Revolution

by Jennifer Donnelly

  All was going well. I had a dry place to sleep and a little sack of coins my uncle knew nothing about. I drank wine and ate sugared cherries.

  And then things got even better, for one day, one of the queen’s ladies came to our rooms and said that the queen wished to make a request—would Alexandrine consent to live in the palace and become the dauphin’s companion?

  I nearly choked on the cloves I’d been chewing. Before I could say whether I would or I wouldn’t, my uncle said, Alexandrine would be greatly honored to grant the queen’s request, my lady. We would all be honored.

  The woman smiled. The queen will see you in her apartments in an hour’s time, she said to me.

  As soon as she had gone, I turned to my uncle. You should have let me answer, I told him angrily. It was my choice to make, not yours. It’s stuffy in the palace. There are too many rules. Too many eyes. Too many ears. I do not wish to live there.

  He laughed. What you wish does not matter. The position is an important one.

  And if I will not do it? I asked saucily.

  I got a crack across my face for an answer. You will do it, Alex, my uncle said, or I will beat you silly. Lose the queen’s favor and we lose our place here.

  The queen’s favor. Like a bucket of water, those words doused my anger and the sting in my cheek.

  You will go to the queen, my uncle said. You will play the part of companion and play it well. You will not defy me in this. You will—

  You are right, of course, Uncle, I said.

  I warn you, do not—What? he sputtered, surprised by my sudden tractability.

  You are right. I will do it. Our family’s fortunes depend upon it.

  My uncle’s eyes narrowed. He was suspicious. As well he should have been, for it was not my family’s fortunes I was thinking of, but my own.

  I washed my face and polished my boots and then I left our rooms. No more of those shitty puppets, I thought as I walked across the Marble Courtyard. No more taking orders from my uncle. I would be companion to the prince of France. And soon, in a year, perhaps two, when the boy was older and no longer needed me, I would ask the queen for her help. And she would give it me, for I would have her favor. What could stop me then? One word from her and it would be me on a Paris stage. I would be fourteen then. I could play Ophelia and Marianne to begin with, then Suzanne, Zaïre, and Rosalind. Hadn’t Caroline Vanhove stunned all of Paris playing Iphigénie at fourteen?

  Have you no gown? Is that all you have to wear? the lady-in-waiting asked me when I arrived at the queen’s chambers. When I told her I had but one dress and it was even shabbier than my britches, she made a valet surrender his frock coat and put it on me. I was told to wait in a hallway. For an hour. Two. Others waited ahead of me. Ministers. Ambassadors. An ancient marquise who’d brought four spaniels with her and paid them no mind when they chewed a chair leg or cacked on the rug.

  Finally I was admitted. The queen was writing letters at a marble-topped desk, in a room more beautiful than any I’d ever seen. There were paintings of clouds and angels on the ceiling. The furniture looked as if it was made of gold and the rug under my feet seemed to be woven of flowers. Roses of every hue spilled from vases. Their scent filled the air.

  The queen herself, however, looked so different from the other times I had seen her. She was dressed in a simple muslin gown. She wore no wig. Her hair was gathered loosely behind her. There were threads of white in it and lines across her brow. I had not seen these things from afar. When she looked up at me, I saw that her blue eyes were weary and sad, and I remembered she had lost her child. It was easy to forget that when you saw her sparkling at state dinners, or smiling serenely at every stink-breath boor with spangles on his coat.

  I curtseyed to her, which took some doing in britches, and kept my eyes on the floor. She summoned me close, then stared at me for some time, as if taking my measure. My little son loves you, she finally said. He was a happy child until he lost his brother. Now he dwells too much on melancholy thoughts and his health suffers. I would have you become his companion. Keep him amused. Sing and dance for him. Keep his poor heart merry. Will you do this?

  I told her it would be the greatest honor I could imagine. I told her I loved the dauphin more than my life. I put tears in my eyes and a hitch in my voice and all the while the boy was nothing to me, merely a means to an end.

