Grim Lovelies

by Megan Shepherd

  “We should go,” Beau said.

  Cricket scooped up the rest of the beignets and stuffed them in her many pockets. Anouk almost hated to get back in the car and face the ticking cat clock whose second-hand tail kept turning and turning, always in the direction she didn’t want it to move. As they pulled back onto the autoroute, the nerves crept back into her insides. She wished she hadn’t put so much rich cream in her coffee.

  Somewhere around Plan-de-Baix, she twisted to look in the back seat. Cricket had lain down and was caught in the throes of an anxious sleep.

  Beau cleared his throat. “She’s asleep?”

  “Yes.”

  He kneaded the steering wheel with his hands, glancing in the rearview mirror to make sure she was out.

  “So, remember what she said at the café about us not having much time left to say the things we’ve always wanted to say?” His fingers wrapped hard around the steering wheel. “I have something I want to say. I don’t know if I’ll get another chance.” He dared a glance at her.

  She shoved her hands in her pockets and suddenly felt a little too warm.

  “You know it drives me crazy when you say I’m like a brother, right?”

  She nodded. She worked the sprig of mint between her fingers, shredding it into ribbons. She felt the same light, ticklish feeling she had the night they’d danced together in the kitchen, the soap bubbles popping on the floor, such a wonderful moment, and yet at any second they might have tumbled and fallen on their backsides.

  “I’ve never felt we were siblings. In fact . . . mon Dieu, this is hard.” He paused, chewing on his bottom lip, not taking his eyes off the road. He was driving faster now, though he didn’t seem to realize it. “It’s like in Luc’s fairy tales. The one about a peasant boy who’s hopelessly in love with a princess, and there’s that monster he has to stab between the horns, only the monster’s made of a stronger material than his spear, and I forget the rest, the monster is really his changeling brother, I think . . .” His rambling drew to a close and he glanced at her. “Say something, cabbage.”

  “I’m still confused about the monster.”

  “Merde. The monster doesn’t have anything to do with it. I’m talking about the peasant boy. I’m that boy. And you’re the princess.”

  So many thoughts were tumbling around her mind, giving her a topsy-turvy feeling that was both pleasant and unpleasant at the same time. Her face felt very warm now. She redirected the vents to blow cool air on her.

  “Cabbage? Do you understand?”

  The speedometer creaked up to 140 kilometers an hour.

  “I’m just saying, since we might have only a few days left . . .” He gripped the wheel harder. “Merde!” He veered sharply at a sign indicating they were on the outskirts of Montélimar. The tires squealed as he pulled off the road.

  Cricket woke with a start.

  He slammed on the brakes. They sat on a gravel drive off the autoroute that, just ahead, was blocked by an overgrown hedge. There was no wooden fence, no iron bars. Only a ten-foot-high tangle of shrubs that extended in either direction as far as Anouk could see.

  “Is this it?” Cricket said in a hushed voice.

  “This is it,” Beau answered gravely. “Last chance to turn around. You’re certain about this, Anouk?”

  The clock kept turning in that endless circle, tick by tick by tick by tick. Anouk brushed a hand at her throat until she found her gold chain necklace. Certain? She’d never been less certain of anything in her life. “I’m . . . sure.”

  The three of them stared at the green wall. On the other side of the densely woven branches would be the ancient and imposing Château des Mille Fleurs. The fortress of flowers. The Montélimar prison of the second most powerful witch in France.

  Well, now the first.

  What were you reaching out here for, Luc? Anouk asked silently. What did you hope to find?

  “When we get in there,” Cricket muttered from the back seat, “no one drink the tea. We don’t want to end up like the Goblins.”

  Chapter 12

  Two Days and Five Hours of Enchantment Remain

  Anouk rolled down her window and was immediately overcome by the scent of lavender, with its delicate notes of camphor and pine. Luc was always saying lavender had a calming effect, but she didn’t feel calmer in the slightest.

  Cricket leaned between the front seats, chewing a fresh stick of gum, staring up at the hedge wall. “So how do we get in?”

