Under a Starlit Sky

by EM Castellan

  “Stop crying,” I said. “I’ll write you a letter of introduction to the Chaillot convent if that’s what you wish. But in return, you’ll write a letter to Louis explaining why you left and how this whole story about Armand and me is pure nonsense.”

  I stared at her, and for a moment she gaped at me, before nodding and wiping her cheeks with my soggy handkerchief. I refilled her cup of tea and called for ink and paper.

  * * *

  I lay in bed, the night air coming through my open window and settling over my dark bedchamber like a comforting blanket. In the gardens below, a fountain gurgled in the quiet and an owl called out through the moonlit trees. Mimi dreamed at my feet, her ears shivering. Sleep eluded me.

  Louise had left before supper, in a state of less agitation than she had arrived in. A messenger had departed at the same time for Versailles, carrying with him my note to Philippe and Louise’s letter to the king. Afterward, my anxiety had prevented me from eating anything of the evening meal, and I had retired to my bedroom to rest.

  But one thought chased after another in my overactive mind, and I turned between my bedsheets like a trapped butterfly.

  A knock resounded at my door, and I sat up, my heart racing. Jolted awake, my dog barked. I shushed her with a word, and the white wooden panel creaked open, allowing a slim shaft of light to grow on the parquet floor, and a head atop a candle to appear.

  “I’m very sorry to disturb you, Madame,” a blond-haired maid said in a low tone. “But you have visitors again.”

  I sprang to my feet. Philippe had come. I grabbed my nightgown and fumbled for my sleepers, Mimi barking again on the bed. The maid rushed to help me.

  “Has he come with a magicien?” I asked her.

  Her eyes widened in the candlelight. “A magicien? No, Your Highness. Why?”

  I paused in my haste. “You said ‘visitors.’”

  “Yes,” she replied. “His Majesty and the lady who was here earlier. Shall I help you dress, Your Highness?”

  My pulse became frantic again, but for a different reason. The king was here? With Louise? In the middle of the night? After two weeks of near isolation, I was receiving more guests in one day than in my whole stay at Saint-Cloud. Sensing the general confusion, Mimi’s barking grew erratic. I calmed her and put her down on the floor.

  The poor maid still stood bemused, her candle in hand and her mouth pursed into a worried line. I took her candleholder and met her gaze.

  “I’ll just wear the same dress I wore this afternoon for my ride.”

  It was a plain blue afternoon dress that had seemed appropriate to visit Fouquet, a million years ago, it seemed. The maid helped me squeeze back into it, and we left my long hair in a simple plait. I threw a light shawl over my shoulders, left my dog and my maid behind, and hurried downstairs.

  My expectation when I walked into the grand salon was to find Louis angry. Whether because of my interview with Fouquet or my supposed affair with Armand, the king had many reasons to be unhappy with me. So I made an effort to hide my distress behind a placating smile, and stepped into the receiving room.

  In a gold-trimmed cream outfit, Louis sat in an armchair, his gilded cane propped up at his side and his feathered hat lying on a pedestal table nearby. Louise was on the sofa next to him, her demeanor from the afternoon altered beyond recognition. Both beamed at me.

  I curtsied to the king, and surprise must have shone through my careful mask as I surveyed them, for Louis said, “I apologize for startling you in the middle of the night, but it couldn’t be helped.”

  “Oh,” I said, my wits temporarily deserting me. “It’s all right.”

  “We’re here to thank you,” the king said.

  These weren’t the words I thought to hear from him. My legs unsteady, I sank more than sat next to Louise, and waited for an explanation to be provided to make sense of what was turning into an extraordinary day.

  “As you’re aware,” Louis went on, unperturbed, “Louise and I had a misunderstanding earlier today. She came here for counsel, and the letter you recommended she write to me allowed me to meet her at Chaillot and to convince her to return to court.”

  There was so much left unsaid here that my gaze flicked between them, and I waited for someone to fill in the gaps.