  The queen smiled, convinced by my performance. She gave me a sack of coins and dismissed me. Her lady told me to get my things and return quickly. She would show me my new room, adjoining the dauphin’s.

  I took half the coins from the sack and stuffed it down my britches. The coins in my hand I would give to my uncle, for he would be expecting something out of this meeting. Then I took off running—out of the queen’s chambers and down her staircase, through the huge palace doors and down the front steps.

  The dauphin loves me! I crowed. And one day, Paris will love me! And I shall become the most famous player in all of France!

  I see her still sometimes, in my mind’s eye—the girl I was. She’s running and laughing in her worn britches and borrowed coat. She’s spinning in circles in the Marble Courtyard, giddy with her good fortune.

  I see that girl, but know her not.

  I put the diary down for a moment and close my eyes. I see that girl, too. In my mind. I hear her voice. And I want her to tell me the rest of her story.

  I’m just opening my eyes when I hear the sound of a key in the door. It’s Dad and that’s bad. I’m sure Minna told him that I spent five million euros yesterday. He’s going to ask me on what and I don’t want to tell him. I’m not up for World War III just now.

  I grab my bag, stuff the diary into it, and sprint to my room. I kick off my jeans and climb into bed. I hear him walk in and put his things down. A shoe drops, then another one. I hear footsteps heading my way.

  “Andi?” he whispers, through the crack in my door.

  I don’t answer. I just keep breathing. Slowly and evenly. I’m turned on my side so he can’t see my face. He pushes the door open a little. The light from the hallway throws his silhouette against the far wall.

  “Andi? Are you asleep?”

  He used to kiss us in our beds sometimes when we were little, me and Truman. When he got home from work. But he doesn’t do that now. He just stands there for a few more seconds. Then closes the door.

  I let out a big deep breath, feeling relieved.

  And sad.

  27

  It’s morning. I hear a church bell ringing. And horses whinnying in their stalls. I smell hay and cows.

  “Wake up, Alex,” a voice whispers in my ear. “Papa says you’re to help with the puppets. Wake up, sleepyhead, wake up.…”

  I open my eyes. A giant papier-mâché puppet is standing over my bed. I can see its hooked nose and pointed chin, its mean little mouth. Its crazy glass eyes are staring down at me. “WAKE UP!” it screams.

  I scream, too. And sit bolt upright in my bed. I look around the room, terrified. But there’s no one here. No psycho puppet. No horses and cows. I’m not in a stable. I’m in G and Lili’s house. In their guest room. It was only a dream, I tell myself. Calm down. I take a deep breath, trying to slow my hammering heart, to still my shaking hands.

  It’s the Qwell. Again. I’ve got to dial the dosage back. The sadness is bad, but a crazed six-foot puppet is no joke, either.

  Gray morning light is slanting through my window. What time is it? I wonder. How late did I sleep? I reach over to the night table for my watch. Nine a.m. Not good. I wanted to be at the doors of the Abelard Library by now. It’s already Thursday and I’ve got a ton of work to do if I want to get out of here on Sunday. I take my pills—two this time, not three—then reach for my jeans. They’re on the floor, where I dropped them last night. I pull them on under the covers. The heat is worse than iffy in this place. It’s largely nonexistent.

  Just as I’m about to get out of bed, my cell phone goes off. I fumble around for that, too,
then look at the ID through bleary eyes. I don’t recognize the number.

  “Hello?” I say, trying not to sound like I just woke up.

  “Hey. It’s Virgil.”

  “Virgil?” I echo, thinking that this is unexpected. Wondering if I’m hallucinating again.

  “Yeah. You still in Paris?”

  “Yeah, I am.”

  “I’m surprised. I figured you’d be gone by now.”

  I wince, remembering last night and the crappy things I said. “Hey, sorry about that. I’m not always an asshole,” I tell him. “Most of the time, but not always.”

  I hear a soft chuckle, then he says, “I’m calling because I have your iPod. I forgot to give it back to you last night when I dropped you off. I didn’t want you to freak when you realized, so I called the number that was written on the back of it. I figured it had to be your cell.”

