Phoebe and I, still hunched on the ground, crawl backward away from them. I scan the garden for Eleanor but can’t see her. Thank God there are tons of flowers and thank God Madame Arnaud’s distracted.
All we can do is wait.
“Could this really be the same person?” Phoebe whispers. Madame Arnaud’s face is alight with pleasure. She looks happy, beautiful, untouched by the deeds she will later commit.
“Ah, Etienne,” I hear her murmur drift, wholly French in its rich syllables.
How long is this going to continue?
And how far?
If they sink to the grass and get on eye level with us, the jig is up. We’d have to take advantage of their surprise to bolt out of the grove as fast as we could.
“Phoebe, we should be prepared to run,” I whisper to her. “They might—”
I’m interrupted by a peal of laughter, a glassy chime from Madame Arnaud. She pushes down her skirts from Etienne’s hands as he steps back, abashed.
“Va plus lentement pour le prix,” says Madame Arnaud, showing her bright teeth, and some portion of my brain, schooled for so many years in French class, translates: “Go more slowly for the prize.”
She slings a single arm around his neck, gives one emphatic kiss on the lips, and dances away, casting a delicious look behind her as she goes. Phoebe and I are left with his aftermath, his scrubbing his face with his hands, his low laugh of appreciation.
“J’aurai ce prix,” he says. I will have that prize.
After he leaves, we call and search for Eleanor and realize she must’ve left earlier with Phoebe’s family. We catch up with them, relieved to see they’re just walking, with Madame Arnaud and Etienne nowhere in sight.
“What happened?” Eleanor asks. “I couldn’t find you.”
“You didn’t see Madame Arnaud?” Phoebe asks incredulously. “You had to have walked right past her!”
“Madame Arnaud was here?” Eleanor stops short. “But . . . my God . . . she’s still alive?” Her forehead develops a network of wrinkles above her large eyes. Her hand leaps to her heart.
“Her ghost, we think,” I say quickly. “With a man named Etienne.”
“Then you believe she remains dead?”
“She better be,” Phoebe says grimly.
“She’s a strange version of herself,” I say. “She’s flirty and happy.”
“That doesn’t sound like her at all,” says Eleanor, still frowning.
“She was kissing him,” I say. “There was nothing scary about it. Other than who it was.”
“They made out, then they left,” says Phoebe.
“Did she say she was off to murder some children?” asks Eleanor in a brittle tone. I can tell she doesn’t approve of our relaxed attitude where Madame Arnaud is concerned.
Silence falls. There’s no good answer for that one.
Eleanor straightens up. “Well, let’s just hope it was a distinctly onetime honor. We’ll stay away from the grove and its horrid, buried-alive statue.”
“Agreed,” I say. “So where are we all headed?”
“To the Hameau,” Eleanor says. “Tabby is being a quite good girl, and the family stopped to eat a snack on the grass. You were gone awhile.”
“Why didn’t you come back and get . . .” Phoebe’s voice trails off. She and I both know what Eleanor was thinking: that we deliberately lost the group, that the people who were kissing were us.
“I did try to find you,” says Eleanor. “I concluded you didn’t want to be found.”
It’s awkward, because what she says could’ve easily been true. “Not the case,” I say.
“What’s the Hameau?” asks Phoebe, changing the subject. She’s blushing.
“It’s Marie-Antoinette’s play farm,” says Eleanor, “as your stepfather explains it. The queen wanted to get away from the court and live as simple countryfolk do. She kept lambs and a dairy, but she perfumed the lambs and milked the cows with a porcelain bucket. She couldn’t quite get it right.”
“It’s actually kind of cool,” I say. “There are no animals now, but it’s like visiting a really calm, really fetching farm.”
Phoebe tries to hide the fact that she’s laughing.
“What?” I ask.
“I’ve never known a guy who used the word fetching before,” she says.
“I’m British, what can I say?”
“You’re not just British, you’re calm and fetching,” she says in a deep voice.
