The Blood of Caged Birds (Mortalsong Book 1)

by J. M. Stredwick

  I blink. I have no recognition of what or who he speaks of.

  There is a great stretch of silence. I can hear Vauquelin seat himself once more.

  “How can you be sure?” He is urgent. “How? When?”

  I am shocked at the severity of his tone.

  “I only recognized her the other night. She is very similar to that of the paintings you commissioned. That of the Muscovy girl. There is no denying the resemblance,” father tells him.

  “Her soul will always align with mine.” Vauquelin’s voice becomes ragged with emotion. “No matter where she is born, no matter what she does. There is a great design at work here, friend.”

  “What do you want me to do?” Father asks him.

  “She is the key. We must not lose her.” Vauquelin’s tone is brusque now. “She cannot escape. If she remembers anything, she will flee. Where is she?”

  “That of the Maison du Bonteque,” father says. “Safe. Although, I have run into a sort of predicament.”

  There is silence wherein Monsieur Vauquelin is waiting for my father to explain.

  “But, I think I have it managed,” father remarks coolly. “To say the least.”

  I hear father come to a stand. His goblet makes a clink against a metal tray. “I want this as much as you do. I want…I want my piece of the bargain, what was promised to me at the end of all of this.”

  Vauquelin makes a noise of agreement. “You shall have it. We shall have it. We will have everything.”

  “My son is absolutely in a state of infatuation with her,” father adds, and I hear the quickening of his breath.

  “Does that worry you?”

  “No. I only think that perhaps this could gain us a closeness to her. We have a chance to have her near at all times. Think of it. We would never have to search for her again. We could have her under our noses until we are prepared to make the voyage.”

  A satisfied sound comes from Vauquelin. “And your son?”

  “Young love is fickle. He will forget her.”

  _____________

  The faces of dead men haunt me as I lie in my cold bed, but I push them down as if they never mattered. Their destiny was to die. What is mine? I ponder this as I wait for the morning to come.

  I never imagined that I would be entangled in something like this. All I know is that there is an occult science to the mechanisms that Vauquelin uses. Father wanted me to be a part of this. He asked me if I wanted it, and I did. I do. Benjamin has no knowledge of our exclusive group. It is this that makes me glad. He does not deserve more than he already has.

  The first time I got rid of an experiment of theirs I was fourteen. Tonight was the first time I realized that I do not know what my father gets out of the experience. What is his piece in their bargain? What does their scheme achieve?

  The girl they spoke of. I assume it is Giselle, as Benjamin is fully smitten. I have noticed that he is a bit scattered as of late, writing letters deep into the night. He has also received some back. I wonder if they are from her.

  He remains at our home in Marseille alone. He probably feels that father trusts him more than me to stay and hold things down. Funnily enough, it is I father trusts more. More than he will ever know. I am stronger than Benjamin in all ways; he could never kill, never force the life out of someone. He looks at me as if I am nothing and I will be glad to expose the truth of it all to him someday.

  I think of Giselle, her dark brunette hair and soulful eyes. She is not so attractive as Claire. Claire…I feel longing stir in my body. It is an uncomfortable feeling.

  If I am to become everything I want, everything that Benjamin will recognize as above him, I will have to seduce her. I will make her mine and then we will see who has the balls.

  Giselle

  “Don’t ask her.” Claire’s tone is sharp. “You know what her answer will be.”

  We are gently rising and falling, side-saddle, heavy skirts billowing in the wind, atop horses the stables had prepared for us. Our stable-master rides a bit behind us. We are tense. I see her fingers coiled around the reins, her knuckles white. My own are the same, and I shake them out. Father is supposed to make his leave this morning. Claire told mother that she wouldn’t be there, not even an appearance, and asked if I had wanted to accompany her. I said yes, bluntly.

  A gust almost drags the hat from my head, and I secure it. I have not been this far in a long while. There are rolling hills before us. The grass looks as if it were waves in the wind, rippling and swirling. It is quiet here, past the tree line of the orchards. When I glance behind us I think of all the times that Claire and I had raced one another through those very orchards, collecting fallen apples.

