Under a Starlit Sky

by EM Castellan

  “There you are,” I teased. “I thought I’d lost you.”

  He deposited a distracted kiss on my temple. “Nonsense. You know me, always around.” His attention landed on Armand. “I see you found the war hero.”

  His tone was more indifferent than bitter, and sadness tugged at me on his behalf. Because of the Fronde, Louis would never let his brother near the army. It was unlikely he would ever know the type of recognition Armand now enjoyed. A selfish part of me felt relief at the idea he would never leave me for a battlefield, but another saw in Armand everything he wished he could be: a man free to live as he pleased, to have adventures abroad, to shine as brightly as he could, and to love whom he wanted. I could see now how in many ways, Armand was the unfettered version of Philippe. And I knew which one I loved the most.

  “We were looking for you.” I kissed his hand, a familiar gesture I had never allowed myself in public until then.

  But I was past hiding who I was. Within moments I would reveal I was a Source to the entire French court. By now most of these nobles knew I was with child, and standing here with my husband and Armand rendered any rumor about the three of us meaningless. Fouquet, Lorraine, Athénaïs, and even Louis had tried to manipulate and hurt me, and they’d failed. I was still here—still alive, still in control. An open challenge to anyone who dared come after me and the people I loved.

  Hands clapped in the middle of the hall, and a hush spread over the assembled courtiers.

  “Welcome!” Louis’s voice rose under the gilded arcades. “Welcome to the inauguration of the Hall of Mirrors!”

  I pulled out of Philippe’s grasp, and for an instant he held on to me, hesitation on his handsome face. I flashed him a reassuring smile.

  “Trust me,” I said.

  He let me go. I moved amid the guests while the king spoke, his confident speech holding the crowd in thrall. His tone hadn’t been as self-possessed this morning, when I had told him the mirror spell he wished to perform was impossible.

  Although he was aware of the intrusion in the Hall of Mirrors, he didn’t know a spell had been performed there to prevent any nefarious use of the looking glasses. I had no wish for him to find out in front of hundreds of courtiers, and even less intention to let him know I was behind the counterspell.

  Anger had darkened his features at my refusal, yet he had had no choice but to give in. In time, he might recruit another Source willing to try the mirror spell, and he might find out about the locking enchantment then. But given his arrogance, it was unlikely he would ever suspect me of the deed—he could never see me as more than a pawn in his own game.

  So in the meantime, I suggested another means of distraction for his guests on this inauguration day: a simple illusion spell that was sure to awe yet wouldn’t grant the king more power than he already had.

  I reached Louis’s side as he finished his speech, and he welcomed me with an extended hand and an inscrutable smile.

  “My dear Madame,” he announced, “is going to help me with today’s celebrations. Some space, if you please?”

  As one, the courtiers shuffled back, their expression both eager and astonished. The king grabbed my fingers and held up his free hand outward.

  “Révèle,” I said.

  Louis pulled at my magic, which flew out of me in a rush of golden particles and scattered on the surface of the windows along the hall. The prophecy spell took shape in the glass, visions of the future that reflected in the mirrors opposite them.

  Gasps and murmurs greeted the predictions, then silence quickly fell as silhouettes moved along the walls, sights of what was to come in the gilded gallery.

  Courtiers in glittering clothes dancing to swelling music by candlelight.

  Foreign dignitaries in resplendent outfits presenting gifts to Louis in the sunshine.

  A small boy running at night along the parquet floor with a toy clasped against his chest.

  Another crowd of twirling nobles in striking white wigs, with unfamiliar sparkling drinks in odd-shaped glasses in their hands.

  The images began to move faster, figures blurring in an endless ballet of changing visions. Voices echoed and overlapped, turning unintelligible.

  Servants moving furniture.

  The hall empty and drenched in darkness.

  New people buzzing about, dressed in strange black fashion.

  Tables set for meetings.

  Leaves and dust accumulating in the once-again bare gallery.

  Sunset and sunrise.

  Night and day.

  Then shouts and noise once more.

