She was in a boat with many men in beautiful armor. An enormous white wall made of trees with elegant arches and gray-green foliage rose up before them. Everything shimmered suddenly, a taste like stardust on her tongue. She blinked, sure she was dreaming again. But then the gates opened and what lay beyond made her mouth fall open.
It was as Gendrin had described it. A city of trees grew out of the water. Trees untouched by the coming winter. Lights in the shape of stars grew all over the boughs. People crowded the edges of the platforms to get a good look at her. Fish pulsing with colors darted through the water—water that was purple where it splashed against the hull.
“This can’t be real,” she murmured.
Gendrin smoothed her hair from her face. “It’s real, Caelia. We’re taking you to the healers.”
She caught sight of something through the layers of trunks. Something white and opalescent, with gold edges. Then everything went dark.
Caelia awoke fiercely thirsty. She felt groggy and heavy, as if she’d been drugged. The fever was gone. She looked down at her leg, at the bandages there. It ached dully but felt better. She’d been changed and bathed—even her nails had been cleaned. That might have embarrassed her once, but she was well past that now.
Beside the bed, a five-petaled flower gave off light like a fallen star, a cup of water beside it. Even as she reached for it with a bandaged hand, she looked around the room with a strange, star-shaped roof. The walls were even stranger, like mist frozen in place. Magic. Had to be. Lying on another bed in the corner was Gendrin. He’d found time to wash up and change into clean clothes.
At the sight of him sleeping, something softened inside her. He was beautiful, she realized. How had she ever thought differently?
She picked up the glass, her pasty tongue working over the roof of her mouth. In her haste, the cup bumped against the flower, sending ripples of color along the seams. She gasped.
Gendrin instantly sat up, his gaze locking with hers. “You’re awake.”
She gulped the tepid water. Thirst satiated, she dropped back to the pillow as he sat beside her. “How long did I sleep?”
“A couple days. The healers thought you needed the rest.”
She remembered bits and pieces of the wonders she’d seen. “Was it real? Is this real?”
He seemed to understand what she meant. He slid his arms under her and carried her to the misty thing at the room’s edge. With a twist of his hand, he banished the swirling vapors. The breeze pushed her hair back from her face. She had a full view of an opalescent tree, larger than anything she’d ever seen.
The colors shifted, drawing her in. Magic sounded in her head—singing crystals and falling rain and drums. She could feel herself dancing, her skirt tightening and flaring around her legs, the emptiness inside her filled up to the brim.
Suddenly, she wasn’t afraid anymore. “Dayne.”
“What’s that?” Gendrin asked.
“My son’s name.”
Her father and brother’s names combined. A way to honor them. Remember them.
His gaze softened. “It’s a good name.”
The gentleness in his eyes undid her. Using her hand around his neck for leverage, she pulled herself up and pressed her mouth to his. His lips were soft, but his body stiffened.
Confused, she pulled back. His eyes were still closed. He sucked on his bottom lip, as if he was tasting her. He opened his eyes and looked down at her reverently, like he’d been waiting for this moment his entire life.
The forest take her, how was she supposed to keep from falling in love with this man?
“Caelia, you don’t know everything. I would never take advantage of—”
“I kissed you,” she said firmly. “And I want to do it again. You’re going to give me what I want, Gendrin.”
He rested his forehead against hers. “Caelia, you’re making it very hard to keep my distance.”
I know exactly how you feel. She slipped out of his arms, keeping the weight off her bad leg. She wrapped her arms around his neck. “Your protests are noted.”
She pulled his mouth down to hers. He let her. Their lips met. Once. Twice. His palms cradled her face. She slid her hands up his arms and back down again. To his broad shoulders, down his back.
She paused, thinking about going farther, but she hadn’t completely lost her senses. Though she wasn’t far from it—her head was swimming, and she felt light and floaty. She pulled back.
He wrapped her in his arms, holding her tight. “Ancestors, Caelia.”
She rested her head against Gendrin’s chest. He tucked his chin over her temple. They both looked out at the city, so beautiful in the fading light. Caelia basked in the possibilities before her. Possibilities she’d never thought she’d have again.
Caelia pushed her sweaty hair out of her face with the back of her wrist. Leaning heavily on her cane, she forced herself to take another step. One more, and she reached the window. She banished the magical barrier, as Gendrin had taught her, with a twist of her fingers.
Birdsong immediately flooded her room, as did the morning light. Below, a boat rowed toward the healing tree. Gendrin, coming to take her back to his treehome—she could still taste his kiss. She bit her lip, trying to keep her broad grin under control.
There were two more people in the boat: a man and a woman. The woman looked up. Caelia’s smile slipped. It wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be possible.
She pivoted and limped to the doorway, stepping through the magical barrier and down the wide bough. Her leg ached fiercely as she reached the spiraling stairs and started down. Halfway to the base of the tree, Gendrin met her.
She stopped in her tracks, panting. “It can’t be. She’s dead.”
“She’s waiting for you.”
