by Cutter, Leah
“Is it true that Brooks helped you? The first night?”
Francine finally realized someone was talking to her. “Yes. Him and Jacque.”
“Some champion.” Lady Ezora sniffed, wrinkling her long nose.
“You don’t think I’d let anyone fight my battles for me, do you?” Francine asked, outraged. “I had to defend my place. No one else.”
“Child, no one doubted your talent.” Lady Melisandra shivered. “Or your power. That dance…that dance…was some dance.”
The other ladies in the circle all nodded, a couple of them fanning themselves. Francine bit back her smile. Though they might say otherwise, the court had liked what she played.
“But showing your power isn’t about being strong. Sometimes it’s about being soft. Or finding that middle ground.”
Francine held back her snort. That wasn’t how things were done anymore. Lady Melisandra was obviously too old-fashioned.
“So did you hear what Buford said last night to Ezora?” one finally asked the others.
Francine tried to make herself listen, tried to be interested in the missteps of people she didn’t know. She bit back more than one yawn.
Lady Melisandra leaned over and patted her knee.
“Don’t worry. You’ll sort them all out,” she said softly.
“Yes, ma’am,” Francine replied, just as quietly. She didn’t think she would.
“Tell me about Charles,” Lady Melisandra asked. “How is he doing?”
“When Mama died, he…he…got mean,” Francine said, the hurt still deep, making her heart ache.
“Your papa did have a temper,” Lady Melisandra said, nodding. “One time in court, when one of the young bucks challenged him, he cut him to shreds. Cast hard notes that tore his clothing apart. Left the man near naked. Apologized afterward, of course. Tried to make amends. However, no one challenged your papa again for a long time.”
Francine nodded.
“That sounds like him.”
She would have liked to see that, see her papa take on someone.
She didn’t wonder if she could beat him at a battle like that, though; she knew she could.
* * *
After the others had left, Francine stayed with Lady Melisandra. There wasn’t really anything to clean up: The cups returned to being flowers when Francine placed them on the nearby branches. There hadn’t been any biscuits or cookies, so no plates or crumbs. She watched as Lady Melisandra held her hand over the pillows and shrank them back down to normal size.
Finally, Francine got up the courage to ask, “You knew my papa?”
“I did,” Lady Melisandra said. “He was a good man. Too wild for the court. Like Brooks.”
The way Lady Melisandra looked at Francine made her wonder if possibly she, too, was too wild.
“But how did…I mean…why did he go to the human world?” Francine asked, confused. There was so much more she could do here. The power and the music thrummed in her blood. She would never turn her back on it like he had.
“He found your mama,” Lady Melisandra said quietly. “And we all just faded away on gossamer breezes after that. She was the most real thing to him.”
Francine nodded, though she didn’t really understand. Mama had been the force that kept them together, and at peace, not tearing each other apart. She didn’t seem as real or heavy as Uncle Rene, to Francine, though. While the queen and the court, the moon wine and songs, floated through her consciousness as lightly as the bubbles she’d blown with Brooks and Jacque, the trees grounded her. More than anything else, they were her home.
Lady Melisandra nodded, as if she’d been reading Francine’s mind.
“Yes, your place is here, in this realm, in these woods. But,” she paused, considering. “Possibly not with the court.”
Francine froze. Had she made a bad impression? Pierre hadn’t told her, but he’d certainly implied that she needed to win Lady Melisandra’s approval.
“I don’t want to go back to the human lands,” Francine said.
She didn’t like how hoarse her voice sounded—almost raw.
“Oh no, no, you don’t belong there, either,” Lady Melisandra said, shaking her head and laughing. “No, I think you need some time in the wilds, to take the edge off. Or to find your place there.”
“Like Brooks and Jacque?” Francine asked warily.
Lady Melisandra shook her head.
“They aren’t all the way in the wilds, though you wouldn’t know it to listen to them, how they think they’re ’roughing it’ away from the court. The place they made is actually very tame.”
She gave an unladylike snort.
“No, the true wilds might be where you need to go, not their world or the outskirts. Away from the courts and their creations. Give yourself some time with just the trees and the wind.” She looked speculatively at Francine.
“Time to heal.”
Francine didn’t dare nod, though a part of her was already longing for what Lady Melisandra described.
“Come to me when you decide,” the lady said. “I’ll help you.”
“But won’t that get you into trouble? If you help me leave?”
“Yes, but I’m too old and important for the court to do much about it, other than give Lady Ezora something to talk about for a month or more.” Lady Melisandra looked amused.
“I might tell her that I did it anyway, even if I have no hand in it. Just to get her riled up.”
“Thank you,” Francine said. She was suddenly sorry that she hadn’t made it to the first tea party.
“You’re welcome. Stop by anytime. I mean that.”
Francine gave the lady a deep curtsy, as low as what she’d given to the queen the first night. She didn’t know how else to thank her, for giving her friendship, as well as a different way out.
Chapter Seven
Francine puttered around her bedroom and spent at least a minute—maybe two—debating about the outfit she’d wear to that night’s ball.
Pierre had sent over a gown that was both elegant and deceptively simple.