  “Is there any other option?” I toss out.

  “There are always other options.” Claire glances at me, severe. “You have to be creative, little sister.”

  I let out a balking laugh.

  “Creative,” I repeat. “A card I do not have in my hand.”

  She sends me a mischievous glance. “Is that your way of asking for help? I never knew you to be so sulking, Giselle.”

  “And I never knew you to be so secular,” I quip, smiling.

  We’re a changed pair. She has been shorn raw, and I have become as closed as an oyster. We once spent every waking minute together. We shared our bed, our gowns, our studies, our thoughts. Now we do all but one of those things. Thoughts. Sharing mine doesn’t come easy now. Perhaps because I cannot judge her reactions. It could be calm or storm, like flipping a denier and waiting to see which side it lands on. Her reaction to father leaving was practically spasmodic.

  “There is beauty in the changes,” she calls to me. “I am much happier now.”

  The believability of her statement falls flat. I raise my eyebrows, testing her.

  “Happier? Really?” I ask her, knowing that she is lying.

  She shrugs then glances back at the stable-master.

  “Let’s lose him?” she mouths.

  My abdomen clenches. “You really won’t say your farewell to Father?”

  But before I can stop her, she kicks her horses side and they’re galloping down the hill out of sight. I nudge my legs against my horse’s side, nudge again, and then I am flying. My pins are shaken away and my fancy riding hat is lost in the rush. I worry that I will fall off, and I cling tight to the reins. The stable master makes a noise of protest, probably annoyed that he even had to come with us in the first place. I laugh freely, letting my head tilt back as I shut my eyes for a moment.

  When I open them again, I scan the fields ahead to find Claire. I see the flicking tail of her white gelding disappearing under a flare of tree branches into the woodlands.

  “Claire!” I call after her.

  I keep my horse on course. It stumbles down a bit of crumbling rock then jolts forth with a whinny into the unmarked path that Claire had taken. It is dark under the trees. I see bits of the sky, a pausing gray through the slats between branches. I release myself from the tight tuck I’d had against my horse’s neck.

  There is no sight of her.

  Leading my horse further into the forest, I feel hesitance in her legs in the way her muscles push against my nudges. She doesn’t want to listen to my commands, but I spurn her anyways. I hear nothing. Looking back, I think that our stable master should be here, but he is not.

  I stare ahead, scanning the layer of trees that lay ahead of us: thick trunks of ancient bark, deep cracks all throughout. Leaves whisper overhead, shuffled by the wind. Where could she have gone? I snap my head to look back and forth. Nothing.

  “Claire?”

  There is a noise coming from the trees to the side of us, a rustle that I cannot pass off as a bird or another creature. I cling to the reins, patting my horse’s neck to soothe her. Turn around and head for home, I tell myself. But there is a curious shift in the air. Is something there? I cannot move or will myself to jerk my heels into the mare’s side.

  I stare at the thicket where I ass
umed the noise to come from. There’s darkness between all of its branches, a maze of wood and green leaves. Then a bird squawks and I swear I see a figure move across the space between the thicket and the trees. Before I can react, Claire pops out from behind a tree and shouts my name.

  “Mon de Dieu! You can’t do that Claire!” I say.

  “We lost him didn’t we?”

  I glance back to the trees to see if there is anything. But there’s nothing, not even a vibration in the air.

  “He’ll be here soon enough.” I am grim. “What is it?”

  “Nothing. I only wanted to speak with you alone. It’s difficult to speak freely when there are spies on our heels in everything we do.”

  “Spies,” I scoff. “He’s our servant. He should mean nothing to you.”

  “How do you think mother knew about Monsieur Benjamin?” She dangles this thought before me then clears her throat. “Everyone is loyal to someone.”

  “I thought you were loyal to father,” I say, shoulders tensing.

