Soleil

by Jacqueline Garlick

  I summon the guard to go find the girls.

  Iris and Livinea arrive moments later in a shuffle of silk nightdresses and flustered giggles. They swish over the stone floors of the East hall to my side of the foyer. Livinea’s night robe falls scantily off the edge of one of her shoulders.

  Iris slides it back up where it belongs.

  “What do you think?” I turn the selection box toward them as they slide in beside me, revealing the goldsmith’s fine collection of rings. They gasp, their eyes wide in the fluttering aether light streaming down from above.

  “Oh my.” Livinea’s fingers tickle the air, itching to touch the gems. Iris falls back on her heels. Livinea reaches into the box, her tongue curling out the side of her mouth. She snaps up the flashiest ring from the box and slips it over her own long finger.

  “That is an octagonal lux, split-shaft, halo sapphire diamond,” the goldsmith says, a wary tick in his voice, “with diamond-accented border, set in an eighteen-carat band.” He turns his nervous gaze on me. “Gold, of course.”

  I take it all this should mean something profoundly important to me, but it doesn’t. To Livinea either, judging by her puzzled expression. But Iris’ gaze sparks.

  The jeweller watches with fitful eyes as Livinea suddenly jerks out her hand, fingers waggling as she admires it. She grins. Iris grins too.

  “So, is that the one, then?” I grin, as well.

  “For me, yes,” Livinea says, clutching the ring to her heart. “But for Eyelet, no.” She shakes her head. “This one is for Eyelet.” She reaches out, plucking a second ring from the box, much to the goldsmith’s chagrin.

  “That,” he snaps, lurching forward and snatching the first ring from Livinea’s grasp, “is a breath-taking, five-stone opal with eighteen-carat, yellow-gold band, featuring cabochon fiery inlayed opals, accented with twenty-six single Commonwealth cut diamonds. The finest piece I own.” The goldsmith eyelids flutter to a pretentious close. He gulps as I take it from him.

  “So, this is the one?” I turn to the girls, my voice high and hopeful, as both nod. Iris claps her hand.

  I swallow. “You’re sure?” I look hard at Iris, thinking her the more sensible of the two. She smiles bigger than before. “The finest, you say?” I turn back to the goldsmith, my heart aflutter.

  “None finer in all the land,” the goldsmith boasts.

  “How much is it?”

  His mouth falls open, and a wee, shocked gasp slips out.

  Iris elbows me in the ribs, then snorts, giggling.

  “What? What is it?” My head swings between them.

  “Does the price really matter?” Livinea looks at me oddly, smirking. “You are the Ruler, after all.”

  A flush of heat rushes through me. I suppose she’s right. As Ruler, I suppose I’ll never have reason to question the price of something ever again. “Oh… Yes. Yes, of course.” I say, feeling embarrassment warm me. I tug down the points of my very uncomfortable waistcoat. The outfit the Matriarch has chosen for me to wear is stunningly brilliant, but very stiff and restricting. I loosen the starchy collar. “Put it on my account,” I say, trying to sound official, to which the girls laugh again. “Or whatever it is that needs to be done.”

  “Very well, sir.” The goldsmith bows, plucking the ring of choice from Livinea’s clutches. He snaps the selection box shut, and holds it up in his fingers. “Shall I wrap it, or will you take it in a box?”

  I feel a bit of sick jump up my throat. I turn to the girls, stammering, “Yes, perhaps a…”

  Livinea shakes her head.

  “No, no, I guess not.”

  “Very well then.” The goldsmith snaps out a polishing cloth and presses a monocle to his eye. He shines the ring until every ounce of it is sparkling.

  “There you are.” Handing it to me, he plucks the monocle from his eye, and lowers his head. “Give my best wishes to the Queen.” He curtseys, then he whisks from the room, jewel box tucked ‘neath one arm.

  I stand, holding the jewel out at arms-length like it’s a foul-bottomed baby. “So, now what do I do with it?” I turn wide-eyed to the girls. They burst into giggling laughter.

  “‘Ere, let me ‘elp you with that.” C.L. pops in unexpectedly through the door of the parlour. “I believe in the end, I’ll be the keeper of it anyway.” He reaches out for the ring, but Iris slaps his foot away, and relieves me of the ring. She tucks it into her breast coat pocket, smug-faced, leaving a perplexed looking C.L. standing gape-faced.

