As Lady Touchet settled the cap upon Catherine’s head, she studied her reflection in the mirror. Her eyesight had not faded enough to spare her the sight of the inroads time had made upon her countenance, the heavy jowls, the deep lines that creased her eyes and bracketed her mouth. A permanent cloud seemed to have settled over her once dark and penetrating Medici eyes.
It was so strange, she thought. Sometimes she felt as ancient as though she had lived a century, other days, as though these aged features could not possibly be hers, that somewhere trapped within this decaying hulk of a body was a vital young woman, struggling to reassert her power.
When Mademoiselle de Bec attempted to press upon her a silver crested cane, Catherine waved it aside. She refused to surrender to such a display of weakness, although only she knew how much effort it cost her to keep her pain-wracked shoulders thrust back, her carriage upright.
By heaven and hell, she was still the one they called the Dark Queen. If she could not appear formidable enough to intimidate a sniveling daughter of the earth like Hermoine Pechard, then Catherine might as well be in her grave.
She elected to receive Madame Pechard in the main salon. None of the chambers in the Hôtel de la Reine could rival the magnificence of the royal palaces of the Louvre, Blois, or Chenonceau. But Catherine had come more and more to prefer the Hôtel de la Reine, her own retreat where she could be more the private woman and less the queen.
The walls of the salon were lined with her most treasured books and portraits of her de Medici ancestors, the heritage that it was unwise to flaunt before French courtiers who had always been scornful and suspicious of her Italian blood.
The Hôtel was built near the site of the Fille Repenties, a convent designed for destitute girls to save them from life on the streets. The irony of that was not lost upon Catherine. During that long ago revolt in Florence, she had been obliged to seek refuge in a convent. She felt as though her life threatened to come full circle.
Catherine gave the command for Hermoine Pechard’s admittance. But when the woman was escorted into the chamber, Catherine scowled, fearing that some mistake had been made. Madame Pechard had ever been a scrawny, unprepossessing creature, but she was at least a decade younger than Catherine.
This person with wisps of gray hair straggling about her gaunt face looked far too old to be Hermoine Pechard. But when the woman spoke, Catherine recognized her grating querulous voice.
“Y-your Grace.” Hermoine sank down before her, paying obeisance to Catherine’s outstretched hand. Catherine winced at her touch. Hermoine’s hands were red, dry, and coarse, some of her nails cracked, the cuticles scabbed.
Catherine drew back in revulsion, but she summoned up a pleasant tone. “Rise, my dear Madame Pechard. How good it is to see you again after so—”
The woman interrupted her in a desperate rush. “Please, Your Grace. Why ever you have sent for me, it will do you no good. I have no information that you will find of the slightest use. So no matter how you threaten or torture me—”
“Hermoine! My dear. You have entirely let your imagination run away with you. I seek no information and I certainly mean you no harm.”
“No?” the woman quavered. “Then what does Your Grace want?”
“Cannot a woman, even a queen, be concerned and curious as to the fate of an old friend?”
“Friend?” Hermoine sniffed. “You once threatened to have me sewn into a sack and tossed into the Seine.”
Catherine’s brows rose. Was it possible there was a spark of spirit in this miserable worm? Catherine had always thought that drowning her would have been a kindness and she saw little in Hermoine’s wretched appearance to change her mind. Even as Hermoine voiced her accusation, she shook so hard her brittle bones looked likely to snap apart.
Catherine forced a soothing smile to her lips. “You cannot suppose I sought you out to rake over the past, even though you did once spy upon me for the Lady of Faire Isle.”
When Hermoine opened her mouth to protest, Catherine cut her off. “All an unfortunate misunderstanding, I am sure. And if you did, I have long since forgiven you, so you need not tremble so. Come, sit down and let me offer you a little refreshment.”
Hermoine looked like a prisoner being led to the gallows, but her eyes gleamed when she saw the array of sweet meats, cheeses, and wine Catherine had ordered displayed at the small table.