“Don’t mock me,” I warn.
She flashes a huge smile at me. When she throws her head back like that, her auburn hair tumbling back from her strong face, I just want to . . . I just want to touch her more.
“Eleanor, do you find Miles calm?” she asks.
“As calm as a millpond,” says Eleanor promptly, and I throw her a look of admiration. How’d she come up with that so fast?
“And do you find him . . . fetching?”
Eleanor blushes, but again responds quickly. “He indeed fetches many things. He is an excellent carrier of goods.”
We all snicker. It feels good after everything we’ve been through. Just being away from the Arnaud Manor is its own holiday, let alone visiting one of the most impressive estates on earth.
Acting on some instinct I can’t explain, I run toward Tabby. A kid like that should be playing chase. She’s walking by herself, having finally let go of her mum’s hand. We’re in the long, tree-lined avenue that parallels the Grand Canal. Every tree perfectly placed, everything just so for a king. I pummel toward her at full speed and at the last second, I veer to the side. As I fly past, I look at her face. Will she pick up my energy and surge after me?
She doesn’t see me. She’s lost in some toddler reverie. I imagine to her these trees are monumental and will appear in her dreams for years to come.
“Will no one chase me?” I implore.
That’s all it takes for Phoebe, and instantly she’s at me, so I dart into the trees and thread back and forth through them like a human needle going through fabric. Phoebe whoops and nearly tags me a dozen times; she’s fast, but I’m faster. It isn’t until I round back and look that I see that Eleanor is running, too.
She’s outside her comfort zone, her skirt impeding her progress, and her hair falling out of... a braid? I hadn’t noticed she’d adopted that hairstyling, something a step down from her typical tight bun, and I see how pretty she is when her face is open and she’s outside herself.
I circle back around and let her tag me; I have to. Then Phoebe and I are chasing her, and I glance at Phoebe so we lope a little, slow our pace, so the chase continues.
“I can’t breathe,” Eleanor calls back to us.
“No rest for the wicked,” I shout back and she performs a clever maneuver, dashing behind a tree at the last minute so we have no choice but to run past her.
“Darn her,” says Phoebe. “She’s using intelligence to compensate for her lack of speed.”
“I have speed!” Eleanor protests from behind us. She staggers a few steps toward us, then bends over to put her hands on her knees. Have athletes done this throughout time? Is there something in our genetic code that causes us to adopt that exact posture? She takes heaving breaths while I grin at Phoebe.
“We need to get you some running shoes,” says Phoebe.
“Intriguing idea,” I say.
“I could never wear those ghastly things.”
I pretend to rear back at the insult she’s offered both Phoebe and me. “You’re becoming more outspoken every day,” I comment.
“The colors are just so garish. I prefer brown and black, thank you very kindly.”
“The thing is, brown and black just aren’t very fast,” says Phoebe cheekily.
Eleanor plops down onto the ground, her legs spread out in front of her. The casualness of her stance is stunning. The Eleanor of a few weeks ago could have never sat so informally. And as I watch, she blinks hastily as she looks up at Phoebe and then at me.
“I’ve never done such a thing,” she says. Her voice is raw, tear filled.
Phoebe instantly kneels down to her and takes her hand. I remain standing, feeling awkward. I hate it when people cry. I never know what to do.
“What do you mean?” asks Phoebe softly.
“I’ve never run. I’ve never chased, never felt that—that playfulness.”
“I’m so sorry,” says Phoebe.
“My life has been so sober and dark,” says Eleanor. “Even without Madame Arnaud’s influence, I still would have lived a constricted life. No one expects someone like me to run through the trees.”
Phoebe gives her a big hug, and I wander off to give them some privacy. The random fate of what family you’re born into! For some it’s a carnival of good luck and for others the desperately unfair dungeon below the fairgrounds.
I look back at Tabby and her parents, far behind us after the spurt of our racing. She’s so small and helpless at this distance. She was born into the carnival that morphed into the dungeon. Poor little kid.
