The Blood of Caged Birds
J. M. Stredwick
Copyright © 2018 by J.M. Stredwick
All rights reserved.
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Cover Design by Breakaway Designs
Edited by Nissa Leder
Created with Vellum
Contents
Prologue
Giselle
Claire
Giselle
Benjamin
Giselle
Alphonse
Giselle
Benjamin
Giselle
Claire
Giselle
Benjamin
Giselle
Alphonse
Giselle
Claire
Giselle
Benjamin
Giselle
Claire
Giselle
Alphonse
Benjamin
About the Author
Prologue
Good Monsieur,
This is the last time I will send word until I have returned home, back to the pleasant shores of our homeland. I have offered the girl you proposed, but it was not she. What a conundrum, searching for traces of her, the fingerprints of her soul. What a complex thing it is. I don’t know how you did or do it. All I know is that we must keep searching. This is the life in which you succeed, my friend.
I’d be honored to be the one who assisted in the procuration of this immortal blood. Aside from that, I would do anything for her. I am glad our paths have crossed, that the universe connected us in this way. I should feel defeated, but I do not. I have hope we will find the very soul we need. Even now, I am sure you have found another trail. I have the paintings still, they are safe. I will match them and continue to search. We will not fail. Not again! Have hope, friend. We have forever before us.
Monsieur Alexandre Chardones
Giselle
1690, the French Countryside: The Bonteque Maison
I didn’t think it would be this way. I never suspected my sister to return home, but she is here. She came early when the sky was still rolling down the gray. The racketing of the wheels is what woke me. I stumbled out of bed and looked down over the stables, and she popped out of the carriage without assistance, allowing her skirts to fall where they would as she glared up at the home that she’d left two years ago, at age sixteen.
“Let’s play a game,” she tells me now.
We stand in my chambers. Both of our hands are on the door. Mine on the knob, hers on the wood flexed like a white spider.
“A game?” I ask.
She is different. I cannot stop myself from staring at her, attempting to piece together her image because it is so opposite of what she was before. She has the same sunlight hair, the same cold blue eyes, the same face that men fawn over. But the tone of her, the way she carries herself, the sly pinch of her lips; that is what has changed.
“I cannot go down there into that party knowing it is only formalities. It will be the death of me,” she utters.
“It’s a celebration for you. For your return,” I tell her, confused by her frustration.
“You think they’re celebrating me?” Her brows raise, and she smirks. “You are so innocent, Giselle.”
Perhaps I am. I’ve been told so before. But everyone has secrets which they’d rather keep hidden, and I am no exception to that rule.
“You want to know what it is?” she speaks smoothly, as if luring a child.
“I will play.” I nod, feeling tingles in my stomach.
She eyes me speculatively, judging whether I’m worth the time.
“It is just a silly game, nothing outrageous. The terms are this: whoever kisses a man first this night wins.”
I am so lost in the words, I don’t really think about the brevity of what she’s actually said.
“Wins what?” I whisper, admitting myself a smile.
She looks to be tossing the thought around in her head. “First choice in gowns. The ones mother sent for from Paris. We’re the same size.” She glances at my waist and bust. “Unless, that is not enough?”
I shake my head. I do not think that I could know what a proper prize for winning this game would be. “But why?”
I shift my weight into one hip. I don’t understand why she wants this. I’ve never cared much for relations with men. It’s never gathered my interest. I’ve been more drawn to books than anything else. To stories with adventures, never the love that might accompany them. Kisses lead to love, don’t they? Kisses and love are always damned in the end. It is never how the stories say it is.
“Fun,” she snickers, blonde head bobbing, “Haven’t you had any since I left, little sister?”
I suppress a frown, pinch my eyes and smile. I feel much of nothing. When she left I was in a loop of apathy. Every day the same. Every meal the same. Every moment unchanging. How can one break from that? Even social events felt like nothing to me. Fun. What is fun? Should I be having it?
“I am with you,” I tell her, voice strong.
Beyond the heavy silk of my skirts, my hands are shaking. I keep them hidden. I would not have her think me as fearful as I am.
“Excellent.”
I follow her out the door then. Our manteau trains brush the floors, rustling as we walk. We make swishing, clicking, and tinkling noises with our gowns, slip-on heels, and jewels. Our hair is piled high. We look like proper French girls, just as society would expect us to look. Girls prepped and primed to be married, on the cusp of ripeness. Anyone could think we are infatuated with the prospect of marriage. I know that Claire does not want it, and god help me if I do. I’d rather die alone.
The beating of my heart loses rhythm, and I flush with cold, my head heavy on my neck. I don’t want to disappoint the sister I have not seen in two years. I want to please her. I have always looked up to her, admired the way she faced the world without hesitation. Even before, she was stronger, aggressive in her mannerisms. She has always encouraged flirtations, allowed provocative conversation, and pushed the boundaries set for us. It was the reason mother sent her away in the first place. To act as ward to a prestigious family in hopes that they might beat her nonsensical personality traits out and then marry her off.