Like many of the daughters of the earth, there had been a time when Hermoine Pechard would have been cautious about accepting anything edible from the Dark Queen. But judging from the ragged, much mended condition of Madame Pechard’s garb, Catherine suspected that it had been some while since Hermoine had enjoyed such delicacies.
After only a brief hesitation, Hermoine joined Catherine at the table and fell upon the treats. She was missing about half of her teeth and gnawed away like a greedy rat.
Concealing her distaste, Catherine filled and refilled the woman’s wine cup. It did not take much to loosen Hermoine’s tongue. She had ever been too ready to launch into a list of all her ills and complaints. Catherine’s only challenge was to listen until she could steer the conversation in the direction she wished it to go.
“… and my life has been so hard, Your Grace can scarce imagine,” Hermoine said, swallowing a comfit and washing it down with a gulp of wine. “I was actually reduced to begging for a time. Only by the greatest good fortune did I manage to secure a position in the house of a wealthy merchant.”
She set down her wine cup and hiccupped. “Good fortune to become a scullery maid! I, who was once the mistress of my own household, the respected wife of a doctor at the university—”
“Yes, yes,” Catherine comforted, curbing her impatience, having no desire to hear Hermoine launch into that old lament, how being arrested by Catherine and exposed as a daughter of the earth had cost her everything. The resulting scandal had caused Hermoine’s husband to repudiate her, leaving her destitute.
“A scullery maid,” Hermoine wailed again. “I used to have such white, beautiful hands and now look at them.”
Catherine winced. She was trying not to. “It is a great pity, but I can offer you a special potion that I often concocted for my ladies at court.”
Hermoine shrank back shuddering. “No! No more potions for me. My position is a wretched one, but it is all that stands between me and starvation. If my mistress were to ever find out that I used to be a—a—”
“A witch?” Catherine suggested softly.
“No! Never that.” Hermoine dropped her voice to a whisper that was still ridiculously loud in the silent chamber. “I was a daughter of the earth. But no more. I—I have done with all of that.”
“But is that ever possible for any of us, my dear Hermoine? Once a daughter of the earth always a daughter.”
“No, not me.” Hermoine swilled more wine and shook her head vigorously. “I have done, I tell you. Just the same as I told that stupid Lavalle woman when she had the impertinence to look me up and see if I wanted to attend the council meeting—”
Hermoine gasped, clapping her hand to her mouth. A trifle too late, you fool, Catherine thought as she absorbed the first interesting thing that had fallen from Hermoine’s lips since the woman had set foot in the salon.
So Louise Lavalle was back in Paris. Pity that Catherine had not known that when she had been trying to track down any daughter of the earth who might be able to give her some recent information regarding Faire Isle.
Louise was clever and more likely to be deeper in Ariane’s confidence. Just as Hermoine had once spied upon Catherine, Catherine in turn had bullied the woman into spying on Ariane. A traitoress to everyone, trusted by no one, that was Hermoine.
But Louise would have been slyer, far more difficult to extract information from even if Catherine had been able to corner the wily former courtesan. Hermoine might not be as valuable a resource, but she was certainly a more pliant one.
Catherine refilled Hermoine’s wine cup yet again,
remarking in a casual tone, “So Ariane has begun to hold her council meetings atop the cliffs of Argot again.”
“So Louise says.” Hermoine stared morosely into her wine cup.
“And you do not mean to journey with Mademoiselle Lavalle to attend the council?”
“As if I would go anywhere with that trollop. I would lose my situation in a heartbeat if I disappeared for a fortnight. I could not go even if I wanted to—which I don’t.”
Catherine studied Hermoine. Her eyesight might not be what it had once been, but her hearing was still acute. Was that a note of wistfulness she detected in Hermoine’s voice? She suspected that for all of her disavowals of being a daughter of the earth, Hermoine still longed for her connection to that world.
Hermoine’s next words confirmed Catherine’s impression. The woman’s shoulders sagged, her voice mournful as she added, “It is not as if I would be welcome on Faire Isle, not at such a special council meeting, a once in a lifetime event.”
She shot Catherine a resentful glance. “Not after the way I was forced to carry tales back to you.”
