We’re now in the infamous Hall of Mirrors, a long hall with symmetrical pairings of windows with mirrors, so the whole thing is flooded with light.
I feel that light change.
It’s subtle, but I’ve learned to pay attention to it in the last few days. We’re tripping.
The sunlight in Giraude’s time period fell into the palace differently. Maybe the windows were cleaner—or less clean. Maybe the place wasn’t quite as mobbed—or maybe it was more mobbed. I look to see who came with me through this journey: of course, Phoebe, and thank goodness, not Tabby. Eleanor—I feel a little pang of sadness that she doesn’t come.
We’re still in the mirrored hall but it’s changed. The chamber’s empty and it’s nighttime. Just a few flames encased in glass globes on stands light the room.
“Why are we here?” asks Phoebe. “It’s just us?”
I put my fingers to my lips. I can hear something.
Whispering.
Phoebe and I move to the edges of the room, where it’s darker. We don’t want Giraude noticing her. We track the sound of the whispering.
In a niche, two women sit. It’s Athénaïs and . . . I look over at Phoebe. Is this Giraude? Now that we are aware she’s a twin, I don’t know.
“The king adores you,” says the twin. Her eyes move down Athénaïs’s body, lingering as a lover’s eyes would do. I see Athénaïs almost imperceptibly alter her position to enhance her appearance. That sucking in of her stomach Gillian used to do when her photo was taken, and the accompanying straightening of posture and pushing out of her breasts. She’s preening.
“What do you do to make him love you so much?” continues the twin. She smiles in anticipation.
“He may be a king, but he’s just a man. And men have always found me fascinating,” says Athénaïs. Somehow she gets away with this conceited statement—even with me. She’s got that superconfident air that seems based on fact rather than wishful thinking.
I look over at Phoebe. She can’t understand their French, and it’s going too quickly to translate for her. She looks on edge, probably concerned about Giraude seeing and attacking her.
“You are beautiful, beautiful beyond any woman I’ve ever seen,” breathes the twin. “Is it just that? Or do you know ways to please the king?”
“I am a courtesan,” says Athénaïs. “I’m no wife. I’m the pleasure he finds when he slips away from her sausage-shaped arms. I let the night unfold as he wishes.”
“What are his wishes?” asks the twin.
“Aren’t you the coyest thing! Are you going to steal my secrets and seduce him yourself?”
“I would never dare,” says the twin hotly, bending away from Athénaïs with a look of indignation. “And I would never succeed. You have his heart.”
“A man can be tempted,” says Athénaïs.
“Not one so thoroughly satisfied.”
“He is that,” said Athénaïs. “He would never say that he wasn’t. I make sure he is brought to the pinnacle of his earthly pleasure many times before I let myself sleep.”
“It must feel incredible to have a king at your beck and call.”
“It gives a certain sense of power. But, Giraude, we have a power that outlasts far longer than his time on the throne.”
I look over at Phoebe. Did she hear the name Giraude in all that riotous French? I mouth the word, and she silently shakes her head at me.
“And that is what I want to hear more about,” says Giraude.
“In due time. I’ll tell you things when you need to hear them.”
“But I’m dying to know now. What does it harm?”
“I don’t know yet if you’re the one to take my place in our ancient lineage.”
“But I must be! All the signs are as you said.”
A silence falls. Athénaïs doesn’t have an answer and she graces Giraude with a gentle smile. “Patience, my dear. Patience is the quality of character that lets a woman gain a place in the king’s bed and be as powerful as the queen . . . or more so.”
“I will try,” says Giraude. “But now that I’m Sangreçu, I’m anxious to learn everything.”
“You feel the rush of that blood throughout your body, don’t you?” says Athénaïs. “I remember how it felt the first time.”
“It’s like every heartbeat is a drum played in my ear,” says Giraude. “Every inch of my skin tingles. I feel more alive than I ever have.”
“I envy you that first moment,” says Athénaïs.
“Tell me how you do it, please! How did you create the vials?”
Athénaïs laughs gently. “That is very deep, ancient magic that was taught to me by someone I left behind long ago.”
“Who?”
“All in due time.”
“You have more vials somewhere?”
Ooh. Wow. This is important stuff. I drop my eyes to the floor to focus better. I listen as if someone’s telling us how to save our own lives.
Maybe in a sense she is—but with an adjustment. Telling us how to save our own deaths.
“There are of course more vials. I have a cache.”
“So if I find myself in need, I may find refreshment here at the palace?”
“A little farther flung. I must keep it out of the hands of wandering courtiers who may stumble across it while looking for privacy.”
“Are the vials in Paris?”
“All in good time, my dear.”
“Who else knows? Does the king?”
“We Sangreçu are a very special, select, and small tribe. He is not a member, no,” says Athénaïs.
“You have given me something you did not even give him!” exults Giraude. “You have favored me above him!”
“In this regard, that is true,” says Athénaïs.
“You cannot know how much this affects me,” says Giraude. “I admire you beyond what I may tell you.”
A look passes between them. I know that look.
“You are so beautiful,” says Giraude. “I wish I could take the king’s place.”