  Claire’s frown gives me what I need to not press her. But it is true. Before she was always standing dutifully, a proper aristocratic daughter, pining for the wave and his distant “au revoir!” Mother argued with Claire when she’d said that she did not want to see Father off after Claire explained that it would be too painful.

  “If you wanted to be there, you should have been!” Claire hisses. “You chose to come with me.”

  “I did,” I affirm. “It was a question. Nothing more.”

  “I have a plan,” she utters. “I will not wait around for mother to secure our betrothals and settle our dowries. I want you to do the same.”

  “Why?” I am completely shocked.

  “Something I learned in the Maison de Devereaux. If you don’t take control of your life by making choices that benefit you, you’ll be at the mercy of others’ choices. No one will care if your betrothed is heavy-handed or likes to play the romantic with other women. Or worse. Only you will care.”

  “What is your plan?” I ask her, breath shallow in my chest.

  As she begins to respond, we hear the clopping of hooves as our flustered stable master enters into the forest. He has Claire’s gelding on a rope trailing behind him.

  “Mademoiselles!” he roars.

  “We’ll talk about this delicate matter later.” Claire smiles, quite satisfied with herself.

  ________________

  Watching Mother’s hands work, plucking and picking at the sweetmeats, I notice that they are quite dry. Wrinkled in some places, and taut in others. She gives me no expression or even acknowledgement that I have come to her. Elaborate cloth heels kicked up on the chaise, she wears a stony façade and bites into the sugared treat of her selection.

  “I have something to ask you,” I pin on her.

  She will have to say yes. She is overwhelmed, and I will not give up. Not for this.

  Smacking as she chews, she inclines her head to tell me that she is listening.

  “I want to spend time with the young men of the Chardones household,” I explain rather dangerously. Am I too clear in my explanation? I almost allow my hand to fly to my mouth out of horror, but it is she who expresses horror for me. Her change of expression catches me unaware, as her entire stone-like mask cracks and morphs into a rage.

  “What has become of you Giselle? Are you so far gone under your sister’s influence that you would ask me to enable your pathetic attractions to that boy? You are a far cry above both of those young men. Have that to appease you!”

  “I thought that if…”

  “Haven’t I raised you for better behaviors? To be better than this? You will never be happy if all you do is choose to throw away the only advantages this life will give you!” she screeches.

  My eyes are wide, planked with shock.

  “Go to your chambers.” She is calm, having swallowed her lump of food and fanning her hands across her lap.

  Her face is pale as ice and as grim as death. I notice now that she’s a near empty jug of hot wine at her fingertips. When father leaves, this is usually how she spends her evenings. It is no surprise. Her hair has been disheveled from its heralding of neatness. Near black tendrils are a new landscape framing her aging face, and despite the obvious explosion of emotion she was feeling, she is like a stone creature once more.

  I cannot hasten my defenses fast enough for an irascible anger wells hot against my ribcage. I rise, swiveling to leave with what small traces of dignity I have left. As I walk, I try to regain my composure, trying to ignore the painful goring in my throat. I shrink to my chambers quietly, unable to utter a noise because I know if I allow myself a moment for anguish, I will not be able to stop.

  Mechanically, I seat myself at my great oak desk at the far side of my wall. Ignoring my fatigue, I force the messy emotions away and break out my inkwell and quill, placing a parchment piece on the desk before me.

  Just as Claire told me to, I had started my plan. What a foolish plan it was.

  Mother would never allow it. His skin coloring, though darkly golden, is not automatically noticeable as islander. His hair is a dark tone, his eyes an even brown, just as any Frenchman’s might be. Perhaps it is his face, the obviously outlandish lines, exotic angles and plump lips. All men in France are sour, like spoiled milk is curdling beneath their hooked noses.

  I dip my quill.

  Benjamin,

  I feel the same as you. My mother will not allow us to spend time together. I regret to tell you that I have no way of making it so that we might see one another again.