  “His Majesty rode to Chaillot,” Louise said, her eyes bright and her cheeks pink at the retelling of the events. She giggled. “He came after me, like a knight in a story. And of course I agreed to come back to Versailles.”

  “Of course,” I repeated, mystified.

  The king of France had left court and ridden off on his horse after supper to fetch back his mistress in Paris? Surely these things only happened in novels. But Louis nodded, his golden gaze warm with affection as it beheld Louise.

  “I’m happy you resolved your misunderstanding,” I replied, gathering my faculties at last.

  “Yes, this rumor about the Comte de Guiche was quite unfortunate,” Louis said, his attention turning to me and his tone becoming colder.

  I held his gaze and refused to be cowed. “I can assure you it is completely unfounded. The count is a dear friend, and anyone who says otherwise is lying.”

  He stared at me for a heartbeat in that unnerving way he had to look as if into someone’s soul. Then his mouth relaxed into his trademark smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

  “You know I trust your word, Henriette. If you say the count is no more than a friend to you, then I believe it.” A weight lifted off my chest, but he wasn’t done talking. “I’m delighted to find you looking so well. I’d heard you were most ill.”

  “Exaggerated rumors as well,” I said. “I have rested, and I’m much better now.”

  “It’s a relief to hear it,” he said, his expression inscrutable again. “I hope this means you’ll return to us very soon. Your absence from court has been keenly felt.”

  This was a command, not an invitation, and Louise heard it as well.

  She gave an emphatic nod. “Yes, we’ve missed you terribly.”

  “And upon your return,” the king added, “it would make me very happy if Louise could be your lady-in-waiting again.”

  So that was why he’d come. Louise had refused to go back to court without an official place waiting for her there. He couldn’t make her an official mistress, not when Marie-Thérèse was pregnant and his mother judging his every move, but I could give her a legitimate status without anyone questioning my motives.

  I recognized a trade where there was one: He would support my return to Versailles against Philippe’s wishes and forget about the rumors about Armand, and in exchange, I would help him carry on his relationship with Louise.

  I made my decision in an instant. There was too much at stake for me to stay hidden at Saint-Cloud forever.

  I was going back to Versailles.

  CHAPTER XV

  The magicien pressed his lips together in an indecisive pout. Dressed in a sober gray outfit with a lace collar that must have been the fashion during the reign of Louis’s father, he had long, straight dark hair, a thin mustache, and polished buckled shoes that made him look like he’d just stepped out of a thirty-year-old painting.

  “Well?” Philippe asked. “What’s taking so long?”

  He paced the length of my bedroom at Saint-Cloud, the morning sunshine making his shadow dance along the parquet floor. Following my message last night, he had arrived at dawn in a gilded carriage with a handful of guards and dark shadows under his eyes. I had barely slept myself, too agitated after the king and Louise’s departure to find rest. Hours later, there was still no word from Louis about my visit to Fouquet, and my hope was that he’d been kept too busy by the private events in his life to care about my misdemeanor.

  So I sat against my pillows in the large canopy bed, fully dressed and awaiting the magicien’s instructions. Famed for his healing spells and knowledge of the human body, he came highly recommended by all the mothers at court, including Marie-Thérèse, who had g
iven me his name shortly after my wedding.

  “I thought this was a simple spell?” Philippe added, opening his hands in impatience.

  The magicien exchanged whispers with his Source, a woman maybe ten years older than me who wore a brown dress of homespun fabric and a white bonnet.

  “The way we usually perform this spell,” the magicien said at last, his voice deep and with a faint accent I couldn’t place, “uses the subject as the conduit.”

  “What?” Philippe said, his gaze darting between the man and me for explanation.

  With the calm and patience of a professional who has had to give the same talk a thousand times before, the magicien folded his hands in a pious gesture.

  “A spell requires a conduit, to guide the magic and allow for the spell to work. To ascertain a pregnancy, the obvious conduit is the mother-to-be.”

