The Court of Miracles

by Kester Grant

  Behind the wailing penitents, bored nobles, forced by the powerful Church to participate in the charade, are taking the agonizingly slow carriage ride from Notre-Dame to the Tuileries. Their plumed carriages of gold and glass wait in an exhausted line to cross the bridge.

  The palace has decreed that each day, two poor children should be brought to be blessed and fed at the royal table. It’s an old tradition called l’Enlèvement—the Kidnapping—by the city’s children, started by la Reine des Gâteaux, Marie-Antoinette.

  I spot a carriage that must be carrying the children; it’s the least adorned, a third-class carriage fit for transporting the very poor—after all, they might sully anything else.

  I motion to Ettie and she follows me till we’re directly opposite the carriage. All we need to do is dart forward and slip under it. Everyone is watching the penitents, and between the noise and chaos we should be safe enough. I take a wary step forward and pull Ettie after me; we’re inches away from the carriage and are about to duck under it when a Sûreté officer approaches from the side of the procession on horseback. Her eyes meet mine and I take in the long ponytail of bright red hair.

  The inspector.

  I don’t know if she recognizes Ettie from the night at the Châtelet, but she sees that we’re too close to the carriage. Frowning, she nudges her horse toward us.

  Rennart’s balls!

  Grabbing Ettie, I pull her back into the crowd, but the inspector keeps coming, eyes narrowing as she keeps us determinedly in her sights.

  “Nina, what do we do?”

  Then an explosion rocks the ground and everyone turns toward the back of the bridge in time to see a cloud of smoke rise. The crowd gives a gasp of delight. Someone is blowing something up! What grand entertainment! General Lamarque yells an order, and his men go careening, guns raised, toward the explosion. Over the sound of the crowd the shouting begins. It’s a blur of noise to start, but the tone is all that matters: voices raised in pure and utter outrage.

  I grin. St. Juste decided to grant me this additional favor after all.

  The soldiers can barely push through the trapped crowds as the invaders appear. A swarm of young men, wearing shining boots and tailored coats, carrying signs—and, to my horror, entirely unarmed—march red-faced and chanting toward the soldiers. At their head is St. Juste.

  Lamarque notes their lack of arms and the seething crowd, and he shouts for his men to lower their weapons.

  “We don’t need your penance!” St. Juste shouts at the procession. “Take the bread from the tables of the nobility and feed the people!”

  The crowd cheers in response, though it’s not clear whom they’re cheering for.

  Inspector Javert leaps off her horse and advances on us. I dare not back too much farther into the crowd; with the agitated soldiers, horses, students, and onlookers, there’s the very real threat of being trampled. Then, like a puppet on a string, the inspector jerks to a stop. The blood drains from her face; her mouth opens in surprise. I follow her gaze. There’s a man in the crowd staring at her, a broad-shouldered man with a brown velvet hat and a country coat of olive green. The son of the Guild of Letters whom I freed from the Châtelet and who warned me that Ettie was in danger.

  “Valjean!” the inspector shouts as the man turns and flees. She springs into action, leaping into the crowd after him like a suicide into the Seine.

  A Cat knows how to taste the air and feel the perfect moment to act. In a rush of movement, I grab Ettie, push back through the crowd, and launch myself at the carriage door. Flinging it open, I leap inside, a dagger in my hand, prepared to go face to face with the poor children chosen for l’Enlèvement. I land perfectly, and in a heartbeat I’m inches from the occupant’s face, the point of my dagger sticking into his throat.

  Except that he is not a poor child. He is quite handsome, and drowning under such a vast amount of lace, silk, frills, and velvet that my horrified mind starts ringing every alarm bell it knows. This is not a commoner selected to take tea with the royals. Time slows down as I gaze into the exquisitely long-lashed eyes of a handsome brown-haired young man on whose lap I am almost sitting. I hear Ettie scramble into the carriage behind me. I hear her gasp. I catch the faintest whiff of chocolate and spice.

  “Black Cat?” he says.