“I don’t recall forcing you to do anything, my dear.”
“You promised me that if I spied on Ariane, you would help me get my home back, force my husband to return to me.”
“Even I cannot work miracles, Hermoine. That is all ancient history.” Catherine dismissed the wreckage of Hermoine’s pathetic life with a wave of her hand. “So tell me. What is so special about this particular council meeting?”
“S-special? Did I say that?” Hermoine shoved the wine cup away from her, looking as wary and suspicious as if she had been imbibing a truth potion.
“Yes, Hermoine, you did.” Catherine had to rein in her mounting irritation. There had once been a time when she could have pinned this puling woman with her gaze and stripped her thoughts as clean as a corbie ripping the flesh from a dead hare. Now all she had was her wits to rely upon.
“You called it a once in a lifetime event. What did you mean—” Catherine broke off as realization struck her.
The choosing. The Lady of Faire Isle was preparing to name her successor. For a moment, Catherine was flooded with the bitterest envy of Ariane. How simple, how satisfying to be able to choose one’s heir rather than relying upon the archaic traditions and Salic laws that bound up the French throne. If Catherine could have designated the next king or better still queen, it certainly might have helped to curb the ambitions of men like François de Guise. Her dynasty, her power would not rest upon the barrenness of her daughter-in-law’s womb.
She vented a heavy sigh. “So who is Ariane going to choose?”
Hermoine started, then attempted to recover by stammering, “I—I don’t know what you mean.”
“Yes, you do.” Catherine laid her hand upon Hermoine’s arm to stop the woman from nervously cramming another comfit into her mouth. “The Lady of Faire Isle is preparing to name her successor. Who will it be?”
“I—I don’t know. Neither did Louise. As usual, the woman was only full of malicious gossip, the most pernicious rumors. The Lady of Faire Isle is so wise. She would never make such a dangerous choice—” Hermoine clamped her mouth shut, looking miserable.
Catherine could no longer read eyes, but it was obvious Hermoine did not know that. The woman squirmed, desperately seeking to avoid Catherine’s gaze.
A dangerous choice? Surely Hermoine did not mean …
Heart thudding, Catherine seized Hermoine’s chin. Forcing the woman to look at her, Catherine summoned up her fiercest stare.
“The Lady means to choose Megaera,” she hazarded. “Ariane has been hiding the Silver Rose on her island all these months and now she means to make the girl the next Lady of Faire Isle.”
“N-no!”
But Catherine could hear the lie in Hermoine’s fearful denial. Releasing the woman, the queen rocked back in her chair. She was stunned. Oh, not that Megaera was actually on Faire Isle. Catherine had surmised that months ago, but it was good to have her suspicions confirmed. But that Ariane would consider appointing the girl her successor—that Catherine would have never imagined.
Hermoine dissolved into incoherent babbling. The Lady of Faire Isle couldn’t, she wouldn’t, choose that girl. There were other possibilities Louise had said; a niece or one of the other young women of the island.
Catherine scarce heard a word. She had little doubt who Ariane would select. Catherine certainly knew who she would have chosen. So now Ariane would have the benefit of all that girl’s extraordinary knowledge, all that power, while Catherine watched her kingdom squandered at the hands of her inept son and she dwindled forgotten into her grave.
Fury and resentment swelled inside of Catherine, nearly choking her. If Xavier had but kept his promise and carried out her command, this all could have been prevented. The Silver Rose might even now be within Catherine’s grasp.
But there was little to be gained by continuing to fume over Xavier’s treachery. The villain had failed her. If she could not rely upon Xavier, Catherine would simply have to find another way. Before it was too late.
Chapter Fifteen
THE SUN SET WITH AGONIZING SLOWNESS ON THE DAY OF the choosing. Or at least so it seemed to Meg, her nerves stretched as taut as a bowstring drawn back to let loose an arrow.
As the golden orb crept lower on the horizon, the cliffs of Argot were already lost in twilight, the monoliths like a ring of tall shadowy giants waiting to pass judgment upon her.