  I heave a frustrated sigh, shaking away the emotion. The best thing for me to do would be to forget our night together.

  Forgive me for wasting your feelings. I enjoyed the night with you more than anything. It will always be a cherished moment in my heart.

  Mademoiselle Giselle Bonteque

  Sadness draws me to my bed, and I lie there with my head spinning as my body rocks slowly under waves of sorrow.

  Benjamin

  I can’t keep myself awake. The jostling of the cart is relaxing in some sort of way, jerking and rolling over muddy roadways and uneven hills. The smell of the country is fresh, free of the excrement and saltiness in Marseille, replaced by the sugary aroma of new buds and receding cold, that smell of the once icy ground thawing to expel the scent of bitter soil. My eyes shut on the landscape before my eyes. I am lying in the back of a farmer’s cart headed to Paris to hawk his produce, carrots and potatoes creating a bulky pillow for my head.

  Normally, I would not follow them to Paris. But this was urgent. It is irritating that Father spends so much time there. Many times, he’s insisted I come, but my answer has always been no. If I had a choice, I’d never visit. I belong near the sea, where freedom can easily be obtained. Paris feels closed in, a cesspool of cruel wealth and shady poor. People too rich to wipe their own asses and people too poor to have any scruples.

  I am near that range of sleep, on the edge between wakefulness and unconscious, when I see her. She’s like a vision before my eyes, seductive and full of prowess. She is surrounded by darkness, her slender body swathed in it. Dark hair ebbs and sways around her as if there is a strong wind jostling against her. Giselle. It is her, yet she is not meek or fearful. Her eyes glow with an energy of overpowering sexuality and a desire that rivals my own. Will she speak to me? I attempt to reach out a hand to touch her. It seems that if I do it will fulfill me and eclipse the void that I feel she belongs in. Isn’t that what I am missing? This loss that I’ve always felt…it has to be her.

  “Come with me,” she whispers in a melodic voice. The honeyed husk of it echoes in my mind.

  This dream continues to plague me. Each time she repeats it: come with me. I will always go with her. I feel I have already done it, but I should continue to follow. It is a strange dream, and I recognize this. I am imprisoned in my sleep and try to open my eyes. It is as if there is a weight of iron holding down my eyelids. Suddenly, everyth
ing goes black.

  I feel as if my wrist has been slashed, then I hear another voice. An oaky, groaning voice.

  “Good. Good,” it says.

  Then I hear her scream. It tears through my subconscious, coursing through my veins, pulsing and pumping furiously. I have an immediate sense of need, need to go to her, to save her. But I am held down by this same weight. I can see nothing, only hear her screams. I feel my own body losing its strength, and I think, perhaps, I am her right now. Is she dying? The screams rack my body so hard that I sense my convulsions; I am fitful and uncontrolled.

  “Monsieur! M-Monsieur!” the screams are replaced, layered slowly until overlapped, by an alarmed exclamation.

  It takes me a moment to find my resolution, to reanimate myself and recall what is reality. The world pieces together before me, no longer rolling green hills, but tall buildings with slatted windows and red clay shingles. In the distance, I hear the toll of Notre Dame. One could never forget its song. The bell resonates in my mind, clearing out the fog of my dream state.

  “My apologies,” I grumble, sitting upright.

  The man stares at me, his wrinkled forehead expressing the deepest of disturbances. He mutters something and waves me to be gone. I hold my head as I shuffle my way out of the back of his cart, tendrils of disorientation clinging to my mind. I ache all over.

  The man spurs his horse once more when I am standing aside, saying not a thing more to me. Mud squelches in its wake, the wheels struggling on towards the riverfront where he will sell his wares.

  “Merci!” I call lamely after him. But I am sure he has not heard me.

  I stand amidst a world so foreign to me. What were my dreams? I have never dreamt much in my lifetime, so it is strange that they came upon me then. What a disorienting moment when you don’t know what is real and what is not. I shake myself out, wanting to slap my face to prompt reality.