  Beau regarded the hedge as though at any moment branches with woody fingers would reach out and grab the silver hood ornament. “When I came here before, Mada Vittora had me leave her at the gate and wait in town for her signal to pick her up. I can’t imagine she climbed the hedges in the heels she always wore. There must be some trick to get through.” He patted the steering wheel fondly. “Besides, we can’t leave the car. We might need to get away fast.”

  Cricket opened her door. “Well, we didn’t come all this way to get stopped by shrubbery.”

  She climbed out and Anouk and Beau followed, leaving their doors open, the engine still running, just in case. The hedge extended in either direction, broken only by weeds and a small copse of stunted cork trees near the side of the road. The three approached the hedge as one might a sleeping bear: no sudden movements, expecting the worst, ready to run.

  “Anouk, stay back.” Beau dug out one of the umbrellas from the car and poked at the closest branch with the pointy end. When nothing attacked him, he grabbed a branch and tried to pry it back, but it didn’t budge.

  A dragonfly fluttered past Anouk’s face, gossamer wings tickling her cheek. She waved it away and watched it fly in lazy circles toward a small, rusted metal box half hidden by overgrown weeds.

  “Hey,” she said. “Look.”

  She tromped through the scratchy weeds and pushed them away from the box. It looked like the antique brass call boxes she’d seen on neighboring townhouses, though this one was long neglected. Cricket stomped over, swatting away gnats, and frowned at the box.

  “That’s Pretty technology,” she said. “It isn’t of the Haute.”

  “Well, we might as well try it,” Beau said. “We aren’t getting past those hedges, that’s for sure.” He bent to inspect the ornate brass scrollwork. “What do we do?”

  “I’m no expert, but I’m guessing we push that button that says Push.”

  “Wow, thanks, Cricket. I meant what are we supposed to say if someone answers? They won’t let us in if we tell them we’re fugitives suspected of murder.”

  “So say it’s a delivery.”

  “Witches don’t get deliveries.”

  “How does she get toilet paper, then, genius? She’s imprisoned here by decree of the Royals.” Cricket shoved him, and he shoved her back.

  Exasperated, Anouk couldn’t think about anything but the tick-tick-tick of the black-cat clock. She pushed her way between the two of them, stabbed her thumb against the intercom button, and rattled out with barely a breath, “Hello? My name is Anouk. I don’t have a last name. I guess if I did, it would be de Vittora. That’s who made me. Made us, I mean. There are three of us and we need your help because our mistress is dead and we don’t have much time. We’re desperate.”

  She let go of the button.

  Beau and Cricket had stopped fighting.

  The intercom was silent.

  Anouk stared at it, chewing her lip. “I thought we should be honest,” she said to them by way of explanation, but now that felt foolish.

  “This is wrong,” Beau blurted out. Although the sun was setting, he was sweating badly, slapping at gnats. “I don’t like the feel of this place. If we do ever find our way in there, we might never find our way back out. We should leave while we still can.”

  He tried to herd Anouk back to the car, but she shook her head. “Just wait.”

  She stared at the intercom, willing someone to answer. She’d convinced them to come here, to spend precious hours on the drive. If t
hey were turned away, where else would they go?

  Laughter, a little husky and a lot amused, came from a copse of trees on the far side of the car. The intercom was suddenly forgotten. Blades appeared in Cricket’s hands, drawn swiftly from the mysterious folds of her clothes. Anouk fumbled for her own knife, realizing too late she’d left it in the glove box.

  A girl who looked around eighteen years old came out from the copse carrying hedge clippers in one hand and a cigarette in the other. She was lanky and all angles, like a marionette hinged with too many joints, and strawberry hair pulled into a knot. She wore ripped jeans and a white cashmere sweater two sizes too big for her.

  She dropped the cigarette in a patch of mud on the road and stomped it out beneath a black combat boot.

  “Doesn’t work,” she said, nodding toward the call box. “Can’t use that kind of technology here.”

  “Told you,” Cricket growled at Beau.

  The girl observed them coolly. “You’re the beasties everyone’s looking for. Every order of the Haute is searching for you, did you know that?”

