simplement appel pour nous,” one of the helpers – a rather young, plump blonde woman with a rather large nose – said.

  Louis could tell she was trying hard not to panic, and found it a bit amusing.

  Why did something have to be wrong for him to step foot into his own kitchen?

  Of course, it’s the first time he’d done so in more than a year, but still. The idea that people automatically thought the worst was rather overwhelming, to say the least. Sometimes he felt that the staff treated him as though he were a helpless and spoiled child instead of a grown man in his advancing years; a man who still had his faculties about him.

  “Pas besoin de s'inquiéter de moi, jeune femme,” he assured her. “I merely did not find myself very hungry this morning but now find myself ready for something more. I wondered if perhaps there was some…”

  Hmm. He’d not thought of what he actually wanted.

  “Some roasted meat and vegetable dish, or perhaps soup? Whatever you have on hand, I will accept. I happen to be quite famished just now.”

  “Just give the order, Sire,” the woman who he assumed was Mlle. Jean Louise said, her big brown eyes avoiding his own as though looking directly at him would cause her harm. Upon closer inspection, he wondered if she weren’t one to have those crooked, wandering eyes.

  If so, how did she end up in the kitchens?

  “Whatever might be available immediately, or within the next half hour or so, ladies,” he said, hoping to assure them he didn’t always need to have things perfectly his way, though that was one of the benefits of being king.

  An unbidden image of himself laying down prostrate before a throne – in the midst of a multicolored field, nonetheless, preposterous as that was – caused him to rapidly suck air in, like an imbiber his drink, and he widened his eyes a moment.

  There it was again.

  That image, so mysterious and preposterous.

  Why was it him before the throne, and not Edward and his companions? He’d seen that place before; it even seemed vaguely familiar, but why would he, King of France, ever bow so low before anyone, unless…?

  His heart quickened as the women curtsied before him, his mind racing to find a solution to his dilemma. “I shall wait in the dining room,” he said, then abruptly turned on his heel just in time to keep them from seeing the tears that had begun to form in the corners of wrinkle-rounded eyes.

  He moved quickly, his head lowered, until he made it to his regular seat at the table. The few servants he did pass – and Mary Beatrice, who, visiting again – glanced at him questioningly but said nothing. And for Mary’s silence, Louis was thankful.

  Could it be that he was seeing himself bowing before…?

  It couldn’t possibly be!

  He tried to shake the thought off, but it clung to the edges of his mind and enveloped him; overtook him.

  What other explanation could there be? He would never stoop to bow before anyone unworthy of it, and even then, he would be hard pressed to consider one person before another.

  His ancestors
before him – those he’d had the privilege to know – had been the only ones he’d bowed to before, and even then, he had not understood the need. He was just as royal as they; it had been decreed by God. So why would he need to bow before someone with the same gift and responsibility?

  The tears kept falling, and for once, he didn’t care if people saw an old king cry.

  Maybe it was time to allow for some humanity, despite his position. And maybe it was time he got a few things straight with God, while he was at it.

  Like definitively forgiving Edward.

  And like allowing himself to grieve all the things he’d held onto with an iron grip despite knowing that they would never change. Allowing God to take control of his life, and the lives of his children – no matter the messes they made – and everyone else he cared about; even the state of the country.

  Maybe, just maybe, it was time to let God be God and not try to fill that role in the lives and eyes of those who came bowing before him, seeking his approval for this or to request his help for that. Maybe it was time to take this God thing seriously, for once.

  Maybe he needed to spend more time praying; more time seeking the advice of Mother Mary and her Son.

  Yes.

  That’s what he should do; if only it didn’t involve so much genuflection; so much groveling and whining.

  But it didn’t have to, did it?

  Could he not find another way? Another mode of wording things that showed honor, but not that he was so utterly helpless? Why, as much as he loved God, and as much as he wanted to please Him, was it possible to do so without becoming so… undone? So eerily weepy all the time, or so argumentative with Him? Or, like Françoise, quiet before Him and increasingly quiet in the company of those she was unfamiliar with?

  Well, it’s something to ponder, but for now, I would rather not, he thought as his stomach growled again. I would much rather…

  A sigh escaped his lips, his concentration breaking as he heard footsteps behind him. He braced himself for a potential confrontation, only to see it was the cook’s helper – the one whose name he’d never known – with a bowl of what smelled like beef barley stew.

  “Merci,” Louis said, surprising both her and himself.

  Since when do royals thank their underlings for doing their job? The woman’s face mirrored the confusion he felt inside, and he smiled gently at her.

  “Sometimes even a king needs to have manners,” he finally said with a shrug. “And I decided that it’s about time I employ them, at least on occasion.”

  The woman nodded, curtsied quickly, and fled the room, but not before Louis noticed her cheeks flushing pink. But was it from embarrassment, or was it something else, entirely?

  In silence, Mary strode outside and ambled down the stairs, pondering how to interact with Louis next time she saw him.

  What had brought about such tears?

  And so openly!

  She had never seen him like this in all the years they had been related and acquainted, despite the passionate nature of his personality.

  Rage, yes. Fear, yes.

  But never tears.

  She rounded the enormous fountain, making sure to keep out of the way of the workers milling about and working, and headed toward the stables, where she had agreed to meet Françoise, Louisa Maria, and Charlotte Françoise. A nice walk together should help soothe her mind and help her figure it out; she could always pray in her mind.

  She spotted the group well before she made it to her destination, the breeze toying with the skirting of their dresses and ruffing both hair and, in Charlotte Françoise’s case, bonnet. She and Louisa Maria could be heard from nearly a hundred feet away as she approached. A discussion of the state of things with James Francis, of all things.