  “I’ll explain later,” I say.

  The cocky flash fades from his famous, toothless grin.

  I glance down at my watch. Better than fifteen minutes have passed. I’m struck by a thread of panic. “Has anyone seen the Vicar? Has Masheck found one yet?”

  “Only the best in Brethren.” Masheck swaggers into the foyer from the rear door. The Vicar follows close behind in his bedroom slippers, a dishevelled vicar’s gown arranged over top of him. It appears he may be wearing it backward.

  “Come now.” Masheck claps a meaty mitt to my shoulder as he greets me. “Wipe that scowl off your face, will you? You’re going to the altar, not the gallows.” He laughs.

  I look past him at the Vicar in the light. His face is drawn and ghastly looking. The last of his hairs stands straight up on his head. “You didn’t use force to get him here, did you?” I turn to Masheck.

  “Wasn’t I supposed to?”

  “Oh, dear Lord.” I nearly crumble.

  “It’s all right, sir.” C.L. shoots in, nudging me away from the scene, scowling back at Masheck over his shoulder. “Everything’s gonna be all right.” He pats my back, flicking a quick look in Iris’s direction, who runs for water to revive the Vicar with.

  “Just think,” Livinea slides up, doing her part to lighten my morose expression, “in just a few moments, you and Eyelet will be ‘appily married, and nothing can stop that from ‘appening now.”

  I glance back at the staircase and then at my pocket watch. I swallow. “She is coming, isn’t she?”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Eyelet

  I STILL FEEL SOMEWHAT weary from the treatment, but I am stronger.

  I suck in a laboured breath, wishing I could loosen my corset. Good gracious, wedding attire is awfully demanding. Smoothing the satin accordion folds that adorn my waist, I turn and notice a vision of my mother has appeared in the glass across the room from me. I draw in a sharp breath.

  How much I’ve grown to look like her.

  I guess I hadn’t noticed, what with all that’s been going on. I’ve aged since I left Brethren—turned into a proper woman. Father would be so proud of me. Oh, how I miss him.

  I wonder how Mother is… and where she is? Urlick reported that no one’s seen her since I—

  Does she know I’ve been saved? Does she know Urlick and I are about to marry? I can hardly believe it myself.

  I peer out of the great leadlight circular window that frames the end of my bedchambers, hoping for a glimpse of Archie or any others in the flock. My heart rushes at the thought, even though deep down I know my mission is futile. Truth is, no one’s seen any of them since my collapse.

  When the Vapours began seeping through the barriers of Brethren, the ravens reportedly took to the skies. My mother among them, according to the footman, who said she circled the castle repeatedly, cawing and squawking, as I lay incapacitated in the belly of laboratory. She was the last to leave, and only after the winds grew too strong. He reported seeing her follow the rest as they winged away through a strange rent in the cloud cover.

  Where did they go, I wonder? What must she be thinking? I stare at the sky, all grey fog-masked and whirling. I lay my hands on the glass, feeling guilty for going through with this without my mother present. She would have so loved to be there tonight.

  A vision of Mother flashes before my eyes. My happy heart grows heavy. If only I could turn back time…but then again, without all that has happened, I’d never have met Urlick.


  I turn to the mirror once again, noting just how many features of hers I now possess—her sculpted cheekbones, and button nose, even her “rose petal lips,” as father used to call them. I wiggle my long, slender, pianist fingers—also hers—and touch our shared caramel-coloured hair—though mine is much curlier than hers ever was. I’m considerably taller than she, but have her same voluptuous hourglass figure. I take in a breath and stretch up tall—only my breasts are not so large. More than enough to fill my dress, but less than Mother’s “dazzling supply,” as my father used to say, with a sparkle in his eye.

  Oh, how he loved her. And she him.

  Just like Urlick and I.

  I swing around and the folds of my heavy, underskirt swing with me—a shimmering buttery shade of satin, cream. A tulle overskirt floats over the top. Where they found such a breathtaking garment on such short notice, is beyond me.