  Anouk bit her lip. “We didn’t kill anyone.”

  “Oh, that.” The girl waved away any concern. “Mada Zola doesn’t care if you killed Vittora. All the better if you did. We got word a few hours ago that she was dead and we’ve been celebrating ever since.” She motioned to a wheelbarrow full of recycling that held more than a few empty champagne bottles.

  “I’m Petra,” the girl said. “Mada Zola’s daughter.”

  She held out a hand to shake, the hedge clippers dangling carelessly from her other hand. Her sweater looked expensive, but threads were plucked lose and snagged, and a few thorns were tangled messily in the seams. The slouchy collar exposed a bony bare shoulder.

  None of them took her extended hand. Cricket eyed the girl’s boots enviously.

  “A witch’s girl?” Anouk said. “There aren’t any witch’s girls. Only boys.”

  Petra let her hand fall and raised a thin, unimpressed eyebrow. “Is that so? Well, for what it’s worth, I didn’t start out a girl.” She put down the hedge clippers, dumped the barrowful of recycling in a bin by the gravel drive, turned back around, and took a closer look at Anouk. “Is that a Faustine jacket?”

  Anouk nodded.

  Petra made an approving sound. She grabbed the clippers and headed toward the hedge wall, combat boots crunching over the gravel. “You all look terrified. Come on inside. I’ll make you some cocoa.”

  Anouk glanced at Cricket and Beau, who both looked as bewildered as she felt.

  “Didn’t start out a girl?” Anouk whispered.

  “Transgender,” Cricket whispered back. “Like in Luc’s fairy tale.”

  She meant “The Swan Mirror.” It had been Anouk’s favorite. She could almost hear his soft voice now: Once upon a time . . . It was about a king who possessed a mirror that showed the heart’s true desire. When the king’s youngest son peered into it, he saw his own face reflected but changed—​a young woman looked back, not a man. His heart’s true desire was to be a princess, but such a wish seemed impossible. His footman, the son of a seamstress, observed his master’s sorrow and offered to help him dress as a lady in the privacy of his chambers. Each night, the footman snuck into the laundry rooms to borrow dresses from palace courtesans, and he taught his master how to sit and stand and dance in the beautiful clothes; each morning, he returned the dresses. And though the prince treasured these secret evenings, he was not content with merely dressing the part. He sought out an enchantress, who told him that only true love’s kiss could grant his desire. But the prince had no true love and returned to the castle in despair. His footman overheard his sobs and boldly kissed his tears away. The prince realized that he’d had his true love before him every night, the man who’d danced with him in his borrowed dresses and filled his heart with delight. He kissed his true love and transformed into the young woman he’d seen in the mirror. You were my prince, the footman said. Now you are my princess. In any time, in any shape, you’ll always be my heart’s true desire—​I need no mirror to show me this.

  Anouk pressed a hand to her heart, wishing she could hear Luc’s soothing voice telling her once more that, just like in the stories, everything would be all right in the end.

  Petra stopped before the hedge and squinted at it, then poked at some of the branches. “These are sentinel shrubs. They’re enchanted to keep everyone out except who we want in.” She looked back at them. “Get in the car and make sure your hands and heads stay inside if you want to keep them.” When no one moved, she added, “I thought you said you were desperate.”

  “Right.” Anouk exchanged a long look with the others. They climbed into the car and shut the doors, peering anxiously through the windshield. Petra hunted through the branches until she found a certain one about a foot from the ground that curled in the shape of a corkscrew. She pulled on it, and when nothing happened, she kicked at it a few times with her boot until the hedges shuddered, and she grinned at them in triumph.

  Incredibly, the branches started to move. They untangled themselves from one another, drawing back away from the road and then weaving themselves together to form an archway to allow the car passage.

  Petra came over to Beau’s side and leaned in the open window.

  “Follow the drive all the way to the porte-cochère. Don’t get out of the car until then. And above all, be careful of your shoes. We have swans. The little monsters crap everywhere.” She picked a thorn out of her sweater. “I’ll ride up front.”

