by EM Castellan
“We’ll take two,” she told the man in livery behind the rows of candles.
He shook his head. “I’m sorry, my lady, but these are reserved for special guests. You’ll have to queue over there.”
He pointed at the place we’d just come from with an apologetic bow.
“That’s ridiculous,” Olympe said. “I’m the Comtesse de Soissons and this is Madame. Who’s more special than us, here?”
I would have cringed at her boast, if she hadn’t had a point. Who were these special candles for, if even members of the royal family weren’t to have them?
The manservant stiffened at Olympe’s tone, his expression wrapped in offended dignity. “I’m sorry,” he repeated, “but I’ve been given clear instructions and these are for special—”
I cut him off before the incident escalated into a whole scene. “Maybe they’re for the ambassadors and foreign dignitaries,” I told Olympe, tugging her back to the busiest part of the table. “Never mind.”
She mumbled under her breath about rude people and boring parties but let me lead her away. Within moments she was focused on fetching us another set of candles, and while we queued with the rest of the courtiers, I kept my focus on the manservant and his special candles at the end of the table. Something suspicious was afoot there, and experience told me there was a high chance this had to do with Lorraine.
We had barely moved forward in the line, much to Olympe’s dismay, when Madame de Châtillon crept to the special-candles display and whispered a word to the servant. With a polite bow, he acknowledged her request by lighting a candle and handed it to her. As soon as her fingers clutched the holder, sparks erupted from the flame and twirled in the warm air to take on a strange shape that looked like letters, too far for me to see. Madame de Châtillon beamed at the spell and hurried away with her candle.
A smile tugged at my lips despite myself. Madame de Châtillon had been among the courtiers throwing an envelope into Lorraine’s portal. Having won her bid, she claimed an enchanted candle that revealed the purchased spell at her touch. This was such an elegant, clever trick.
Madame de Châtillon was barely gone before my marquess made his way to the special candles. Throwing nervous glances around him, he leaned forward to give his password to the servant, who repeated the same process for him. However, this time, the candle didn’t spark, and the marquess’s face fell in disappointment. He asked a question to the man behind the table, who shrugged in ignorance and dismissal. The poor marquess made his way out of the clearing, his shoulders sagging and his steps slow.
So all the bidders had been instructed to retrieve a special candle, but only some had been enchanted with a vanished spell for the winners, while the others were left magicless for the losers. A cruel, but efficient way for the organizer of the silent auction to let people know the outcome of the bidding war while remaining anonymous.
Except I knew exactly who the mysterious organizer was.
I grabbed Olympe’s arm. “I need you to come with me.”
Her mouth opened in protest. “But we’re almost there!”
Indeed the only obstacle between the procession candles and us was the purple-clad lady, but I pulled Olympe away nonetheless.
“Forget the candles,” I said in a hushed tone. “We have to perform the spell now.”
That cut short her objections, and she let me lead her to Prince Aniaba waiting at the back of the crowd.
“Have they run out of candles?” he asked with a frown at our empty hands.
Having no time to spare, I dismissed his question and went straight to the point. “Do you remember the vanished spells?”
Faint surprise fleeted across his features, but he recovered and nodded.
“I’m going to reveal them now,” I said, trepidation quickening my pulse at the boldness of my claim. “But I need everyone to pay attention, especially the king. Can you help me?”
To my relief, he didn’t hesitate. “Of course.”
I squeezed Olympe’s arm to guide her behind the table and into the trees. Twigs crunched underfoot and shadows engulfed us, giving us the privacy I wanted for us to perform the spell.
“Can you perform a repetition spell?” I asked her, out of breath after all this exertion and tension.
“I suppose,” she said, her tone halting. “It’s a little difficult to control, but if I can focus it on something…”
“Focus it on the candles,” I replied. “All the candles in the clearing. Can you do that?”
Her golden eyes shone bright in the dim undergrowth, and a smile stretched her lips. “Oh, yes.”