  I smooth down the gold, silk satin bodice, and trace the lines of the crisp, underbust corset that pinches my waist into dramatic ‘V’. Visually, I admire the plunging neckline that falls in two, soft, scallops over my breast, creating a daring dip of cleavage. Dainty, strings of seed-pearls, draped like garland over the tops of my arms, form the only sleeves. But the best part, are the giant, cream-coloured, oyster pearls that dangle here and there from the bodice. There must be a hundred of them. Fixed in place by fancy, silver, claw-like clasps, they are sewn to sparkling, silver-embroidered snowflakes, each glinting in the soft, aether light of the room as I teeter toe-to-toe. Affixed to the dip of my daring cleavage hangs a clutch of silver, metal flowers—a match the ones woven through my hair.

  It’s a grand ensemble, fit for a queen.

  Queen. The word rolls awkwardly off my silent tongue. I guess that’s what I am now, aren’t I? In a matter of speaking. Or rather, I will be soon…

  Deep inside, I can’t imagine being anything but Eyelet.

  I won’t be anything but Eyelet.

  I smile at myself in the mirror and twirl, satin swishing, tulle crinkling, then stop and adjust my flower tiara, re-threading rogue curls back up into the simple sweep Iris created, allowing my natural wave to guide her. Arranging the last curl, I tip my hip toward the mirror like the picture-flick starlet’s do, then I let out some air, watching my bosoms float down into the too-tight corset.

  Goodness, it is hot in here.

  Another giant swath of tulle stretches out behind me a good three metres forming a veil. The edges of it are embellished with lace, the finest in the land, I’m told. I run my fingers along it, and hug myself in it.

  It feels so strange, all this elegance wrapped around me—plain old me… stubborn, stealthy, swashbuckling Eyelet. The thought of it makes me laugh aloud. As beautiful as this all is, I give thanks it’s only temporary.

  Or at least I hope it is.

  I make a face in the mirror and stick out my tongue, just to see if it’s still me under all this glim and glam. It is. I pinkie wave to myself.

  I can’t imagine wearing garb like this, every day—to parties, state dinners…royal functions—no thank you. I pinch my own waist.

  I give thought to what Urlick might look like at this moment…what crazed get-up he might be wearing, and whether he’s as uncomfortable in it as I am in my dress.

  Is he as nervous as me?

  Or worse, is he having second thoughts? I’m struck by a lightning bolt of insecurity. What if he’s changed his mind?

  My hands grow cold and clammy. I wring them tightly together.

  Nonsense. I shred the thought. Don’t be ridiculous. The man is mad for you.

  I drop down on the side of the bed and chuckle, imagining him in a pair of Kingly knee pants. Whatever they’ve dressed him in, I cannot wait to see him.

  Soon, we will never ever be apart again. The wonderfulness of that thought is almost overwhelming. The palms of my hands grow sweaty again, and I’m filled with a sort of sorrowful exhilaration—a sad happiness I cannot explain.

  I stand and pace the room in search of gloves. Do I need them? Or are my hands to remain bare to receive the ring? What is the proper etiquette for a girl’s hands on her wedding day? If only Mother was here to guide me.

  I bite my lip and stare at the door, longing for her presence.

  Something feels amiss. It niggles the hair at the back of my neck.

  I try to walk the sinister feeling off, dragging the heavy dress behind me, when out the corner of my eye I spot something: a dark fleck in the clouds just outside my window, just a grease spot at first, then an gruesome blotch. I spin around as something slaps against the circular leadlight window. I’m face-to-face with a hideous ghoul. Its lips are torn, its eyes bulging, its nose, nothing but a pair of punctured holes, fluttering in and out.

  “Iris!” I clasp my chest, and scream. “Iris, come quick!” I fall back over my heels.

  The creature throws back its head, exposing a mouth full of fangs.

  “Iris!” My heart surges.

  The creature is not alone—two, three, four of them sail back and forth through the air, screeching and chattering. One by one, they land on the window ledge, working with gnarled fingers to de-lead the glass.

  “Iris!” I shout, scrambling backward. “Iris, come quick!”

  The ghouls cackle, loud and high-pitched. I remember the lessons Urlick taught me and clap my hands to my ears to drown them out.

  “Iris!” I shuffle backward over the floor, and fall onto the bed.

  The ghouls light into laughter again.

  Their nails dig and scrape at the glass. The ticking, tinny sound of their claws shudders up my spine. A wave of panic waffles through me. “Iris!”