  Oh no.

  “Your Highness?” I say.

  Perhaps it’s the invasion of his personal space, perhaps I’m the only one who ever treats him like this, but instead of the fury that should overcome him, and despite the dagger pressed against his neck, his eyes brighten and his face splits into a joyous smile.

  “You know each other?” Ettie asks behind me in a voice so laced with delight that between this and St. Juste I just know that she believes my life is far more romantic than it actually is.

  Before either of us can say or do anything more, the air shudders with the sound of gunfire. The dauphin, Ettie, and I are thrown around as the horses rear, and we land in a tangled heap on the floor, with him apologizing profusely and me elbowing him out of the way. Outside, there’s shouting, horses galloping, and the screams of a crowd now afraid for their survival. The air begins to taste of smoke and gunpowder. Lamarque’s voice carries as he orders everyone to stand aside so the procession can exit the bridge quickly.

  The carriage rocks and we’re on the move. Ettie wobbles and climbs onto the seat, holding out her hand to help the dauphin up. The dauphin rises, reaching trembling fingers toward the carriage window. I bat his hand away.

  “Don’t be a fool! Do you want to get shot?”

  He opens his mouth to say something, when the carriage gives a sudden jolt, and he falls backward, slamming his head against the seat. He slumps over. Ettie gives a small screech and dives toward him, checking to see if he’s alive.

  I’m not sure whether she cares because he’s the dauphin of France or because she hopes he’s the love of my life. Either way, I feel no small sense of relief when she nods to me to tell me he’s alive. I’d rather not be arrested for murdering the heir to the throne just at the moment.

  “Are you going to tell me how you know him?”

  I sigh. “I might have visited his bedchamber once.”

  Ettie gasps, happily scandalized.

  “To rob him, Ettie. Don’t look at me like that. It was several years ago.”

  There’s a long silence before Ettie adds, “And yet he still remembers you.” She lets that hang in the air between us, heavy as guilt.

  I try to weigh up the chances that the dauphin is not bearing a grudge after all these years—I did steal one of the crown jewels from him, after all.

  “He’s also very handsome,” Ettie adds, as if there is some sort of attractiveness competition going on that I am unaware of.

  “Is he?” I say, as if I haven’t noticed.

  Ettie is in charge of everything that happens when we arrive at the palace. Not because she knows the ways of nobility better—she doesn’t—but because she is perfect combination of charming and pathetic. When the carriage door swings open, a servant with a round moon of a face and flushed cheeks pokes herself through the doorway. Ettie promptly bursts into tears, pointing at the dauphin and gasping an incoherent explanation between breaths. Havoc ensues. People run hither and thither; there are orders, there is shrieking, and the dauphin is borne away by five people, as if one person isn’t enough for a royal of his handsomeness.

  We should really flee. After all, the dauphin will probably have us arrested once he comes to—I daresay robbing the heir to the French throne is a hanging offense? But if I run, I’ll fail in my mission and have no way to protect Ettie from the Tiger. The dauphin didn’t seem very angry to see me, and if I stay, then somewhere in the Tuileries there is a storeroom full of grain that I desperately need.

  In the chaos, nobody questions us. We are here for tea with the quee
n, or so Ettie keeps loudly crying, until the moon-faced servant returns and, sniffing, takes in our stink, a mixture of smoke and gunpowder.

  “Not the usual standard,” she says, her voice laden with disappointment.

  Ettie sways beside me, and her tears become more pitiable. Moon-Face chides her and snaps her fingers, and two footmen appear at her side.

  “This one’s half dead, from the looks of things. Best carry her in,” she says.

  So even Ettie gets carried. I, however, prefer to walk.

  * * *

  First there’s a visit to the salle de bains, a large room empty save for a giant mother-of-pearl bathtub set on gold clawed feet. Steam rises from the tub, which is full of peaks of something thick and white. It looks like a huge bowl of well-beaten egg whites, and it smells violently of lavender.

  “What’s that?” asks Ettie.