“Shhh,” says Athénaïs. “Many kinds of love are observed in this palace, but I am the mistress of the king. It would undo me.”
Giraude reaches out her hand to Athénaïs’s cheek and Athénaïs permits her to lingeringly trace her jawline. “Where are the vials kept?” she asks softly.
“You pray to know the answer,” says Athénaïs.
Giraude seems to hear or understand more than I do, because she looks very pleased as she says, “I believe I know that place.”
Athénaïs takes Giraude’s hand from her face, but with seeming reluctance. “But you are not to go there without my permission,” she says. “I shouldn’t have told you.”
“I am your confidante, your mirror, your heir,” says Giraude. “Why would I do such a thing?”
“We neglected to set up a secret password,” says Athénaïs. A brief frown crosses her face. “I ought to have . . . before I told you, I ought to have . . .”
Giraude smiles easily. “It’s me, you can rest assured. From now on, why not use the word sister?”
I see the frown appear again just for one moment, then Athénaïs is smiling again. “I am terrible at keeping secrets from such an eager face. You are an extraordinary protégée, and I relish and cherish each moment we spend together.”
Again the look between them.
“As do I,” says Giraude.
Athénaïs continues on, but the light changes again.
I grab Phoebe’s hand as we trip. I don’t need to—but there’s still some fear she might not come with me. I don’t want her to get stuck in the past with an angry Giraude who thinks she’s Yolande.
We’re back in the present day and the hall is teeming with visitors, people checking their reflections in the many mirrors. I hear English, French, German, languages I can’t identify. It’s a blur of sound.
“Miles,” says Phoebe, “I don’t think that was Giraude.”
“No?”
&nbs
p; “I think that was Yolande pretending to be her.”
“How could you tell?”
“It’s just a feeling. Something subtle.”
“Well, you’ve had a lot more face time with her than I have.” I’m starting to mull over how effectively she tricked both Athénaïs and me, but now Eleanor’s with us, and without thinking about it I drop Phoebe’s hand.
That’s weird. Why did I do that?
“Where were you?” asks Eleanor.
“We tripped again,” says Phoebe.
“Can you hold my hand next time? And I might be able to go when you go?”
“Yes, we’ll do that,” I promise. “I’m sorry.”
She’s really trying not to be upset, but I can see that something shook her up. “What is it?” I ask. “What happened while we were gone?”
“Nothing happened,” says Eleanor. “Don’t worry about that.”
“But?”
She hesitates and throws a strange look at Phoebe.
“I had a strong wave of emotion come over me,” says Eleanor. “Nothing I’ve ever felt before. Almost like someone else’s emotions were being poured into my body.”
“And what was it?” asks Phoebe.
“The feeling that you betrayed me,” says Eleanor.
“What?” I say.
“Me?” asks Phoebe.
“Yes.”
“Eleanor . . . no! I would never do anything to hurt you and you must know that. Miles and I . . .” She pauses and blushes. “We’ve known each other a little longer than we’ve known you. But we don’t mean to exclude you. When we go back in time, we have no control.”
“It’s not that,” says Eleanor, looking at her intently. “You and Miles are an item, as we would say back in my era.” And now it’s Eleanor’s turn to blush. I might be a little warm in the cheeks, too. “But it’s something between us. Something that happened before.”
“We didn’t know each other before,” says Phoebe slowly.
“I know. That’s why the feeling is so confusing.”
“Please know you can trust me,” says Phoebe. “Maybe . . . maybe I remind you of someone who betrayed you a long time ago?”
“Perhaps,” Eleanor allows.
“I won’t ever screw you over,” says Phoebe with an earnest face. She takes both of Eleanor’s hands in hers. “We’ve been through too much together.”
“Screw me over?” asks Eleanor. “I am not a bottle of wine.”
I groan.
“It means . . . I won’t be disloyal,” says Phoebe.
“To you, wine, or beer,” I add.
Eleanor smiles tremulously. “I know that. I know you’re true.”
It seems like everything’s okay again, but I’m worried about that feeling Eleanor had. Something caused it. What if it makes her turn against Phoebe? We’re all in danger here. We don’t understand the prophecy or our role in it—or if we even have a role in it.
“Tell us if you feel that again,” I say abruptly. “We’ll talk you down.”
“Talk me down?”
“It means, we’ll . . . What does it mean, Phoebe?” I appeal to her. Words are not my forte.
“It means we’ll stay with you until the feeling passes. We’ll comfort you.”
“Yeah, that,” I say.
“I am grateful,” she says. “I appreciate your kindness. Now—while I was feeling such vile sensations, what were you experiencing?”
I bring her and Phoebe up to speed on what Athénaïs and Yolande spoke about. The family is ahead of us now, and we drift through the crowds of people to be reunited with them.
The long day registers on all their faces. Steven holds Tabby balanced on one hip, perhaps so she won’t run off again and perhaps because she’s tired from all the walking.
“Let’s get some air,” says Tabby’s mum. “I know this is your thing, Steven, but Versailles is wearing thin on me. Can we go outside and eat our lunch?”
Easier said than done, but twenty minutes later we’re all out in the sunshine again. They buy jambon baguettes from a vendor with a red and white striped umbrella protecting his cart. To eat, they stretch out on the lawn near the famous fountain showing the horses rising up from under the water’s surface.