Francine had loved it when she’d tried it on. The pearlescent colors shimmered when she walked. It accentuated what little bust she had as well as her thin waist. The sleeves fell only to the middle of her forearms so she could easily play.
It was gorgeous.
It was also safe, and not her.
Another gown had appeared on Francine’s front porch late that afternoon. The fiery red made her pale skin glow. Rich gold laces strapped around her torso and her waist, then hung down the front and sides of the skirt like parade streamers. The material didn’t glitter like most of her fairy clothes; instead, the color subtly shifted from red to burgundy to almost black. It felt heavier than it looked, and that weight made Francine more comfortable. Though it covered her more demurely, it gave the impression of being more daring.
Francine didn’t know who had left it for her. Brooks? Lady Melisandra? Or someone else? She didn’t care either. It fit her perfectly, both her spirit and her body.
The mask that came with the dress was made out of nice-smelling leather and painted red and gold. It swirled up above her right eye and down along her left cheek. The way the mask curved reminded Francine of the cutout in the body of her fiddle.
After Francine put the dress on, she went into her backyard and played a smooth tune on her fiddle, turning the water in her fountain glass-still so she could see herself.
For the first time Francine saw some of the differences Pierre had mentioned.
Large golden eyes stared back at Francine through the mask. They weren’t gator shaped, though the color was the same. She thought they looked more like a bird’s. Her dark hair had blue highlights in it, deeper and richer than any her aunts would have been able to give her. The dress made her look taller and thinner, more willowy. She realized with a start that she looked like Pierre. She wondered if they were closer kin than she’d realized, or if she merely looked like a fiddler. She checked car
efully for wings, but only saw her human arms and hands, her skin pale as white feathers.
Stepping out of her house and heading toward the grand hall, Francine could taste the excitement in the air. It might not be a stomping party or a fais do do, but it was still a party. Everyone wanted to have a good time.
The fairies wore splendid costumes that night. Francine was glad she’d chosen the gown she had. While some wore paler colors, most of the outfits had richer, darker hues.
For the first time, she looked as though she fit in.
Francine didn’t know the court well enough to recognize any of the masked ladies and gentlemen. She passed fairies wearing cat, butterfly, pelican, and bat masks. Some had simple dominos with feathers floating three feet up above them. One group of four fairies Francine passed she would have called elemental: The ends of the one in the red mask flickered upward like flames; the gray mask swirled like water; the blue and green one looked like the planet Earth; and the silver gauze one floated in midair, never still, like wind.
Other musicians had already started playing by the time Francine got there. She nodded to the few she knew, then got out her fiddle and joined in. She played support, not the lead, in the music they made together. She wasn’t bored—the musicians were too good for her to be uninterested.
It still wasn’t music that stirred her soul.
Suddenly, the soft waltz they were playing changed into a stirring march.
Francine frowned, but followed along. She saw Queen Yvette walking from one end of the hall to the other and finally understood: Though the queen didn’t have an anthem, the musicians were expected to still announce her.
When Pierre arrived, Francine had second thoughts about her dress.
Pierre wore a long gauzy jacket that would have matched the gown he’d sent her.
She decided when she went to stand next to him that they complemented each other anyway: While he was light, she was dark, while he was air and floated, she was earth and grounded.
The edges of his white mask rose at least a foot in the air and looked like snow-covered branches.
Of course, Pierre didn’t see it that way.
“What are you wearing?” he asked, dismayed.
“A gown,” Francine said simply, smiling at him.
“Yes, but whose?” Pierre asked. At Francine’s shrug, he continued. “You know that wearing a person’s gift shows you favor them. It isn’t an innocent expression of thanks.”
Francine glared at Pierre, angry with him as well as herself. She should have thought through the consequences. She didn’t want to care about the court alliances, but Pierre kept telling her that she must.
At Francine’s continued mute treatment, Pierre finally sighed.
“I hope you know what you’re doing. The outfit you were supposed to wear came from the queen.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Francine asked, even more angry now.
“You let me think it came from you.”
“Would that have mattered?”
Francine bit her lip. She honestly didn’t know.
Pierre led the next dance, a beautiful waltz that had everyone dancing, the women swirling in their beautiful gowns. Francine watched and listened carefully; she knew she could still learn a lot from Pierre.
Then it was Francine’s turn. She picked a faster two-step. The beat wasn’t as quick as she would have liked, but it was fast enough that the fairies twirled and leapt.
Pierre and Francine played together on the next few songs, finding a sweet rhythm between Francine’s need for faster music and Pierre’s preference for slower waltzes. The queen walked the hall while they played, stopping to talk with small groups of people. When she reached the stand where the musicians played, she asked a gentleman in a bright red fox mask to dance.
“She approves,” Pierre murmured.
Francine knew that should make her happy. Instead, she merely shrugged.
More important than the queen’s approval, Francine needed to be happy as well.
When the song ended, Queen Yvette clapped her hands. Instantly, everyone’s attention was on her.
“Tonight we will watch a different type of battle,” she said. “Pierre and Francine will play for favors.”
The crowd grew more still. Francine’s back stiffened. What did that mean?