  “A tub, to wash yourself in. You can’t meet the queen smelling ripe as a wheel of Camembert!”

  We give up our clothes, which Moon-Face threatens to burn, but I refuse to relinquish my satchel of lock-picks, claws, and daggers, which the servants have been eyeing with growing levels of alarm. I only have to bite one person before they let me keep my weapons, and then Ellie and I are unceremoniously herded into the giant tub, which is large enough to drown five people. I am heaved in, weapons and all.

  First they soak us in boiling water, to “dislodge the grime.” Then they attack. Four maids dressed in cornflower-blue skirts and armed with brushes haul us up and squirt strange-scented liquids at us. I yelp and shriek, while Ettie for some reason can’t stop giggling. They scrub every inch of me with a brush, until my skin feels raw. Then they get to work on my hair, roughly lathering it with some rose-scented salve that makes me wonder if it’s possible to die of overperfuming. I am just growing used to their fingers rubbing my scalp in a way that’s not entirely unpleasant when they dump a jug of water over my head, leaving me spluttering.

  I curse them in back-alley argot.

  “I’ve never seen such an ungrateful savage. And you having the honor to be chosen!” scolds Moon-Face.

  Next we’re pulled from the water and dried down with soft white linens. The maids yank at my hair with brushes as if they’re trying to pull it all out.

  Once considered adequately dried, Ettie’s hair is braided, while mine gets fastened in a coil with my own lock-picks, which they have assumed are hairpins. We’re wrapped in thick quilted robes and given slippers of the softest white leather lined with lamb’s wool—I make a mental note to take them with me when I leave. Then we’re led up a back staircase. Moon-Face unlocks a door and pushes us forward, then closes the door behind us.

  The room is the size of Thénardier’s entire inn, and of all the rooms in all the fine homes I’ve broken into, this one seems the most weighed down with an oppression of gilt. It frames every door and window, every corner, and marks the decor throughout, from an ornate clock to the chandelier to the candlesticks. Everything is gold. And what’s not gold is silk: patterned curtains; hand-painted wallpaper, cushion covers, and bed linens. Even the draperies that fall from the gaping mouth of the bed canopy are silks, heavy with tassels, and topped with gilt carvings of frolicking animals.

  What’s not silk is covered in flowers. It looks as if a flower girl has gone mad and strewn her posies over every available surface. There are roses painted on the ceiling, delicate Qing gardens trailing along the walls, lilies and carnations woven into the impressive pastel Ottoman rug.

  There is a click behind us: they’ve locked us in, which doesn’t faze me at all, since I’ve never met a lock I couldn’t pick.

  Next to the obscenely large bed, almost made minute by a mountain of fluffy pillows, is a table bearing a platter of cold meats, sliced fruit, and cheeses. My stomach growls, and I go to inspect the offerings: thick slabs of pressed beef tongue, honeyed ham, and wafer-thin cured meats; a hard yellow Comté, a soft, peach-rinded Reblochon, a white-dusted Tomme de Savoie; thin slices of golden pears.

  I pick up a piece of Comté and sniff it.

  “It’s fine,” Ettie says, and I can hear her stomach growling.

  I look at her reproachfully. I’ve told her many times not to eat or drink things offered unless you trust the giver. And sometimes not even then.

  “Oh, just eat something, Nina.” She passes me a plate.

  Giving her a look of condescension, I choose a single slice of pear and take a tiny bite. It melts in my mouth, all sweetness and juice. I swallow carefully and wait to see if I feel any side effects.

  Ettie laughs. “Not everyone is trying to poison us.”

  “That’s what you think,” I say darkly, deciding it’s probably safe to wolf down another piece of the pear.

  “Isn’t it delightful to be so clean?”

  I frown. Since I smell like I’ve been attacked by a lavender rosebush, I refuse to agree.

  When my stomach is full, I pick through the leftovers and secrete some in the drawer of the bedside table.

  “Why are you doing that?” Ettie asks.