“Ladies and gentlemen!” Prince Aniaba’s clear voice carried above the open-air theater, and silence spread over the crowd as courtiers exchanged curious glances, unsure whether this was part of the entertainment or not. The prince stood on a chair, his tall silhouette rising above the heads of his audience.
“It is my regrettable duty to inform you that His Majesty has uncovered a most heinous crime,” he went on, his tone strong and poised. “A crime against magic!”
Olympe’s eyes widened in the dim light. “He certainly knows how to get everyone to pay attention, doesn’t he?”
Utter silence filled the clearing now, all the guests frozen in their spots with their gaze on the prince.
“Someone,” he added, “has been stealing spells. Making them disappear! Making people forget they ever existed! But tonight, this lost magic is going to be returned to the kingdom! Tonight—”
I didn’t wait for him to run out of ideas for his speech. I turned to Olympe, and took her hands in mine.
“Now.”
She inhaled a deep breath, held my gaze in the dark, and gave a brief nod.
“Répète,” I said.
My magic twirled out of me on a gentle breeze of golden flecks, making its way to the enchanted candles on the table and in the courtiers’ hands. In my mind’s eye, I followed it as it rekindled the enchantment cast by Lorraine and ignited the sparks that revealed the lost spells.
Golden letters shot up in the night sky, forming words under the stars.
Métamorphose.
Transporte.
Obéis.
Disparais.
Écoute.
Dozens of spells like glittering shapes illuminating the darkness with knowledge and filling the air with the sweet smell of magic. The letters curled and danced above the courtiers’ heads, casting their upward faces in a golden glow as they gasped and cried out.
“I remember that one!” someone shouted.
“And that one!” another echoed.
Awe and excitement rippled along the crowd, and people began to clap and call for the king.
“Thank you, Your Majesty! Bravo!”
The noise filled my mind. A strange buzzing took over my ears and my lungs tightened in protest at the lack of air. A coughing fit tore through me, so violent I let go of Olympe’s hands and let the spell dissolve into the air.
“Henriette,” Olympe’s voice urged me from far away. “Don’t panic, I’m here. Take your time and breathe. Just take your time and breathe.”
Shapes took form again out of the darkness, and it struck me how close I’d been to losing consciousness. Olympe’s hands held me up in a firm grip as she drew deep breaths in time with me.
“There,” she said, her tone soothing. “There, you’re all right. Just breathe.”
My panicked heartbeat settled and I blinked at my surroundings. The tree trunks and the underbrush still hid us from view, a few steps away from the brightly lit clearing. By the open-air theater, the crowd had shifted to form a circle around the king, a few musketeers, and a handful of courtiers with extinguished candles in their trembling hands. Madame de Châtillon stood among them, tears streaming down her cheeks.
“Arrest these traitors,” Louis ordered.
The musketeers moved forward to seize the winners of the silent auction.
“We were tricked!” shouted a deep-vo
iced gentleman I knew in passing when a guard landed a heavy hand on his arm. “We were duped!”
“By whom?” the king asked, his tone commanding and cold.
The man stammered, at a loss, and shot appealing looks to his companions in misery. “We never met anyone,” he said. “We received letters. Written instructions—”
“Where are those letters?” Louis said, his expression a rigid mask. “Those instructions?”
The barrel-chested man deflated in defeat. “Destroyed.”
Louis signaled for the prisoners to be led away, and turned to his guests. “An investigation will be led to find out who was behind all this. In the meantime, let us enjoy the rest of the evening. A feast awaits us not far from here, if you would do me the honor of lighting the way with all your candles.”
No, no, no, no. I stepped forward with no clear plan in mind, only a deep-seated conviction that things couldn’t end here and now like this. I had done all this to unmask Lorraine. I would shout his name in the middle of the clearing if I had to.
The crowd was already moving out of the open-air theater, their loud conversations filled with bewildered comments on the recent events. Olympe on my heels, I emerged from the tree line, my focus on Louis and my steps confident despite my shortness of breath.