  People on ladders, people carrying buckets, people washing mirrors.

  More crowds, their apparels too peculiar to describe, standing around the hall with their mouths gaping—a strange reflection of the courtiers watching the prophecy now.

  An endless parade of strangers, speaking indecipherable words, their eyes bright with wonder and magic.

  And on all their lips, in many languages, a word we could hear from across time.

  Versailles.

  Versailles.

  Versailles.

  EPILOGUE

  “Once upon a time, a beautiful foreign princess came to live at the French court, where she met a handsome prince—”

  “That’s not how it starts!” Marie-Louise interrupted, her high-pitched voice loud in protestation.

  I raised my eyebrows in mock surprise, and made a show of checking the leather-bound book in my hands. “Isn’t it?”

  Her delicate mouth pinched in a disapproving pout, my daughter pointed at the open page before us. “No, we’re reading Cinderella.”

  “Are we?” I said, my tone still full of mischief.

  She held my gaze, her golden eyes bright in the candlelight. “Yes, please.”

  Dropping my playful tone, I began again, while Marie-Louise nestled back against me on the nursery’s sofa.

  “Once upon a time…”

  It had been a very hot day at Versailles, and all the windows were thrown open to let in the evening summer breeze. It played in the sheer curtains and teased my daughter’s dark curls, carrying in distant noises of partying courtiers, echoing laughter, and tinkling glass. The quiet apartments reserved for the royal children and their staff offered a stark contrast to the busy salons I had left earlier. As I read, I kept my voice low to avoid disturbing Louis’s children, already asleep in the bedroom next door.

  Her thumb in her mouth, Marie-Louise listened to the story, her eyelids growing heavy and her breathing even. Life at court kept me away from her most of the day, but I did do my best to be the one to put her to bed every night. Tonight, heat clung to my body and fever burned my skin, yet I refused to let it affect our little ritual. Six years after my wedding to Philippe, she was our only living child, and I treasured every moment with her.

  “Why are you whispering?” she mumbled, drawing me from my distracted thoughts.

  “I wasn’t certain you were still listening, mon amour,” I said.

  “I am,” she replied. “But you have to read again the part when her godmother makes her a dress with magic, because I didn’t hear it well.”

  I took a sip from a glass of water left by a thoughtful maid and obediently resumed my reading. Outside the open windows, the night grew darker, but the château’s lights turned the sprawling building into a beacon, the stars in the clear skies muted. In the story, Cinderella lost her slipper on the castle’s steps, and as ever when we reached this part of the tale, Marie-Louise fidgeted. She didn’t like the hopelessness of that moment, and I kept an eye on her as I read the next paragraph, watching out for tears and already poised to skip ahead.

  The nursery door creaked open. I startled, but Marie-Louise only straightened, her eyes wide and her expression intent. Philippe tiptoed in with exaggerated care.

  “My ladies.” He sank in a deep bow. “I apologize for disturbing you. I’m looking for two beautiful princesses, one of whom is very, very tiny.”

 
; Marie-Louise’s face lit up with glee. “Father!” she squealed.

  She launched herself off the sofa to throw her arms around him. Philippe lifted her with a laugh, and planted loud kisses on her cheeks. I relaxed my stance in my seat, as Marie-Louise whispered secrets in her father’s ear and played with the ribbons of his lavish coat.

  When she was born, and the magical glow in her eyes hadn’t faded, marking her as a magicienne, Philippe had let out a sigh.

  “Oh well,” he’d said with a resigned smile.

  Those two words, more than the jovial mask he’d promptly put on, had betrayed his thoughts: He’d hoped his child would be like a piece of him in the world, but his daughter was showing more similarities with his brother and his late mother. My reassurances had failed to comfort him at the time, but a few years later, Marie-Louise was already demonstrating she was her father’s daughter more than anything else. Her features were mine, yes, but her personality, much like her dark hair, were very much inherited from Philippe.

  “What story was Maman reading?” he asked, settling down next to me with Marie-Louise in his lap. The smell of his perfume mixed with the night air, strong and soothing.