  My eyes snap to the most easterly window as another entity appears. Her great morphing body slams the glass.

  I jump and scream and nearly shed my skin, scrambling backward on my elbows and heels over the mattress.

  Flossie glares in at me, all sunken eyes and slopping tentacles. Her bluing fingers clasp to the hinges. “What’s the matter? Weren’t expecting me?”

  My mouth opens, though no words escape me.

  “Thought you were rid of me, didn’t you, Princess?” Her snake-like tongue flicks in and out of her mouth. She licks her lips. “Or should I say, future queen.”

  Her cackle is louder than all the rest. It stands the hairs on my neck. Icy terror shoots through my veins. I’m frozen to the bed.

  “That is,” she hisses, “if you make it to the altar.” She slams a palm to the window, and I jump and shriek.

  Around her neck, my necklace glows.

  My necklace…

  My necklace!

  I sit up.

  Flossie tracks my gaze. “See something you like, little lovely?” She tugs the pendant from between her breasts and swings it on its chain like a pendulum.

  I stifle the urge to throw the window open and strip it from her neck; I’m no match for her and her band of crazed Infirm friends.

  But still, I need that necklace.

  The look in her eyes tells me she knows that.

  I swallow and say nothing, refusing to let her know how important the pendant is to me.

  “Something you can’t live without?” She smiles. “Well, at least not for long.”

  My stomach curdles. She can’t possibly know, can she? How?

  Her unsightly lip peels back. “Perhaps a slight negotiation is in order.” She draws her face closer to the window. “If you’d let me in, we could talk.” She slams her fists on the glass again and I jolt. “Nothing troubling, just a fair exchange of materials,” she lilts her voice and swings the necklace out in front of her again. Her ghouls break from gnawing the window clamps just long enough to laugh. She pinches the pendant between her fraying fingers. “It’s simple, really. You give me Urlick and I’ll give you back your life.”

  “Never!” I shout.

  “My, my, never’s a very long time. Perhaps you should let me in, so we can talk.”

  “Not as long as I liv
e and breathe.” I crawl backward, covertly trying to reach the alarm-bell cord hanging next to the bed.

  “Which won’t last long without this now, will it?” She narrows her eyes and rattles the pane. The other ghouls laugh and jeer, their demonic voices shuddering through me. “Oh, don’t look so worried, Princess.” She pushes her hideous face to the glass. “As soon as Urlick agrees to do as I wish, I’ll see to it that you both spend eternity together.”

  Ghoul laughter rises again.

  I throw my hands over my ears to block the sound out, and shout, “Never. I will never turn him over to you!”

  “Very well then, it’s your funeral.” She reaches for the stopper on the lid of the necklace, and I gasp.

  “No, don’t!” I squeal, as she wrenches on the cap. It doesn’t open. My heart tumbles around my chest. Tipping her head back, she yanks again, letting out an ear-splitting wail.

  Flossie’s eyes fix hard on me. “I will have him! You mark my very words! He will be mine! You will not stop me!”

  The door at my back bursts open. A shocked and wide-eyed Iris barrels into the room.

  “Attack!” Flossie shouts to her ghouls, palming the window. “Bring them both to me!” The winds pick up at her back.

  Iris freezes in the doorway.

  “Now!” Flossie shouts. Panic floods her face. Her blackened breath fogs up the windowpane. She swings around, frantically checking over her back.

  Something’s wrong. She’s afraid of something. What is it?

  A bevy of guards’ voices rises from the ground below.

  Flossie glances down toward them, then turns back to me. “He will be mine,” she shouts, and whirls off into the sky. The ghouls follow her, turning the sky black.

  I collect my dress and race past Iris and out the door.

  “Eyelet?” C.L. calls as I gallop past him down the grand staircase. “Eyelet, wait! We’s not quite ready for you yet!”

  I tear past Livinea, who is holding arms full of flowers. “Eyelet?” Her mouth falls open.

  When I reach the bottom of the staircase, I leap from the last step onto the long table that stretches the length of the main entry hall. I scramble along the top, stripping the walls of their weapons, tossing down a stockpile of artillery as I go—steam-pepperboxes, steamcoal pistols, poison-tipped swords, and steamcannons.