“Where have you been?” Philippe stepped in front of me, blocking my path and my line of vision with a concerned frown.
“She felt unwell,” Olympe lied. “I took her aside until she recovered.”
“Are you sure you’re all right?” Philippe cupped my face in his hands, his anxious gaze roaming my features and his fingers testing the temperature of my skin.
His solicitude, so genuine and kind, nearly undid me. Here he was, thinking only of me, worrying only about me, when I plotted to take down a man he had cared for and likely still did. Could I be responsible for Lorraine’s arrest, when it would hurt Philippe, the one person I had sworn never to harm?
A shout took the choice away from me.
“It was the Chevalier de Lorraine!”
Olympe walked out of the crowd to curtsy before the king. “Sire, I will swear to it before a court of law. It was the Chevalier de Lorraine who made the spells vanish and attempted to sell them for profit tonight.”
Louis appraised her with a cold, calculating expression. “Can you prove this claim?”
She straightened to hold his gaze, as bold and proud as ever. “I can. I held in my hands the journal he used to keep a record of the stolen spells. I heard him threaten a member of the royal family should they divulge what they knew.”
Louis stared at her, impassive. Astonished murmurs spread along the gathered courtiers at these new revelations. My pulse thumped against my temples, out of control. Now that the truth was out in the open, my heart should have been swelling with relief and delight. Yet Philippe’s ashen face stole any triumph from the situation. Much like everyone else present, he scanned the crowd for Lorraine. The man was nowhere to be found.
“The chevalier is helping to prepare the feast,” the king announced, his voice controlled despite the threatening glimmer in his eyes. “He shall be arrested immediately, and an investigation will be launched. Let us not have this spoil the rest of the evening.”
His word was law, and everyone resumed their walk to the grove where the rest of the action was to happen. However, Philippe marched against the tide until he reached his brother and Olympe.
“Those are vile lies,” he spat. “How can you trust anything she says? She used to be Fouquet’s pet.”
Louis grabbed his brother’s wrist in a viselike grip that turned his knuckles white. “Be quiet,” he commanded through gritted teeth. “Don’t you dare make a scene. Do you think me a fool? Do you think I would base my decision on the word of one woman? I have my own reasons for having Lorraine arrested, and I will not have you question them in public.”
Philippe shook in his grasp, his own hands curled into fists and his lips thin with barely contained rage and pain.
“You couldn’t let me have him, could you?” he said.
Louis let go of him so brutally Philippe staggered back. “I couldn’t.” Louis’s tone cut like steel. “You have enough as it is. Don’t make me take it away too.”
And without a backward glance, he strode out of the clearing, his musketeers in his wake. Philippe’s breath was as labored as mine in the quieting atmosphere.
“I’m sorry,” Olympe told him, her tone too confident to sound truly apologetic. “I had to speak up. Lorraine can’t be trusted, and it was time everyone knew about his lies.”
Philippe stared at his brother’s disappearing silhouette in the distance, seemingly oblivious to her words. She gave me a helpless shrug and clasped my hand in a quick parting gesture, before heading toward the feast with the tail of the crowd.
Around us the air settled and the open-air theater sat empty, its chairs overturned, its canvas floor trampled to shreds, its magic lights half-extinguished, and his dark tapestries like mourning drapes on the walls. Silence replaced the earlier hustle and bustle of the crowd, and the warm evening breeze swallowed forever the words the comedians and the exclamations of the audience. Nothing remained of the play performed on the stage, nor of the dramatic incident that had followed—only the feelings they had awoken in us.
Curiosity, thrill, and then—an overwhelming sadness.
CHAPTER XXII
No one cared that we arrived late at the feast.
I expected everyone to be gossiping about Lorraine’s arrest, yet this turned out to be only one of the many topics discussed by the guests partaking in the buffet laid out in the northern part of the gardens. Despite the scandalous nature of the incident, the scenery staged for the evening meal by and large overshadowed it, and I could almost understand why.