“Are you ready to see father again?” I speak briskly as we walk.
“More so than I was for mother,” she utters. “She was thrilled to see me. Did you notice?”
The sarcasm is thick in her tone. I can’t help but laugh because we are both aware that mother did not want her back. She wants her to be married and in her own home. This is another thing that confuses me. Claire must have met many men. She’s good company. Men think she’s a goddess of sorts. I do not understand why she wouldn’t be married by now.
“Mother is always this way. It’s this home. It’s a murderer of happy thoughts,” I jest.
“It’s not the home, it’s her.” Claire is adamant.
We come to stand before the giant double doors that bar us from entering. It is time for us to make our appearances. I feel a whimsical delight each time I am faced with the largeness of events like this. I imagine it all. A theme of palatial pastels, cavorting people, and perplexing music. I hear it beyond the door. It is like thunder, rumbles of it before a thrall. It will be dense with nobles. Marquis’, duc’s, comte’s, barons. Any form of landholder or endowed person may attend. Father’s name is known in Versailles; thus, all forms of important pers
ons appear to relish the social and vino pleasures.
“Come.” Claire gives me a frosty smile. “We don’t bow to the depressing antics of others. We have men to greet.”
I smile. This time it is a true smile. I have missed my sister.
The ballroom is thick with guests. They wear their lovely gowns and stiff waistcoats, glowing with luxury and excitement. The walls are stressed with arrangements of abundant flowers and baubles, and overhead there are silk linens and strings of ornaments. Candles in brass chandeliers hang above, illuminating it all in smoky light.
There is darkness at the end of the hall where the giant glass doors have been propped open to expose the chilling night and the grand garden that descends directly beyond. People roam throughout the gardens and the Maison, exchanging ideas and avidly speaking with one another.
It’s a daunting setup, but not so daunting that I want to stay away. No, it pulls me in like a spider on its web. I am a fly caught in the splendor of it all.
Claire grabs my hand. I sense the eagerness she has, electric in her fingertips by the small squeeze she gives.
They announce us, and we make our small steps down. Some drunken old men raise their glasses to us. Dancers swirl and it makes me dizzy to watch them. The music that sings to us now was composed by the infamous Jean-Baptiste Lully, a favorite of the courts, and rapturous in its rise and fall. It beats in my chest.
“There’s father.” I nudge her, giving a warning.
Before this visit, I had not seen him in half a year. Our relationship has never been as close as theirs. I know she’s missed him, even if she won’t admit it. I welcomed him home alongside mother only a day before, his stiff brow absolving me of all the obligatory glances and admiring expressions pinned on an aristocratic daughter. He is only present now for Claire. Otherwise, he’d be out tending to further trade ties, seeking out better merchandise, or nurturing his growing fleet of frigates as director to the Bonteque Merchant Company. In the early years, his goal was to fill the gap that was left when the French West India Company dissolved, and in turn, was granted a title and nobility by the Sun King himself. With such nobility came land: a parcel settled in the countryside outside of Paris where our grand Maison was built.
He greets Claire with bright eyes, his freshly powdered hair making him look older than he is. His hair is as gold as hers beneath.
“Claire.” He nods, and his lips go flat.
He will embrace her when we are not in formal territory.
“Father.” She curtsies extravagantly, and I am forced to follow suit.
Normally, I’d be followed about by a few same age socialites or mother. Claire’s presence changes things. I have yet to see mother or the girls that we surround ourselves with to hedge our virtues. Now, as Claire is questioned and preened over by father, I find myself hanging back. I don’t want to stand at their backs and wait for her to finish. No. I’ll keep to myself. Perhaps, I’ll submerge myself in the festivities and no one will notice.
As I enter the chatter and movement, I walk silently, peeling myself past loud laughing women and jovial fat men. Maybe I can settle myself at the edge of the hall and scope out my victim. I sigh. I clasp my quaking hands to calm my shaking.
Claire is going to win this.
I shoulder my way over to an open spot against the wall. In my recklessness, the brunt of my heavy brocade skirts collide with a man I had not noticed. I am forced to glance up to see a swoop of chestnut hair and granite eyes staring quite blankly at me. He seems un-phased by my untowardness.
“Forgive me, Monsieur,” I mumble.
He looks at me again and smiles. His smile seems false, as if it does not fit there on his somber face. Perhaps like mine looks when I force it.
“You’ve nothing to apologize for, Mademoiselle,” he says and bows his head. “I was in your way.”
He is accompanied by another man, looking to be in his early twenties.
“I hope that you are enjoying the party?” I ask, trying to lose the awkwardness.
They are amused.
“We are, thank you for asking, Mademoiselle…”
“Mademoiselle Giselle Bonteque.”