“I bet you anything Tabby’s going to fall asleep right here,” says her mum.
“Fine by me,” says Steven. “I could spend an hour here reading the guidebook. Why don’t you take a nap, too?”
“That would be heaven,” she says. She stretches out, props her head on her folded arms, and almost instantly she’s asleep. Steven holds Tabby in his lap and sings softly to her until she winks out, too. He reads his book, holding it open on the grass with one splayed palm. I notice with amusement that each page turn requires a feat of engineering with only one hand.
So we ghosts linger, too. I’m aware now of wanting to include Eleanor, so I make us sit in a triangle of sorts rather than a row. That means that I’m the sole person facing the drunk bloke heading toward us, lumbering and lurching.
CHAPTER SIX
As with any good palace, there are secret passages to aid a monarch in escaping—and to assist him in secretive amorous pursuits.
—Nooks and Crannies of Versailles
His stumbling approach would have tipped me off, but his bottle in a brown bag is an even bigger hint. He’s red-faced from all the drink in him, and a crooked snarl shows he’s a belligerent drunk, not a happy one. And he’s heading right toward our happy little bereaved family.
“Guten Tag!” he roars at Tabby’s dad, who instantly lets go of his page in the book to put his index finger to his lips and make the accompanying “shhh.”
He lets go of a string of German that I don’t understand, but he’s clearly waiting for an answer and isn’t moving along.
“I’m sorry,” says Steven. “I don’t speak German. I can’t help you.”
The man spins around in a circle as if to ask the world, What’s wrong with this man? He drops onto the grass and points at Tabby’s mum. She wakes up because of the torrent of foreign expletives or whatever it is he’s saying.
“Steven, who is this?” she asks, alarmed.
“No idea. He just came up and sat down.”
“Well, let’s go!” She hurriedly gathers up their things while he, ungainly, manages to stand up with Tabby in his arms.
“Can you get my book?” he asks Tabby’s mum.
But the drunk man has grabbed it. He’s growling and spitting out that chopped salad of a language that we call German. I’m really glad I took French, but it occurs to me at this moment that it might be helpful to know German, just to know what his problem is.
“Let it go,” says Tabby’s mum. “I’ll buy you another copy. Let’s get out of here.” She walks over and takes Tabby right out of her husband’s arms and sets her down on the ground so they can all move quickly.
I see on Steven’s face that he doesn’t want to back down. That’s his damn book.
“Give it back,” he demands.
The German man turns and hurls the book as far as he can. Given his state, that’s about two feet. I can’t help it; I laugh. Tabby and her mum are now walking backward from the scene in progress. Eleanor and Phoebe are with them.
“Pick that up and bring it here,” says Tabby’s dad. His voice is pretty authoritative—I have to hand it to him. This is the man I would’ve had to make polite small talk with if I were dating Phoebe in a real way, in a living-person kind of way.
“Steven, he’s not going to do that. He doesn’t even understand what you’ve said. Let it go and let’s get moving! He doesn’t seem like the healthiest individual to be standing around talking to!” says Phoebe’s mum. She delivers the last line with a bit of humor I have to admire.
“I bought that on special order,” protests the dad. “I want it back.”
“Then swallow your pride and go pick it up. I don’t think the descendant of Nazis is going to deliver it to you.”
; Oh no. He might not understand English—but Nazi is a German word. The man wheels around and starts heading toward Phoebe’s mum now. She’s pissed him off. He’s loudly enumerating her faults in a way that is somehow getting its message across.
It’s showtime.
Steven starts running, and he tackles the drunk effortlessly. They both land on the grass.
“I wish I could get the book for him,” says Phoebe, “and bring it to Mom. Goddamn corporeality.”
I watch the rolling around with a certain amount of pleasure. It’s clear no one’s going to get hurt. A bunch of tourists are now standing around watching, and predictably a few people pull out their phones and start recording it. I try to picture the YouTube title, “Manful fighting at Versailles” or “Tourists get entangled.”
I glance over at Tabby’s mum, and my smile vanishes. It’s been a tough couple of days for her. She’s tried to figure out how to mark her dead daughter’s birthday, she’s had her other daughter bolt away from her and go temporarily missing in a foreign country, and now her husband is fighting an inebriated prat.
“We’re going,” she calls out to her husband. “We’ll catch you later. I’m going to take Tabby to get some ice cream.”
I can tell he hears her, but he’s too embroiled in his current situation to respond.
“I’ll have my cell on,” she offers as she walks away.
I get it. I wouldn’t want my kid to watch that, either.
Finally, the men rise, panting. Steven points one last time to the book, and the man, defeated, actually goes and brings it to him. He mutters some words which I guess are German for “I’m an idiot.” He slinks away and I wonder what his story is. Is he a local who comes to the beautiful grounds of the palace to get drunk? Or is he a genuine tourist who shouldn’t have brought his bottle?
Steven unruffles the pages of his guidebook and turns to look for his family.
“They went to get ice cream,” I remind him, but he doesn’t hear me.
Betrayed Page 8