Tears blurred Caelia’s vision as he confirmed the truth of what she’d seen. Atara was alive. “How?”
“I wanted to wait until you were better, but it felt too much like keeping secrets. It’s time you figured out the truth, Caelia. Atara can help you do that.”
The truth he couldn’t speak because of the curse.
The ache in Caelia’s leg had shifted to a burn. Gendrin let her climb on his back and carried her to the base of the trunk—a dock made of the tree’s spreading roots.
Caelia stepped down at the sight of the woman pacing. She had the same build. The same hair. Then she turned. Caelia made a small, animal-like wail. Atara sprinted, closing the distance between them, and they wrapped arms tightly around each other.
Caelia breathed in the scent of wind in her hair. “Atara?”
Tears streamed down their cheeks as Caelia pulled back to look at her. Not even a scratch marred her rich skin.
“How did you escape the beast?”
“I didn’t.”
“What?”
Atara sniffed and smoothed Caelia’s hair. “First, tell me your story. Everything.”
Caelia did. About the candles they’d sent down the river for Atara. How Harben had chased her into the forest, and Gendrin had saved her. How Caelia had chosen to go with him and killed the beast.
The man who’d come with Atara hung back, listening with his hands folded. Who was he?
Atara glared at Gendrin. “You weren’t lying.”
“I told you,” he said.
Bewildered, Caelia looked between them. “What’s going on?”
Atara linked her arm through Caelia’s. “Do you recall when we were young and we found that honey?”
“Honey?” But then Caelia did remember. When they were twelve, they had opened a new jar of honey. Stark bitterness had chased the sweet, the back of her throat itchy and tight. Within the hour, they had started seeing things that weren’t real.
Mad honey, Papa had called it. Gathered from toxic flowers. “Poisoned honey,” Caelia said. “It made us sick.”
“Bitter beneath the sweet,” Atara murmured. Gendrin led the way to the boat. They followed him.
“I don�
��t understand,” Caelia said.
“Come.” Gendrin reached back, holding out his hand for her. “There are so many things I need to show you.”
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23 June 2019
It was going to rain any moment.
Lucie glanced at the sky as she came to the closing lines of her “Spinning Tales and Yarn” presentation. The light of the setting sun gilded a mass of dark, heavy-bellied clouds to the south, and lightning had shimmered at the horizon off and on for an hour.
Lucie hoped the storm would hold off a little longer. The Saint-Jean-Baptiste Fête was Québec’s New France Historical Museum’s biggest fundraiser of the year. Good income from the festival meant funding for children’s activities, guest lectures, and traditional craft classes for months to come.
Lucie turned her attention back to her audience. “The princess awoke at the kiss of the prince and, opening her eyes, immediately recognized her true love. And they lived happily ever after.” She concluded Perrault’s classic fairy tale with a little bow of her head. “Merci, mes amis! Enjoy the rest of the Fête.”
There was scattered applause as her audience dispersed. Lucie stopped the treadle of her spinning wheel and wound her newly made yarn onto a spool. Though it was midsummer, the evening wind was chilly. She wrapped her shawl around her shoulders and stretched her feet toward the bonfire at her side. It had been burning since late afternoon, but with what looked like serious rain on the way, it would likely all go to waste.
“Lucie! You should take a break. I brought you some poutine.”
Lucie turned at Olivier’s voice. Her colleague in the Special Programs Department held two paper plates of fresh, golden french fries smothered in cheese curds and rich gravy. The smell wafted through the air, and Lucie’s stomach rumbled uncomfortably against her tight corset.
“How sweet of you. Thanks!” Lucie accepted a plate, took a bite, and tried not to moan with pleasure. It was even more delicious than it smelled. She hadn’t eaten since noon, and it was close to nine o’clock already. She tried to chew and swallow slowly. “How have things been at your booth?”
“Good. I sold several puzzles, and it seems like there’s a lot of interest in the new cabinetry class. I had about ten people sign up.”
“I’m not surprised. You’re so good at what you do.” Lucie looked up and caught a hopeful gleam in Olivier’s eye. For weeks, the other historian had hinted he’d like to take her out to dinner. On paper, it would make sense to date him. They worked well together at the museum and had everything in common: a love of books and Québec history and culture. But Lucie felt zero chemistry when they worked together or chatted.
An old French-Canadian legend held that something significant always happened to a woman just after her thirty-first birthday. Lucie wasn’t superstitious, but being single and having turned thirty-one the week before, she wouldn’t mind a reason to change her social media relationship status in the near future. It just wouldn’t be with Olivier. She should nip his enthusiasm in the bud; it was kinder that way.
Lucie swallowed her bite. “You’re such a good friend,” she said, leaning slightly on that last word. “What do I owe you for the poutine?”
Blink. Out went that glimmer. “Oh, nothing,” Olivier said, staring into the flames of the massive bonfire. “You can treat next time.” Just then, raindrops the size of pennies started falling. Olivier looked up and then flinched as his eyes got splashed. “I should run and put my tools away. I’ll see you later?”