  “Wow. I didn’t even realize it was gone. Thanks. Really. My whole life is on that thing.”

  Every CD of every band I like is on there, as well as tunes from every musician, living or dead, that Nathan’s so much as mentioned.

  “Yeah, I know,” Virgil says. “I hope you don’t mind, but I kept listening to it last night. During my shift. The radio’s not always great and I’m bored with the tunes on my own iPod.”

  “I don’t mind,” I say, but there’s one thing I’m really hoping he didn’t listen to—

  “Plaster Castle,” he says. “That one really blew me away.”

  Shit.

  “It’s good. Really good,” he says.

  “Yeah?” I say, trying to keep my voice light. “My music teacher called it a noisy mishmash.”

  Virgil laughs. “It is.”

  “Hey, thanks.”

  “You definitely got carried away with the effects, and you could chill on all the different time sigs, especially on ‘Girl in a Tower’ and ‘Lock It Up.’

  The pain is fading a bit, because a good strong pissed-off feeling is taking its place. “That’s funny; I don’t remember asking—” I start to say.

  He cuts me off. “—but that one acoustic song—‘Iron Band’—damn. I mean, it’s amazing, start to finish. So beautiful. I’d say it’s close to perfect.”

  There’s a beat of silence between us, then he says, “So what happened? I mean, ‘Broken Clock’ and ‘Little Prince’ … those songs didn’t come from nowhere.”

  No, they didn’t. Both of those are about Truman. And I don’t want to talk about him or what happened. Not with Virgil. Not with anyone.

  “Andi? You still there?”

  “Um, yeah. I’ve got to get going, though. Big day at the library, you know? And I don’t have a thing to wear.”

  Another beat of silence, then, “Sorry. Guess I’m the asshole now.”

  For some reason, this makes me laugh. “Thanks for doing your share,” I tell him. “It takes the pressure off.”

  We talk about getting my iPod back to me. Virgil says he can give it to me Sunday. If I’m at Rémy’s. I remind him I’ve got a flight home that night.

  “Okay, well, we’ll figure something out. Maybe I can drop it off on my next shift,” he says. “I’ve got to get going, too.”

  I suddenly hear weird music coming from his end of the phone. “What is that?” I ask him.

  “I don’t know. Some purple guy with a big fat ass.”

  “What?”

  “He’s in my living room.”

  “Have you, like, been drinking or something?”

  “On the television, I mean. It’s my little brother’s favorite show. He’s American. Maybe you know him.”

  “Who? Your brother?” I say, totally confused now.

  “No, the fat boy. He has little arms and big white teeth.”

  “This is a kids’ show?”

  “He’s always saying that he loves me. And that I love him. When the truth is, we’ve never even gone out. He’s a lizard, I think. Bernie.”

  I start laughing again and can’t stop. After a minute or so, I get a grip. “You mean Barney? He’s a dinosaur.”

  “Sorry,” Virgil says. “I’m tired. I’m not making sense.”

  He sleeps during the day. I forgot that. I realize that his shift probably ended about an hour ago. He must be exhausted after driving a cab all night. He probably just wants to crash, but even so, he called me so I wouldn’t lose it when I discovered my iPod was gone. And then I realize something else—it was a nice thing to do.

  “You sound tired. I’ll let you go. Thanks for letting me know about my iPod,” I say.

  “No worries. It’s nothing.”

  “Okay, well, bye,” I say.

  “Andi, wait. I have an idea. For ‘Little Prince.’ I know you don’t want to talk about it, but it’s important. You need a different chord. After the second verse and before the chorus. You need a counterpoint to F minor. Something to lighten it up. Otherwise it sounds like a dirge.”

  “Um, yeah, that’s because it is a dirge,” I tell him, bristling again.