  “Cinderella,” she said. “She’s lost her shoe and the prince is trying to find her.”

  Philippe gave me a conspiratorial look. “My favorite part! The handsome prince is coming to save the day. Sounds oddly familiar.”

  I rolled my eyes above our daughter’s head. “Does it? Because I only recall the princess saving the d—”

  He bent down and his lips landed on mine, his kiss silencing me. The book slipped from my hands, caught by Marie-Louise before it could land on the carpet. I drew away from Philippe with a half-hearted glare. His eyes sparkled with mischief. I turned back to our daughter.

  “Shall I read the ending?”

  Her expression turned eager. “Can we show Father the new trick first?”

  Philippe raised an inquisitive eyebrow, which Marie-Louise took as an assent. She jumped off his lap and shot off toward the nearest vase of flowers. When her magical skills became apparent at birth, I resolved one thing: My daughter wouldn’t grow up like I had, her gift kept secret and untrained. For as long as I lived, I would help her hone her skills as a magicienne and become a young woman unafraid of her powers and her fate.

  And so even if tiredness weighed down my limbs and my breaths were shallow, I would gladly answer her call and show Philippe the latest enchantment she’d learned.

  Her little feet tapping on the parquet floor, she rushed back to my side, a handful of fallen petals cradled in her cupped hands.

  “Look,” she told her father. “It’s very easy.”

  “Easy for you, sweetheart,” Philippe corrected her, his tone so gentle she didn’t notice his comment.

  Intent on her goal, she stood before me with her hands held out, her face a picture of focus. “Now, Maman.”

  I clasped my hands around hers, took in a breath, and whispered the spell. “Apparais.”

  In my mind’s eye, the glittery magic left my core and coalesced into my palms, before transferring to my daughter’s hands to soak the petals. Thousands of brilliant particles swirling in her cupped fingers, the enchantment shaped the remains of the flowers into a new, shiny thing devised by her. Although Marie-Louise was right—it was only an illusion spell—it wasn’t the simplest one, and it delighted me that she had already mastered it.

  The spell ended, and the magic dispersed into thin air as I withdrew my hands to allow my daughter to open hers. A colorful butterfly flapped its wings in her palms, before taking flight in a graceful arc above our heads. Marie-Louise let out a delightful cry.

  “Look, look!”

  Her gaze, bright with magic and wonder, followed the tiny creature as it fluttered about the room, its vibrant body catching the candlelight.

  “It’s a butterfly, Father, can you see?”

  “I can see, sweetheart,” Philippe said.

  Although he smiled at her, there was wistfulness in his tone. Magic was something only she and I could share, and despite her efforts to include him in our enchanted experiments, he remained forever excluded from such experience, amazed by her talent yet unable to fully understand it.

  I gripped his fingers, forcing his mind back to us. “It’s just an illusion,” I reminded him in a low tone, while our daughter chased after the butterfly she’d let loose into the world. “She’s just happy to show you what she’s been doing. In a couple of years it’ll be her riding skills, and later her paintings, or her dance moves.”

  Amusement returned to Philippe’s features. “Oh dear. Don’t tell me we’re raising a proper lady.”

  I patted his hand. “Don’t worry. We’re not raising a lady; we’re raising a queen. So I’m also going to have her learn how to swim and shoot the musket. And I’m counting on you to teach her how to cheat at cards and wield a sword.”

  “Whoever told you I could wield a sword?” Philippe feigned surprise. “I hate weapons, everyone knows that.”

  This time, it was my turn to place a light kiss on his cheek. “Ah, but I know you better than everyone.”

  “Can we read the end of the story now?” Marie-Louise popped up before us with her book held out, like an actor appearing on stage with her script in hand.

  Philippe grabbed her waist and lifted her onto the sofa, where she snuggled between us and placed the book back in my lap. But the spell had drawn upon my last strengths, and exhaustion now tugged at me. Reading my expression, Philippe took Perrault’s book with a conniving nod.