  A tug at her heart caused her to pause her step a moment before continuing toward her family.

  No.

  She would not fall apart, much as she had three times this year already. If she did, people would begin to chatter. The first three times she had, at least been in the privacy of her rooms at the hall where she and Louisa Maria had taken up residence, but in public?

  She thought back to King Louis, and the tears she had seen. What had brought them about? And with no shame whatsoever, she realized, thinking back. As though he had given up caring what the people in his employ or in servitude to him thought, for whatever reason.

  “Ah, there you are,” Françoise exclaimed in greeting, moving to kiss her cheeks in a half-embrace, their wide skirts tilting somewhat backward with the gesture in spite of all their under accoutrements. “Je commençais à me demander si vous aviez oublié, nous avons attendu si longtemps. Près de dix minutes maintenant, je crois.”

  She paused a few moments, looking Mary eye to eye. “Êtes-vous bien?”

  Ten minutes? Had they really waited that long?

  Mary felt her cheeks begin to flush and eyes begin to water. Quickly pulling up the fan attached to her wrist, she opened it to – to what? Fan herself? Hide herself from prying eyes?

  Her thoughts moved back to Louis.

  No, she thought, putting the fan back down as swiftly as she put it up. She had opened it to wield at the world with as if it were a sword; a comfort, but it would not solve her problems. No more hiding, she told herself. No more worrying over what everyone else thinks. No more shall I always think of decorum above the necessity to grieve and be real. I shall not, I will not hide a moment longer.

  “Mama,” Louisa Maria said, sounding alarmed as the younger ladies walked closer to her. “You’re blanched, and yet, moments ago, I saw you quite red. What is this?”

  And at the look in her daughter’s big brown eyes, the flood came. She no longer resisted the tide that had turned inside her heart. And if others were ashamed of her for it, well, so be it.

  If King Louis could cry and there be no scene, then, so help her and the Virgin Mother watching over her, so could she.

  So would she.

  “Il n'y a rien à craindre, mon cher; il n'y a rien à craindre. Mama a juste besoin de libérer ce qui a été croissante, et ce pour un certain temps, et c'est ce qui s'est passé. C'est tout. Donc, si vous avez tous ne sont pas prêts, et de ne pas avoir honte de marcher dans la compagnie d'une femme en larmes, puis je suis aussi prêt que vous êtes.”

  “As ready as we are? To walk? While you cry,” Charlotte Françoise asked her, higher than her usual pitch and sounding incredulously perturbed. The words wavered like a bird in flight against the wind.

  “If Mama says she is ready to walk, I will walk though, honestly, I do not understand the public display. I believe she is merely… mourning the choices of my dear brother,” Louisa said in her defense. “Am I correct?”

  Her daughter turned her eyes toward her once more as one of the grooms walked past with a bay horse toward the stable, brush in one hand, reins in the other.

  “This is one reason I cry; others, you will not understand right now, but it is safe to assume that James Francis’s behavior has been….” What word should she use? “Disturbing, to say the least, though I realize his intentions are good and worthy of being seen for what they have been.”

  At this, Françoise, who had been silent up to that point, nodded solemnly. “I believe I have an idea, Lady Mary. I certainly believe that I do understand, at least in part.”

  The woman looked her in the eyes; a penetrating look from one mature woman to another, not quite as well on in years, but definitely feeling her age.

  Yes. Françoise would understand, to some extent, though how she could know about Mary’s betrayal of Edward all those many years ago was beyond her. Or had he confided, in his grief?

  The thought had never occurred to her.

  Did the Marquise de Maintenon truly know that which Edward and James had sworn to secrecy? And if so, how?

  “I believe you know at least some of it, this is true, Milady,” she said, inclining her head, tears still rolling down her face. “Shall we walk?”

&
nbsp; “We shall,” the woman said, smiling sadly at her. She moved to take Mary’s arm in hers – had that ever occurred before? – and they began to walk, the girls ahead of them.

  “James told me, and I am so very sorry,” she whispered. The words were so soft in the noise of the palace’s hullabaloo that Mary almost could have imagined it, had she not seen Françoise’s lips moving in her peripheral vision.

  And just like that, she had made a deeper bond; a bond that, had she known the intelligence the Marquise had been given, may have given them more to discuss and spread warmth over their friendship. A friendship she was only now beginning to understand the depths of.

  “Merci,” she replied.

  And with that, she sniffled her tears back, refusing to wipe them away, as they strolled toward the cottage area where the workers lived, her mind going briefly to Maurice, Roisin, and Clarice Beausoleil.

  Mother Mary, I hope they’re well, she thought. Lord knows what would happen if I lost yet another.

  Thirty Three

  Meridian, Mississippi… May 30, 2025

  Calico stepped outside, thankful to be alive.

  Her hand firmly holding onto Romeo’s on one side and Angus’s on the other, they followed Mario, Amos, and Prudence as they made their way to the remains of Mario’s twelve passenger van.

  All around them, debris was still being cleaned up and people were getting back to their lives, slowly but surely. The van, though – which had still been under warranty, but not for twisters – along with several other vehicles in the parking lot, windows on the hotel, and yes, parts of the upper floor where they lived, had been thrashed by the weather’s unwieldy visit to their city, and their home.

  Taking a few deep breaths as they continued to sidestep broken glass and twisted metal, Calico did her best to reign in her nerves for fear it would start Angus crying again. While she wouldn’t blame him a bit, she could use a break from all the drama and stress around her; she wanted a normal life back. A home of their own, where they didn’t have to worry about such things as tornados and earthquakes and the like.