CHAPTER TWO
Daily, Marie-Antoinette selected her outfit from a book entitled The Wardrobe Book of the Queen. In it, the gowns were described and a small sample of the fabric included on the page. Marie would take a pin from a pincushion and prick her day’s choice.
—www.historicalcostuming.com
When I turn my head and look forward again, I see Madame Arnaud with Etienne. She’s wearing a different dress although he appears the same. They’re doing exactly what we did, chasing through the trees. Her bright scarlet dress makes a really pretty (dare I say fetching?) sight among the stark black trees. She’s fast, like Phoebe, and Etienne is doing something interesting: he succeeds at tagging her, but she keeps going. Their game has different rules.
Phoebe catches up to me and we study the frivolity of the ghosts in the distance. She remarks drily, “Can you believe this is really the same person?”
Etienne finally seizes Madame Arnaud and kisses her. Once again, we’re stuck watching a PDA that we didn’t sign on for.
“Hey, where’d my family go? Where’s Eleanor?” asks Phoebe. She cranes to look behind us. They’re gone. Did they peel off the pathway?
The light has changed, and the trees appear diminished. Wait, that’s not quite right. They’re not just diminished, they’re smaller and thinner. I whirl around and look; everything is the same but slightly altered. The water in the canal is bluer. The dirt pathway is less well traveled, not as defined. It’s starting to dawn on me . . . this path hasn’t been traveled by millions of tourists; it’s only been traveled by hundreds of courtiers.
I look at Phoebe’s face and get confirmation. She’s looking around wildly and starts to run back down the path. “Tabby!” she screams.
I run to her. She whirls around to grab my arms, panicked.
“I think we went back in time,” I say. “We’re not seeing Madame Arnaud’s ghost . . . I think we’ve gone back to the time when she was alive. That’s why she’s not filmy.”
Phoebe goes pale. Well, paler. “Miles, that’s crazy.”
“You were thinking the same thing—look at the trees!”
“I know,” she says, “I know, but it’s just so crazy.”
“I can’t think of any other explanation. We’re just . . . we’re in the past.”
“But no one else came with us?”
I pause and shake my head. “Just us. Like in the grove. Maybe they were too far away.”
“But Eleanor was near us last time.”
“Why didn’t she come with us, then?” I say.
“I’m asking you!”
“Maybe we’re . . .” my voice trails off. What am I trying to say? We’re special? Different?
“Yeah,” she says hollowly. “Maybe we’re ‘lucky.’ So how do we get back?”
We both look at the people who seem to have brought us here, but they’re not paying any attention to us. Etienne has now positioned Madame Arnaud on a bench near the canal, kneeling before her and pushing up her skirts. She’s not stopping him this time. It’s getting extreme pretty quickly.
“It’s all going to be fine,” I say hoarsely. “It’s mad, but it’s all right. I mean . . .”
“What?” says Phoebe. “How is this going to be all right?”
“We get to see Versailles when it’s still happening.”
“Are you kidding? I would take a documentary over this any day.”
“We might see royalty,” I say. “We could deliver some advice to Marie-Antoinette!”
Begrudgingly, because I can tell she’s trying not to panic, she manages to smile. “Yo, make sure everyone has enough bread, lady!”
“Ah, good rally, lass!” I say, enjoying the blush that rises on her face for me calling her such a name.
“Avoid snarky comments about cake if at all possible!” she adds, turning her face so I don’t see her pleasure.
We go silent. There may be danger here for us, even if Madame Arnaud hasn’t turned bad yet. And how will we get back? If we don’t return soon to keep an eye on Tabby, Phoebe’s going to lose her mind.
“Are you all right?” I ask.
“I don’t know.”
We stand there at a loss. Another couple approaches, this time two men in their finery, wearing high heels and their hats the size of suitcases. Phoebe and I step off the path and into the trees. The men are solid, living.
“Oh my God, we’re totally in another century,” whispers Phoebe. “I don’t think I like it.”