  “How about I read the end of the tale?” He leafed through the pages, until he found the correct passage. “So the prince was looking for his bride, was he?”

  Marie-Louise nodded, her thumb back in her mouth. Philippe wrapped his arm around my shoulders and started reading, his low voice steady and calm in the quiet evening. Thanks to the lost slipper, Cinderella was recognized as the mysterious princess, and returned to the prince, who promptly married her. Soothed by Philippe’s voice, my body unwound and my mind wandered.

  Was it really six years since I walked down the aisle in the chapel at the Palais-Royal to marry him? It felt like lifetimes ago; it felt like yesterday. The events may seem like distant memories, but the emotions they’d awakened in me remained etched in my soul.

  The loneliness of those first weeks at the Tuileries Palace.

  The bliss of our swim in the lake at Fontainebleau.

  Terror as I held his limp body in my arms at Vaux-le-Vicomte.

  Elation at the news of my pregnancy at Saint-Cloud.

  Joy and sadness and wonder and fear and delight and anger at Versailles.

  Philippe’s voice droned on, moving on to the next tale in the book. A maid glided into the nursery to close the windows, her footsteps silent. As the last panel swung shut, Marie-Louise’s butterfly fluttered out, before dissolving into a burst of sparkling glitter behind the glass. Engrossed in her fairy tale, my daughter didn’t notice. The maid left. Around us, the gilded walls of the palace enveloped us like a cocoon.

  Six years ago, a prophecy had foretold my death, I had agreed to an arranged marriage in a foreign court and been told to forget about happiness. World-changing fates and illustrious legacies were what royals could expect instead.

  Yet as I sat in the heart of the Palace of Versailles with my daughter and my husband at my side, I felt at peace with our own form of happiness. My own legacy might not be as celebrated as others’, but it was right here: a girl who would be queen, a love that endured, and a spark of magic in the dark night.

  HISTORICAL NOTES

  This is a work of fiction, and most of this story was born of my imagination. However, it is based on historical facts, and the reader might be surprised to find that some of the most outlandish events mentioned here actually happened.

  The French court of the Sun King Louis XIV was rife with intrigue: Courtiers schemed out of love, ambition, or greed. They kept diaries,
exchanged letters, and gossiped endlessly. A lot went on in the salons and behind the closed doors of private apartments, and everything was recorded in one manner or another. Nothing remained secret for long.

  Most of the events used in this story occurred between 1662 and 1668. The “Spanish-letter plot” occurred in 1662. Louise fled to the Chaillot convent, where she was pursued by Louis on horseback, in the spring of 1664. The Pleasures of the Enchanted Island took place a few weeks later. Anne d’Autriche died in January 1666. The Grand Royal Entertainment was staged in July 1668.

  Athénaïs de Montespan usurped Louise de La Vallière sometime between November 1666 and July 1667. She remained the king’s mistress for fifteen years and gave him seven children. The infamous Affair of the Poisons brought about her downfall. It also brought down Olympe de Soissons, who left court and lived an adventurous life in exile.

  The Chevalier de Lorraine didn’t stay banished for long. He spent a few years in Italy, then returned to court, where he lived a turbulent existence at Philippe’s side for the next thirty years.

  Armand, on the other hand, left court after Henriette’s death to join the army again. He died in 1673, aged thirty-six. Did he and Henriette have an affair? The question divided the French court in the seventeenth century, and it still divides historians today. I choose to think that their passionate friendship remained platonic. I like to think of them as kindred spirits, too flamboyant and alive to be reduced to one narrative.

  Nicolas Fouquet remained imprisoned in the Alpine fortress of Pignerol for the rest of his life. Interestingly, another famous prisoner was kept there at that time: an anonymous captive known by the nickname of “the Man in the Iron Mask.”

  Louis was king of France for seventy-two years, making him the longest reigning monarch in French history, and one of the most famous. The absolute monarchy he strove to build went on after his death, until the French Revolution some seventy-five years later. To this day, the Palace of Versailles still stands on the outskirts of Paris.