  “Fine, but make it rock. A rocking dirge is way more interesting.” And before I can say anything, before I can shut him up, he’s singing the melody, shifting to C after the second verse. And he’s right, damn it. I listen. Not thinking about Truman. Or the sadness. Just thinking about the music. And feeling it. And losing myself in it.

  We keep talking. For a long time. With few words. With sound and rhythm. With notes and beats and the silences between them. Until his voice grows quiet and low. So low it’s almost a murmur. There’s no more Barney music in the background.

  I look at my watch. It’s nearly ten. “Where are you?” I ask him.

  “In my bed.”

  “I’m keeping you up. I’m really sorry. I—”

  “No. Keep singing,” he says.

  “What?”

  “Your voice. Your songs. They’re really nice. They’re better than Barney. They put me to sleep.”

  “Wow. I’ll make sure to put that on the cover of my first CD. ‘Better than Barney! Puts you to sleep!’ ” I joke. Because I’m nervous.

  Virgil laughs softly. “Come on, sing,” he says.

  I don’t want to. It feels weird. But I do it anyway. I sing him “Iron Band.” I wrote it for my mother. I’ve never sung it for her, though. I’ve never sung it for anyone. Not even Nathan. I only added it to Plaster Castle after he’d already listened to the CD.

  “If I had coal and fire

  And metal fine and true

  I’d make an iron band

  An iron band for you

  I’d pick up all the pieces

  From where they fell that day

  Fit them back together

  And take the pain away

  But I don’t have the iron

  And I don’t have the steel

  To wrap around your broken heart

  And teach it how to heal

  Somewhere in the fire

  Somewhere in the pain

  I’d find the magic that I need

  To make you whole again

  I’d make the iron band so strong

  I’d make it gleam so bright

  I’d fix the things I’ve broken

  I’d turn my wrongs to right

  But I don’t have the iron

  And I don’t have the steel

  To wrap around your broken heart

  Wish I could make it heal

  Wish I could make it heal”

  I finish. My eyes are closed. I’m braced. Against what I’m feeling. Against what he’s thinking. Maybe he doesn’t like the song anymore. Maybe he didn’t like my voice. I wait for him to say something, anything, hating that it matters to me. Hating that for some reason I suddenly seem to care what he thinks.

  But he doesn’t say anything.

  “Virgil?” I say. “Hey, Virgil?”

  I press the phone closer to my ear, thinking maybe the connection’s gone bad, and then I hear it—the sound of him breathing. He’s out.

  I’m not
sure how to feel about this. Embarrassed? Pissed off? I mean, I just sang him a song I wrote myself, a song that’s really important to me, and he fell asleep.

  I’m about to hang up, but the sound of his breath, so steady and peaceful, stops me. I close my eyes and listen even though I’m not sure I should. And I realize I’m not angry. Worse yet, I realize I’d sing to him all day long if he wanted me to.

  I imagine his hands as I listen—one still holding his phone. One maybe resting on his chest. I imagine his face, beautiful and still, and I wish I could see it. I wish I could touch his cheek with the back of my hand. Touch my fingers to his lips.

  Who knew that listening to a guy sleep could be so much deeper than sleeping with a guy.

  I listen for another few minutes, and then I whisper into the phone, “Hey there, Virgil … good night.”

  28

  I was confused at first. I didn’t know the drill. But I’ve got it figured out now.

  My job, here at the Abelard Library, is to get information. And Yves Bonnard’s job is to stop me. Yves G. Bonnard, head archivist, aka the Great and Powerful Oz, aka the Grand Inquisitor, aka the Antichrist.

  “What is your name?” Yves Bonnard asked me, only moments ago, his pen poised over my call slip.

  “I am Arthur, King of the Britons,” I said. I thought it was funny. I thought it might make him smile and cut me a break. I thought he might even chuckle and say, “What is your quest? What is the air-speed velocity of an unladen swallow?”

  But no. Yves Bonnard does not smile. He does not laugh. And he does not cut me a break.

  “What are you searching for?” he asks.

  “I seek the Holy Grail,” I say. Because I have a problem with authority. That, and I’m an idiot.