They speak an antiquated, fast-paced babble of French, but I’m fairly fluent and catch a few phrases here and there. “. . . with everyone off to Paris, we may explore where we couldn’t before . . .” and “. . . our chance to see the chateau . . .”
I frown. Was the palace ever deserted?
“What are they saying?” Phoebe asks.
“It sounds like the court has gone off to Paris and just a few people remain at Versailles,” I say.
“That’s odd,” says Phoebe. “I bet my stepdad knows why.”
After they pass, we get back on the path and I look toward the palace in the distance. What king lives there? Does a pleasant queen stroll languidly inside, or a doomed and sad one?
“Should we continue on toward the Hameau?” I ask. It will mean trying to skirt past the lovers. “Do you think your family is still walking in their time period?”
Phoebe doesn’t answer.
It’s eerie to think they’re here, just hundreds of years later. When we return to the present, will they have lingered where we left them or will they already be at the Hameau? Or maybe days will have passed for them and we’ll miss their voyage back to England.
Or maybe . . . we’ll never leave.
We stay shielded by the trees while we pass Madame Arnaud and Etienne, still kissing on the bench . . . and perhaps a lot more, based on the grunts and sighs. I try not to look.
We walk for about five minutes, when the air starts to shimmer. That’s not quite right. It’s not that it shimmers, it changes. Almost like the way it feels when the sun goes behind a cloud . . . and when it comes back out.
“Thank God,” says Phoebe. “I think we’re back.”
The path beneath our feet is wider, harder-packed dirt now. The sculpted trees are much larger, the water in the canal a different shade of blue.
Phoebe bolts forward, running to find her family.
“The good news is, our trips never last longer than, what, twenty minutes? Half an hour?” I call out as my strides bring us neck and neck.
“Our trips? Is that what we’re calling it?”
“You got something better?”
Soon enough, we see the group: Tabby, her mum and stepdad, and Eleanor. When we draw level, Eleanor tries to avert her head from us. I see that her eyes are red. She’s been crying, pretty hard.
“Eleanor!” I say in shock. “What happened?”
“Nothing,” she says, her voice filled with t
he sadness she’s hiding.
“Everyone’s okay?” I ask. I look around. The family’s now a bit ahead of us, stopped in front of the Grand Trianon, another chateau. Monarchs are never satisfied with just one palace on the grounds. Tabby’s back in her buggy, and everyone looks calm.
“Yes!” says Eleanor. “Everyone’s fine.”
“You’re not,” I say.
“Miles!” says Phoebe. She shakes her head at me.
“Of course I am,” says Eleanor. “Let’s stick with the family, shall we?” She plasters on an artificial smile and walks off briskly. From behind, her skirt twitches because of how fast and determined she’s walking. I have the feeling I did something wrong.
“Miles,” whispers Phoebe. “She thinks you and I snuck off to be alone.”
“Seriously? Is that what she’s really thinking? So we should tell her what happened!”
“That might hurt even more,” she says. “Imagine how that feels for her.”
Staring ahead at Eleanor, I mull it over. For some reason, she’s not tripping with us. It makes sense that Phoebe’s family doesn’t—but Eleanor should. Why doesn’t she?
“Just act like nothing happened,” says Phoebe.
“But . . .” I stop short. Phoebe’s right. There really isn’t any way to talk about it without hurting her feelings.
“And nothing did, really.”
“Nothing happened? We went back in time!”
“Yeah. And we saw two men walk by. Wow!”
I stare at Phoebe’s eyes, unsure what’s going on. Is it too scary for her to think about what it would’ve meant if we’d become lost in time—forever separated from her family? Is she genuinely protecting Eleanor’s feelings?
“Good point,” I concede. “All right. But I wish we could make her feel better.”
We continue along with Eleanor and the family, passing the Petit Trianon on our left, yet a third palace. Marie-Antoinette took it over for her own, Phoebe’s dad tells us, after Madame de Pompadour died before getting a chance to live there.
Betrayed Page 3