  “Where up front?” Beau muttered, but she was already climbing on top of the Rolls-Royce hood as if it were the most normal thing in the world, cradling the hedge clippers in one arm, resting a boot on the silver hood ornament. She tapped twice to signal them to go.

  Beau didn’t move.

  Anouk whispered, “What are you waiting for?”

  “How about a sign that we aren’t about to drive straight to our deaths?” But he put the car in gear and they rolled forward slowly beneath the eerie archway of branches. They all leaned forward to get a good look at the rippling fields of lavender, bursting purple-blue in perfectly spaced rows. Nestled in the nearest valley was the château itself: sun-warmed stone and a terra-cotta roof with gables and a bell tower and a chimney at each end, though there was no smoke now, nor any sign of life in any of the windows. If it weren’t for the breeze stirring it all to life, the entire valley would look like a painting.

  “I’m no gardener,” Beau said, “but didn’t Luc grow lavender in July?”

  Cricket glanced at the calendar on her phone. “It’s October.”

  None of them said what Anouk assumed they were all thinking: on the property of a witch, anything was possible.

  As they inched along the gravel driveway, Anouk eyed the dark soil at the base of each row, half fearing a glimpse of the odd Goblin finger or decomposing foot. But everything was perfectly tended, lovingly cared for. Something as beautiful as these gardens couldn’t possibly grow in chopped-up Goblins. Could they?

  Cricket sneezed.

  As they neared the building, the lavender fields gave way to more traditional gardens dotted with fountains. Anouk cracked open her window and breathed in the smell of roses and lilac, cypress trees and the moldy dark odor of standing water. And the topiaries! Dozens of bushes had been clipped into the shapes of people, larger than life, with oversize leafy hands and heads. Their faces were nothing but green masks, blank, sightless, and yet Anouk couldn’t shake the feeling of eyes watching her.

  Beau stopped beneath the porte-cochère. His hand hovered over the gearshift, ready to throw the car into reverse at the slightest sign of trouble. “It’s been a real pleasure knowing you both. At least before my death I got to eat those nice crepes and drive on the Autoroute Provençale. When we find ourselves churned up into potting soil, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  Anouk smacked him lightly.

  Cricket smacked him harder.


  He unlocked the doors and they stepped out into the dying light. The sky was a soft wash of purple, mirroring the fields. Anouk pulled her jacket tighter to block the biting wind. As an afterthought, she grabbed the cat clock and stuffed it into her pocket.

  Beau took a step toward the château and something squished under his boot. He groaned.

  “I told you to be careful,” Petra said, sliding off the hood. “Swans, man. They crap everywhere.” She started toward the house.

  Beau leaned toward Anouk. “Do not drink any cocoa that girl gives you.”

  He looked back at the car longingly before following Petra through the gardens. Anouk stayed back a moment. There wasn’t a single yellowed leaf, not one bruised blossom, and as beautiful as it all was, the place felt wrong. Frozen in midsummer perfection despite the October chill.

  Anouk hurried to catch up with the others.

  “Where are the gardeners?” she asked, falling in step with them.

  “No gardeners,” Petra said over her shoulder. “It’s only the Mada and me.”

  And it was true, not a single person was out tending the fields. There was no one around but Petra, and she barely seemed to know which end of the hedge clippers to hold.

  Cricket patted her pockets as if reassuring herself she still had her knives.

  Petra started up a set of stone stairs overgrown with moss but stopped as the heavy wooden door was flung open.

  A woman stood in the shadows of the doorway.

  Though Anouk couldn’t see her face, it had to be Mada Zola. She felt a strange sort of guilt, as though by being here, she was being disloyal to Mada Vittora. She felt a pang of . . . what? Sadness? Grief? Anger?

  Mada Zola took a step forward, and the dying sunlight washed over her face. She was beautiful, of course. Witches always were. But there was something about her wine-red lips and deep brown eyes that hinted at some ancient lineage, as though before she was French, she had been many other things with many other names. Her black hair fell in ripples all the way to the hem of her pale blue blouse, untucked over jeans that were rolled up to the ankles.