  “So we have more for later. Nobles always throw away leftovers.”

  “They throw away food?” She looks affronted.

  “Yes.” I stretch my body out on the bed beside her. I lay my head on the mountain of pillows and tell her every tale I know about the nobility: of la Reine des Gâteaux, who told her people to eat cake in the middle of a famine; of leprous King Louis XV, who thought his sickness could be cured by bathing in the blood of innocents and had his men steal children from the city streets until riots broke out in protest.

  When the key turns in the lock and the door opens, Ettie is suitably frightened.

  Moon-Face comes in all smiles. “Well, look at the two of you, so clean and neat.”

  I glare at her, but she ignores me. Two new maids, armed to the teeth with torturous-looking devices, follow her in. Ettie’s eyes sparkle with excitement as they go at our heads again with brushes, combs, and a variety of oils. Ettie seems to enjoy her styling, whereas I feel like they’re torturing my head. She ends up with her golden curls tamed into something called à la grecque. I am given a more demure style of loose waves piled at the back of my head. Then we’re both liberally sprayed with yet more scent, which sends us into cascading sneezes. A lady in a gigantic dress of bright yellow enters the room; her face is painted white, and she wears a white curled wig almost double the size of her head, upon which are perched several mustard-colored butterflies and a parrot.

  “Madame Gelada,” says Moon-Face, “royal dresser from the Grand Mogol.”

  The Mogol is the fanciest dress shop in the whole city; I know, since I’ve had to…borrow some of her creations before as disguises. The yellow lady surveys us calculatingly. She is followed into the room by an entire retinue of men and women wearing different shades of yellow and carrying brightly colored boxes of varying sizes.

  Madame Gelada delicately seats herself on a small pouf and claps her hands. Her servants get to work opening boxes of underclothing, and Madame selects the garments.

  We’re draped in chemises and culottes, silk stockings embroidered with tiny flowers, followed by corsets with velvet stays tied so tightly I can hardly breathe. The skirt hoops are so large, three people could hide under them.

  Next come dresses of every shape and color. From pale ivories to bright scarlets, some embroidered with silk thread, others festooned with beads and sequins that catch the light and shine. Ettie gasps as she surveys the wondrous creations. But Madame has little time for our opinions. One look at us and she’s already chosen: Ettie gets a dress of pale blue, and I one of dusty rose. They’re dropped over our heads, fastened, straightened, and smoothed. The servants pull out ornate brass needles and thread of every color, instantly matching it to fabric and stitching hems, waistlines, and sleeves.

  When they are at
last done, Madame gives a short nod to show she’s pleased with her work, and departs, leaving behind a flurry of boxes, tissue paper, and servants to pack up, all without having said a single word to us.

  “We look so fine!” Ettie says once the servants have scurried out the door.

  I snort. As if I care about looking fine. My gown has only the barest strip of cloth on the upper arm—where am I meant to hide my dagger?—but Ettie is dragging me to a mirror and forcing me to look at us side by side.

  “We are beautiful.”

  Unbelievably, the outfit has added to Ettie’s beauty. The sheen of her blue dress makes her eyes look even bigger. The flowers in her curls make her look as if she’s tumbled here from some otherworldly realm, like a princess from a story that Orso might have told us. There’s pink in her cheeks, now that the food has filled her up.

  I’ve always thought it isn’t fair that she’s so lovely. Her face draws the attention of those who should not see her. It turns her into a thing to possess. I’d cut her face with my own dagger if I thought it would save her. But to scar Ettie would change nothing. It’s not just her features that are beautiful. Something inside her draws people to her. Innocence, a kindness that could swallow the city whole if she let it.

  “You always look beautiful, Ettie. You don’t need a dress and a thousand pins in your hair to change that,” I say grumpily.

  “You look lovely too,” she adds loyally. I shake my head. Even with my fantastical get-up, I’m all angles, edges, and frowns. A bag of bones, Femi calls me. How he’d laugh at me now, parading around in a giant silk dress like an overstuffed meringue.