  Philippe gestured toward me. “Well, there you go.”

  “Because your wife is a Source,” the magicien replied, undeterred by the interruption, “her magic will interfere with the spell when I use her as a conduit.”

  A memory of the fortune-teller in her Parisian flat fleeted through my mind. Unaware of my condition, she had used my blood as a conduit and derailed her own prophecy spell more than a year ago.

  “So what do we do?” Philippe asked.

  “We proceed cautiously,” the man said.

  He and his Source moved to stand at my bedside with grave faces, and my heart rate quickened despite myself. This was such an ordinary spell, performed every day across the kingdom. There was no reason for me to feel nervous, yet this pair rendered me anxious with their whispered deliberations and side glances.

  Philippe was of the same opinion as he approached the bed, his fists on his hips and a tense expression on his face.

  “Maybe it would be better if His Highness waited outside?” the magicien said.

  “No,” we replied both at the same time, in an unusual display of mutual understanding.

  The man relented and turned his attention toward me. “Your Highness, I will need you to control your magic when I perform the spell.”

  His use of the singular pronoun bothered me—he wouldn’t be doing the spell alone, after all—but I let it slide in order to focus on the greater matter at hand.

  “What will you need me to do?” I asked.

  “I’m told closing your eyes will help,” he replied. “And then you may focus on the magic inside you and try to keep it contained with your thoughts so it doesn’t affect the magic in my spell.”

  I shot him an uncertain look, and his Source stepped in. “Maybe think of a box, Your Highness. Or a bubble. And picture your magic inside it. Stay focused on that thought until you’re told to stop.”

  Her gentle tone and reassuring smile eased my throbbing heart. This didn’t sound as complicated as the magicien made it sound.

  “Do you think you can do that?” the man asked, and there was enough condescension in his tone to irritate me.

  The real question was: Would he be able to handle my power if I didn’t keep a hold on it? For all his great reputation, would he manage such a surge of magic, or be swamped by it? An unkind part of me wanted to put his arrogance to the test.

  I inhaled through my nose and ignored the temptation. Instead, I pasted a polite smile on my face, and held out my hand to him. “I’m going to do my best.”

  We all linked hands and closed our eyes. In my mind’s eye, I pictured the golden flecks of my magic, like a cloud of stars at my core. I took in measured breaths and imagined the particles of magic drifting into a transparent container, a thousand miniscule fireflies caught in a glass jar.

  “Now,” I whispered.

  The sparkling specks bumped against the sides of my imaginary vessel, more intent at escaping every second. My pulse picked up. I didn’t know how long I would keep them contained.

  I squeezed the hand of the Source. “Now.”

  She said the spell. From my point of view, nothing happened except the relentless knocking of my magic against the walls of my mind. The dots became brighter, their incandescent light filling the fictional prison that held them, and blinded me. I kept my eyes closed, my entire body stiff against the pressure, and stifled a moan. A couple more seconds and I would have to let go. Why was this spell taking so long? The magicien and his Source both crushed my hands, as if they too struggled to keep control of their own enchantment.

  The glow of my magic turned bright as a shooting star.

  My hands shook.

  I held my breath.

  The imaginary vessel inside me shattered.

  The magicien let out a yelp and snatched his hand back, as if he’d put his fingers into the fire and been burned. I opened my eyes. The Source swayed on her feet, pale as a ghost, and Philippe caught her before she could swoon.

  “What happened?” he cried.

  His panicked gaze was on me, but now that the pressure on my magic was gone, my pulse was calm again. I wiped my sweaty palms on my bed sheets, and took in a breath in an attempt to ease the familiar tightness in my lungs.

  Breathless, the magicien rested his weight against my bedside table, while his Source dropped onto a chair. Philippe abandoned her to rush to me.

  “What happened?” He cupped my face between his palms. “Did it work?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I didn’t feel the spell.”