My humiliation must be as apparent as the nose on my face. I hate introductions.
“Ah, daughter of Monsieur Ferdinand then, I presume?”
I nod. They know father. Good. It should give us something to talk about. Either that or I need to excuse myself quickly. I am not one to explore idle conversation. Squeezing my hands before me, my finger bones grind against each other. I attempt to stifle the errant frustrations I feel, little flutters deep in my belly. I should not be here.
This changes their attitudes, giving me a sudden air of importance. Their eyes are fastened to me. Claire would be ecstatic, glowing like the French King’s crown jewels in the thrill of it all. But I? I bristle against their attentions.
“How clumsy of me,” he says as if we are intimate friends. “My name is Alphonse Chardones. You may call me Alphonse. Our fathers are newly acquainted business partners.”
“Ah, and what line of work is your father in?” I attempt to sound cultured.
“A little of this, and a little of that…mostly ships and charts.” He gives a small chuckle.
“You are the younger sister of Mademoiselle Claire Bonteque?” he says, his voice flowing naturally, “The one this ball has been held for?”
I nod quickly.
“She’s my elder sister.”
“I’ve yet to greet her.” Francis Beauchard, who I now recognize as the son of Frans Beauchard, my father’s business partner, pipes into the conversation.
I have always loathed him. He has amber tempest blown locks, with keen and calculating eyes. He looks at me as if I am vermin. I swallow hard, knowing that I should avert my gaze, but I do not.
“She should be along shortly, we’re attempting to make our rounds,” I manage to spill from my mouth.
“Good, I’d very much like to meet her. She seems a popular subject around our house these days,” Francis says under his breath.
It is high time when Claire arrives. She gives me a look that I’d classify as amused but shrewd, and suddenly the men seem to shrink into themselves. She scans them like they scanned me, then speaks in a controlled, frothy tone. They are not the only ones impressed. “I believe I’ve yet to meet you gentleman?”
“Yes, I am Alphonse Chardones.” He then introduces them all, “We’ve just been conversing with your younger sister, Giselle.”
“Ah, yes. Now, how is it that one of you have yet to ask her to dance?”
Her brow raises slightly, and she purses her lips. The men are wrought with silence.
“Join me?” Alphonse sheds the awkward gloom, and I see Francis sigh in relief.
“And would you like to dance?” Francis Beauchard is coy and speaks as suave as a peacock, eyes fixated upon Claire.
She is indeed dazzled, or appears to be. Her chin dips towards her clavicle, and her eyes are lustrous. She glances my way and I can sense her competitiveness, as if she is saying, “And it begins!” I do not share her candor for the moment.
Alphonse and I follow on a broken step, and I stumble to keep his pace.
His candied smile withers to contentment as we come into hold together. His hand is hot on my spine, and I feel the closeness uncomfortable. He twirls me about, and I must remind myself the steps of the dance.
When the music stops, there is a resounding applause throughout the hall. A quicker piece of music replaces it. I imagine all the people relaying secrets and gossip, infatuations and flirtations, frustrations and allegations. It’s a buzzing hive of life. A corseted strain of it bound by the limitations of society.
I wonder if this is what Claire sees, what she knows is true and that is why she can’t bear to be beneath the suppression of it. But I must blink away the misgivings. This is our life. It will not change. Just as husbands will always be in control, just as wives will always submit. Just as wo
men will be forced to accept the abuse and mistreatment of their husbands; it will not change. Anyone with eyes in their scull can see the falseness of it, the degrading way that men pant over the latest youth settled in societies spotlight, forgetting their wives, all but shoving them aside to sate their lust. The hope that perhaps a fresher version will part their legs wide for them. Then the wives must smile, always keep the smile. Because what woman would dare dream larger than what is known? It gives me sickness to look at the men and women bobbing and hopping about, pretending to value the sacred vows between them. What would the men do if the women were given a choice other than to maintain the home and expel offspring? It would not be good for society if a woman were to be free. Men know this.
I pull my thoughts back to the room around me. Grumbling about the way life is won’t change anything.
As Alphonse leads me around, I catch sight of a man at the edge of the crowds. Just the glimpse gives me flutters, spasms of light just beyond my breastbone. I have never seen someone like him. He’s different from the rest. He is the most staggering thing I’ve ever laid eyes on.
The man’s image is burned in my brain even as I am twisted out of range of sight. His eyes are beyond dark. His skin is a sun stained gold. He seems to be of mixed heritage, as his face is exotically built with cheekbones that rise prominently and thick brows that express charisma. His face is unfettered by facial hair or blemish. Only smooth skin is there, taut and solid like his body. I wonder a thousand things about him in the glimpse of him I have. The spinning and the pumping of loud music makes him surreal to me.
The Blood of Caged Birds (Mortalsong Book 1) Page 1