“All I would ask for is a single kiss,” Pierre said with a sweeping bow.
Francine’s cheeks grew red. She still didn’t know if she liked Pierre or not. Or rather, she liked him, but only sometimes.
“And the lady—being too demure to ask for herself—shall get a day of service,” Queen Yvette announced.
Francine glanced at Pierre.
He grinned at her and nodded, happy with the proposed prizes.
Francine gave him a shy smile, pleased that this time, the stakes weren’t so high.
That didn’t mean Francine didn’t intend on winning.
They each played two sets. Francine kept her rhythms modest, well in keeping with the preferences of the queen.
Then Pierre played a different piece by Paganini. Fast, full-throttle.
It wasn’t the same as Francine’s beloved zydeco. Pierre kept the music classic and traditional. It had tremendous zing, though. More than one of the court swayed, twitched, or otherwise looked like they wanted to move with the driving music.
Francine hung her head. After Pierre finished, it was obvious to her who had won. She’d have to give up a kiss, and maybe that was okay.
Queen Yvette stepped forward.
“Thank you, Pierre, for such an exhilarating experience.”
“I live to serve,” Pierre said grandly with yet another sweeping bow.
The queen looked between the pair of them.
“In the opinion of the court, Francine is the victor here.”
“I beg your pardon?” Pierre asked before Francine could ask the queen what game she played.
“I liked her music better.”
Francine didn’t need to tell Pierre the queen lied. He could see it. She mouthed, “I’m sorry,” as she moved forward, taking the queen’s hand as requested. She curtsied low to the court.
“You’ve been promised a day of service, haven’t you, my dear?” Queen Yvette purred.
The hairs on the back of Francine’s neck stood up. Fear gripped her sides, forcing her to breathe shallowly.
“Yes.”
“And you love the trees here, don’t you?”
Francine couldn’t stop herself from looking up. The branches moved; maybe there was a high wind she didn’t feel, or maybe they were waving.
“Yes.”
“Then Pierre shall serve you best as a tree.”
“No!” Pierre screamed.
The force of the magic hit Pierre like a gale. He threw his hands up to cover his face, but they kept going, up and up, as his arms elongated.
Francine shook in horror as loud cracks filled the air: Pierre’s bones breaking as the magic took hold.
His white mask branched into more tree limbs and his body took on the mask’s white sheen, looking cold and alien in the warmly lit hall. A large, black knot formed over Pierre’s open mouth, effectively stopping his screams but not Francine’s shudders. Roots grew out from his feet, rippling across the stage.
The queen laughed and merrily skipped out of the way as they tried to trip her.
The roots made a wide path around Francine. She didn’t know if it was because Pierre pitied or despised her.
“Shall I transport him to your backyard?” the queen asked sweetly. “Or leave him here?”
Francine wondered if Pierre could hear them, if he had an opinion. She didn’t know if tearing up Pierre’s roots, making him grow them again would be more painful than making him stay here, in full view of the others.
However, it would be more painful for Francine if Pierre were forced into her private space, particularly like this.
“Leave him here.”
“So we
shall. Let’s dance! Play something cheerful for us,” Queen Yvette said, twirling away.
Francine glanced at the other musicians, then out at the court. No one else seemed to be horrified at what the queen had done. Francine swallowed down the bile in her throat and stopped herself from frowning.
She couldn’t make herself smile.
She could make herself play. She lifted her fiddle to her chin, counted the beat of three, then started to play a song of spring that Pierre had taught her.
The pale tree above Francine swayed.
She wanted to believe he was happy, or that maybe he was dancing to the music, but she knew he wasn’t.
* * *
Much, much later, after the stars had gone to bed and the sun was almost rising, Francine finally escaped back to her sanctuary. Exhausted as she was, she didn’t rest. She walked directly into the backyard then stopped, looking up. The trees crowded close to her, dropping their limbs so she could reach up and touch their branches.
“How many of you were people?” Francine asked softly, stroking leaves and bark. “How many of you want to move again?”
The trees didn’t reply, just sighed and whispered.
Francine could learn to live with the politics and games of the court. She’d been able to ignore the queen, her pettiness, and her mean games. But the queen had just torn the heart out of Francine’s home, disturbed her peace, given her more doubts than even Francine could walk away from.
With regret, Francine petted as many of the tree limbs that she could reach before she left the backyard and walked into the kitchen.
On the table, the red glass flower waited. It was one path of escape. She remembered the golden laughing Brooks, the lost afternoon with him and Jacque, the sweet berries and strangely thin trees.
Francine picked the flower up. The intense color belied the cool weight resting against her palm. She wanted to throw it. She wanted to scream. She wanted to tear apart all the branches of her cozy nest so it looked as destroyed as she felt.
Instead, Francine changed back into all human clothes, wrapped up her small scarf of things, wrapped herself in a cloak, picked up the flower and her fiddle, and walked out the door for the last time.
* * *
“I was expecting you,” Lady Melisandra said. She sat on a moss-covered stump on her front porch, sipping a flute of moon wine. The early morning birds were just waking up, calling softly to each other.