Dressed in her best gown, her unruly mass of brown hair confined to a tight braid, Meg joined the torchlight procession making its way up the rugged path.
All around her, the mood was one of excitement, women gathered in small groups, laughing and chattering. Carole was surrounded by many of the older inhabitants of the island, while Seraphine held court in the midst of an admiring bevy of young girls.
Only Meg walked in silence, left to the mercy of her thoughts. She could have had the company of her loyal old servant, Agatha Butterydoor. But Aggie lagged behind, the steep trek difficult for her. She was aided by her cane and the support of Lady Danvers.
Meg was glad that Jane had yielded to her pleas and agreed to attend the council. But Meg’s relief was more for Jane’s sake than her own; anything to keep Jane away from Xavier. With the small village virtually empty, only the children and Miribelle Aristide remaining behind to look after them, Xavier would have had Jane all to himself.
Meg noticed that her friend’s color heightened whenever the man approached, to say nothing of the soft glow in Jane’s eyes. Why was it, Meg wondered, that she was the only one to notice the predatory light in his?
The pernicious man had even managed to cozen Ariane. It was as though he had everyone under some sort of spell, Meg the only one immune to his charm. But Meg had no room left in her head to fret over Xavier tonight, the captain crowded out by more immediate anxieties.
The choosing.
Huffing a little, Meg gazed upward toward the cliff and realized she must be halfway there and it struck her as symbolic of the way her life might go, upward to the heights or down to what depths she feared to know. Sometimes she thought that her entire fate could rest on the Lady of Faire Isle’s decision tonight. More often, she despaired, fearing that Ariane’s choice would be of no consequence. That her destiny had been charted by her mother from the moment she was conceived. Megaera, the Silver Rose.
Her visions were getting worse. Her sleep disrupted by fragmented dreams, her waking hours haunted by splintered images in her crystal.
The troop of soldiers stood tall and menacing, waiting for the signal to march upon Faire Isle. Meg stumbled forward, her heart beating wildly as she was prodded along by the shadowy figure behind her.
“There is no need for you to invade Faire Isle. This is the girl the Dark Queen is looking for. This is Megaera.”
Meg rubbed her temple, fighting to deny the image. The scene in the crystal had been so hazy. She had not been able to see th
e face of the one behind her, the one betraying her to the queen’s soldiers. Even the voice had not been clear. She had thought it rather high-pitched, almost womanish, rather like Alexander Naismith. But that made no sense unless Sander had somehow survived the fire. Unless he was still alive …
Meg shuddered at the thought. She nearly jumped out of her shoes when she felt someone’s arm slip about her waist. She stumbled and would have fallen, but for Seraphine’s steadying hand.
“Whoa. Easy there. This is not the best place for woolgathering. It will be a very poor beginning if the next Lady of Faire Isle had to start her new reign by curing herself of a broken ankle.”
Meg responded to her friend’s raillery with a pained smile. “Oh, please don’t tease me, ’Phine. Not tonight. I am already too nervous.”
Seraphine’s mischievous grin softened to a gentler expression. “Poor babe. You are taking all of this much too seriously.”
“It should be taken seriously,” an indignant voice broke in. Meg glanced up to see that Carole had dropped back from her group of friends to join them.
“The choosing of the next Lady of Faire Isle is a momentous occasion.”
Seraphine leaned closer to Meg, speaking in a dramatic stage whisper. “Beware, my dear. It is our rival. No doubt she plans to shove both of us off the edge of the cliff to rid herself of the competition.”
Even in the gathering dusk, Meg could see the way Carole flushed and scowled. Ignoring Seraphine, she addressed her remarks pointedly to Meg.
“There is no competition as far as I am concerned. I am sure I have no real wish to be chosen. It ought to be you.”
“I feel the same way,” Meg murmured. “Far better that the next lady should be one of you.”
“Oh, please!” Seraphine rolled her eyes. “Are we not all such good little girls, too modest and demure to grab for the only chop on the plate. If we were men, we would be ready to fight each other to the death for the honor.”
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