  Reassured that I wasn’t in any immediate danger of collapsing, he turned to the magicien, whose skin was now as gray as his clothes.

  “Well?”

  With shaking hands, the magicien pulled a tattered handkerchief out of his pocket to wipe his brow.

  “I apologize, Your Highness,” he told Philippe. “Sometimes a familiar spell proves it can still surprise you.”

  It was a poor lie. What had surprised him was the strength of my magic, but he was too proud to admit it. He coughed and regained some of his composure.

  “Her Highness is indeed with child,” he added, his voice more assertive.

  Philippe clasped his hands with a gasp. My heart soared. Out of a similar instinct, we threw ourselves at each other. He wrapped me in a fierce embrace that lifted me off the bed, and we both laughed.

  “We’re having a child!” he said, delight and disbelief mixed in his tone. “We’re having a child.”

  We kissed. The past vanished, and for an instant only us and our child remained, along with all the potential threads of our future ahead of us. There was only Philippe, and there was only joy, and there was only hope.

  The magicien cleared his throat. The moment ended. Reality rushed back at us, and all of a sudden it became necessary to pay the man for his services, to offer his Source some refreshments, and to call for servants and messengers. Philippe let go of me, and my heart ached for more of his touch, more of his presence, more of his words.

  Soon, a voice at the back of my mind promised.

  I hoped it was right, and this kiss was the first step on walking the path back toward each other.

  * * *

  A parasol in one hand and a pair of scissors in the other, I picked flowers to take back to Versailles. The tidy gardens of Saint-Cloud slumbered in the afternoon sunshine, bees buzzing among blooms and Mimi sniffing every crack in the ground.

  After the magicien’s visit this morning, Philippe had stayed to check on the running of the household, while I supervised the packing of my luggage. But the hive of activity inside was such that it rendered my presence unnecessary, and I had found refuge in the haven outside the house.

  All of a sudden, loud voices ripped through the peace of the gardens. I turned toward the house, while Mimi’s ears perked up. Most of the windows stood open with the indoor shutters shut, to keep the sun out but let in the warm air. The breeze carried more noise through the evergreen hedges, as the shouts crescendoed to a full argument inside. The sound came from the ground floor, and I abandoned my scissors and cut flowers to lift my skirts and hurry back to the buildi
ng.

  Several servants hovered in the hallway amid cases and boxes, craning their necks and exchanging whispers as echoes of the commotion spilled out of the grand salon. They scattered like frightened birds at my approach, and I dropped my parasol onto a half-packed trunk before walking into the large receiving room.

  Philippe and Armand stood nose-to-nose, red with anger and out of breath.

  “What is going on?” I marched to their side and stared them both down. “Do you realize people can hear you shouting in the next village?”

  Paper crinkled under my feet. I picked up the printed sheet, but Philippe snatched it from my hand with a growl.

  “Don’t look at it.”

  My temper rose. “Why? What is it?”

  “Armand will explain,” he spat with such ferocity it was hard to believe they had once been best friends and lovers.

  Armand ran his fingers through his hair, and struggled to meet my gaze. Alarm replaced irritation in my chest.

  “It’s probably better if you don’t read it,” he said.

  “But what is it?”

  “An anonymous pamphlet.” Armand sighed. “It’s been circulating at court and in some of the Parisian salons for the past couple of days. And it’s about … us.”

  My gaze went from his embarrassed expression to Philippe’s fuming one, uncomprehending. “Us?”

  “It’s a tale of our supposed love affair,” Armand said, defeat in his tone.

  A silence greeted his reply, and he let his words sink in. My shoulders relaxed.

  “That’s it?” I asked. “That’s all?”

  “That’s all?” Philippe repeated, incensed again. “You think this is nothing?”

  His furious tone brought out the coolness in my nature. I would not stoop to his level and argue with my husband like a screeching wife.

  “It is nothing,” I replied. “Slander like this gets printed and circulated all the time. It doesn’t make it true or memorable.”