The magical landscape created by Louis and his magiciens outdid everything they’d created before. Amid the trimmed hedges of the Versailles gardens, a porphyry and marble grotto sprung from the ground, like the entrance to a mythical cave. Inside, a corridor made of interwoven green plants led to a grove that offered a riot of greenery to the eyes of the observers. Tall, entwined branches shot up toward the clear night sky, supporting giant flowers and enclosing the octagonal space with a thick wall of vegetation. Magical lanterns dotted the place, turning blooming petals into shimmering blossoms and coating every surface with a surreal glow. The smell of magic hung in the air and tickled my nose, almost nauseating.
One side of the clearing held a very large table overloaded with piles of food on gilded plates and sculpted fountains pouring colorful drinks. The other half of the grove had been turned into a vast open-air ballroom. Lully’s music boomed from an orchestra in the middle while the courtiers’ chatter rose amid the clinking of silverware and tinkling of glasses. A dense crowd filled the entire grass-covered ground, and the whole place reminded me of a huge aviary whose captive birds ignored they were in a cage.
The result felt both awe-inspiring and utterly wrong.
“I can’t do it,” Philippe said.
His fingers crushed mine, and he stood so stiff with tension that he almost shook. I pressed my lips against his white knuckles and looked up into his red-rimmed eyes. Much as I feared, Lorraine’s fall had shaken him to the core, and his face bore the haunted look that betrayed feelings in turmoil. But he couldn’t afford to make a scene. His association with Lorraine put him in a precarious enough position as it were; angering Louis further would render it even more dangerous. I couldn’t let him be mastered by his dark emotions when I had worked so hard to secure my own place at court and when I was carrying his child.
“You can,” I replied. “The party is almost over. We’ll leave after the fireworks display.”
I nudged him toward the buffet where a servant in livery handed us strange multicolored drinks that tasted sweet and sour. Some distance away, the king chatted with Athénaïs among the crowd, and I made a point of ignoring them and searching the throng of gu
ests for other familiar faces to distract my husband.
“He always destroys everything,” Philippe said.
He stared at his brother, his brown eyes like burning coal in his pale face. I had my task cut out for me if I wanted to keep him from pouncing on Louis like a wounded wolf turning on the hunter.
“He had to arrest Lorraine,” I said, my voice soothing. “He’s the king, presented with worrying evidence. You understand he had no choice.”
Philippe drained his glass and handed it to the attendant for a refill. “How convenient. Look at him, all brokenhearted over the fact.”
Louis laughed at a word from Athénaïs just then, in a display of cheerful behavior that really didn’t help my efforts.
“He’s trying to salvage his evening,” I replied. “You know very well how scandals destroy monarchies. He wants people to remember tonight as a success. He’ll deal with Lorraine tomorrow, away from prying eyes.”
Philippe swallowed half his glass in one swig and snorted bitterly. “Exactly. He’ll make everyone forget about the whole thing, and it’ll be as if it never happened, with the rest of us, who aren’t gullible fools, living on with the truth and our memories.”
The bleakness of his statement broke my heart. It called up a vision of Fouquet, alone and forgotten in his prison. I placed a hand on his cheek to draw his gaze to me and hold it.
“Lorraine committed quite terrible deeds,” I said, my tone as gentle as I could make it. “I know it’s hard to face this fact now, but in time—”
He wrenched my fingers from his cheek and held them tight, with an intensity that made me jump. “You don’t see it, do you?”
“See … what?” I stammered, taken aback by his desperate gaze.
“He didn’t do it!”
His voice rose, but the din of the music and conversations covered it, leaving us wrapped in a bubble of privacy by the buffet. I pulled my fingers from his grasp.
“Philippe,” I said, stern now. “Lorraine made spells disappear in order to sell them to the highest bidders. He endangered French magic and the crown for his own gain, and he threatened everyone who tried to expose him. He isn’t innocent.”