Lucie nodded. “I’ll be at the dance.”
“Save a gavotte for me?” Olivier called over his shoulder as he hurried off toward his booth.
Lucie put away her wool and then folded up her portable maple spinning wheel. It broke down compactly and fit into a special leather case, which Lucie quickly zipped up. It was good she’d worn her wool damask costume instead of the lighter but more fragile silk. She could hang this gown in the bathtub to air and not worry about the fabric getting spotted by the rain.
It would probably storm all night. On second thought, she pulled out her phone and texted Olivier her regrets. She’d skip the dance. Instead, she’d hurry home to her apartment, get out of her corset and petticoats, and curl up with some thick, rich chocolat chaud and a good book next to the—
Lighting flashed much closer this time, with a tremendous crack of thunder following immediately afterward. Costumed docents and festival patrons started scurrying in earnest for shelter.
Another bolt of lightning struck so close that Lucie smelled ozone. A horse whinnied in Lucie’s ear, and she whirled. Yves, the museum’s managing director, stood in the cab of his newly restored calèche, struggling to control his horse. Another peal of thunder made the horse rear, its front legs flailing in the air. Lucie jumped back to get away from the iron-shod hooves—and stumbled into the enormous bonfire. The flames roared up all around her, and Lucie screamed.
“Il y a longtemps que je t’aime, jamais je ne t’oublierai ...”
A rich baritone lingered over the refrain of the melancholy old folk song. Lucie opened her eyes and then winced at the throbbing pain in her head. She had sung “À la claire fontaine” with the youth volunteers at the museum just the week before. Who was singing it now? Where was she? She squinted against the harsh morning light and tried to moisten her furry-feeling mouth.
A campfire ringed with stones burned merrily near her elbow. She sat up, brushing pine needles out of her tangled braid. A rough blanket lay over her; where had that come from? Her wheel case and bag of wool sat on the other side of her. She was in a small clearing with thick woods all around.
“Ah, la belle au bois dormant has awakened. Bonjour, madame.”
Lucie scrambled up and pivoted, slipping slightly on the thick layer of spruce needles. A tall man stood at the edge of the clearing. His long, brown hair was tied back, framing his sea-gray eyes and high cheekbones. His linen shirt hung untucked over stained breeches, and his beard looked like it hadn’t been trimmed in a few days. Still, he was gorgeous. Lucie felt heat pulse up her breastbone. He held a trap in one hand and a dead rabbit in the other. He must be one of the hunting guides the museum employed for paid excursions.
But where was Québec City? And why was she in the middle of the woods?
“Good morning,” Lucie finally returned, groping for her manners amid her confusion.
“I am relieved to find you awake,” the man said. “I did not want to abandon you here all alone, but I did not know how one would pack you, either. I have enough to carry as it is.”
“What’s going on?” Lucie demanded. “Where is everyone? The festival ... ,” she trailed off.
“I beg your pardon, madame. I do not know what festival you can possibly mean. There’s no one around for miles. Who are you? And how did you get into the middle of the forest in those ridiculous shoes?”
Lucie lifted the hem of her gown and looked down at her feet. Her dancing slippers weren’t the most sensibl
e hiking gear. But they’d been fine on the grassy field next to the museum ... which had disappeared, along with the rest of the city.
Lucie gulped back a wave of nausea and dizziness. She sat back down on the ground. “Do you have any water?” she managed.
The man set down the trap and produced a cheesebox canteen. Taking it, Lucie noticed the beautiful woodwork—much finer than even Olivier’s. Had this hunter made it? If so, he was talented. Lucie unstoppered it and drank. The water was warmish but fresh tasting. She took several long swallows and sighed as the vertigo passed.
“Thank you.” She passed the canteen back to the man.
He bowed slightly. “Nicolas Beaubien, at your service.”
“Lucie Tremblay. Enchantée.” The pleasantry fell out of her mouth automatically. She looked around. There were too many trees. Everything looked wrong—too wild, too empty—of people, that is. Masses of vegetation that shouldn’t have been there were there—along with what sounded like a million songbirds.
“I don’t understand any of this,” she murmured.
“Nor do I, madame,” said the man. “How did you come to be so far from where any damsel should be?”
“Damsel?” Monsieur Beaubien was taking his docent role too far, with his formal manners and archaic French. “I’m not sure that’s a compliment.”
“To be sure, madame. I find myself in a similar position. I am not sure of anything.”
“Can you break out of character for a minute and tell me where we are?”
“We are in New France, of course, just outside Québec settlement.”
Now Lucie was getting mad. “Listen, let’s stop the games, okay? The last thing I remember, I was celebrating Saint-Jean’s Eve on the Plains of Abraham near the museum.”
“Today is Saint-Jean’s Day, madame, but perhaps you indulged too greatly in your celebration last eve. I know these woods better than any Frenchman, and there are no plains of Abraham or any other prophet to be found on this untamed continent.”
Midsummer Night Page 23
