After Hours: Tales From Ur-Bar

by Joshua Palmatier; Patricia Bray

  At first light the next day, her letters were delivered.

  The first letter was carried to the doors of Madame de D___, a society beauty whose cousin was one of the officials of the Chambre Ardente, well-loved and well-connected at court. A maid brought the letter to her as she took her breakfast: she glanced at the seal, then waved a hand for the maid to throw it into the fire. Really, the audacity of those creatures. Chasing her for debts, no doubt. She was popular, she was young, her lover was one of the highest peers of the land. She was above debts and duns and those silly rumors about black magic. The king knew her. He would never permit her to be touched.

  Within two weeks, she would follow the fortune-teller to Vincennes.

  The recipient of the second letter was wiser, or perhaps more afraid. The Comtesse de S____ had once enjoyed the favor of the king, and she had never forgotten. In the long years that followed, she had made constant attempts to recapture it, with her charm, her wit, her beauty. With dark magic and poisons, said the prisoners at Vincennes.

  Perhaps it was true. Before the letter was delivered, the comtesse was in her carriage, heading for the border. The letter lay forgotten on a marquetry table in her antechamber, gathering dust alongside bills and notes and billets doux, until her son swept the whole batch away and threw them out, months and months later.

  The third letter came to Madame.

  She was at her toilette, admiring her white throat in the mirror while her personal maid attended to her hair. A footman came in with her letters on a silver tray, which he set on a small table at her elbow for her to contemplate. She flicked through them idly, alternating with taking small bites out of a sweet pastry. Notes from friends—or those who passed as such. Notes from supplicants hopeful of catching her attention, and through her, that of the king. Notes from merchants—jewelers, tailors, traders in fine furnishings—wishful of acquiring her patronage. Tiny notes in wobbly writing from her children, which she opened at once and smiled over. A note from their governess, which made her frown. Nothing, today, from the king. It had been years since he had last found it necessary to write her little letters, since so much as an hour apart from her was a torture he found hard to bear. These days, his attentions were born more of habit than passion. His passion, it was whispered, was more and more directed to the beautiful young Mademoiselle de Fontanges. Angelique, as lovely as her name, as enchanting—and, said Madame, as stupid as the stupidest of the fancy fowls that lived in the palace gardens.

  Mademoiselle de Fontanges’ health had been poor, this last week or two, despite her youth and the royal favor. Poor child, said Madame in public. But in private, where once she had raged, now she smiled a creamy smile.

  It was, of course, mere coincidence that the new beloved’s health had begun to fail the very day that Madeleine had delivered the new lotion for Madame. Coincidence that Madame had had Thaïs take that same lotion, in a fine silver bottle, as a gracious gift from her to Mademoiselle de Fontanges.

  Laying out garments for Madame to wear, Thaïs spotted the fortune-teller’s seal at once. Her eyes met Madame’s in the mirror. Madame frowned, and her fingers moved away to select another note instead. Thaïs went back to her task, unfolding and shaking out the fine silk. Did Madame suspect her hand in the never-ending stream of satires that were printed in the capital? Perhaps. Yet Madame must also know how much else Thaïs knew about her, after twelve years of service.

  She was Madame’s confidential maid. That meant she was well-enough paid, relatively speaking, and trusted, up to a point. It did not mean she had to like Madame. A maid’s feelings were of little account, as long as she could maintain the appearance of loyalty and restrain her venality to petty things. She had never known why Madame had chosen her, out of all her servants, to be her companion on those furtive visits to the soothsayers and sorcerers of the capital. It had been an adventure at first, slipping through the streets in cloaks and hoods to watch odd women read the future in Madame’s palm, and recommend perfumes to tempt a king. But the perfumes had not worked for long. The king had a roving eye and little sense of loyalty, and Madame’s lovely figure lost some of its appeal through repeated childbearing. That was when the excursions grew darker and the rites performed became more desperate. Perfumes gave way to aphrodisiacs, while the courtiers watched and smirked and counted up the small humiliations endured by the fading favorite.

  Madeleine would have pitied her. Madeleine was soft-hearted and foolish. Thaïs did not pity Madame. One could not pity such a woman. Madame could scent pity from a league away and uprooted it without mercy. It was not the king—bloated and selfish and arrogant—that held Thaïs, though many of her colleagues professed to love him. It was not the court, in all its vainglory. It was not even Paris, with its cabarets and bookshops and protests. Perhaps it was simply that she could think of nothing else to do.

  Perhaps she was bound by Madame, complicit in her activities. She had said that, once, in her cups, to Gilles, who had looked at her, his eyes narrowed, and said nothing in return.

  And then, there was Madeleine. A child when Thaïs first saw her, gazing round-eyed over the rim of a cup at her mother’s lovely visitor. She had been pretty even then: Madame had exclaimed over that, cupping the child’s face in her hand. Ten years ago, or more: it had not been until she reached puberty that the angels had first spoken through Madeleine.

  She finished smoothing out the gown and turned to go. Madame’s sharp voice called her back. “Thaïs.”

  Thaïs turned again and dropped a curtsey. “Madame?”

  “Wait. I’m not happy with the neck of that dress. I shall want you to adjust it.”

  “Yes, Madame.” Thaïs retreated to the door while the other maids finished with Madame’s hair and the cosmetics for her face, and wound her into the lush layers of her garments. Jewels were hung in her ears, about her white throat, slid to glitter on her fingers. Musky perfume clung to her skin as she revolved slowly, examining her reflection in the longest mirror. Finally, she nodded, waving a hand to dismiss the maids. They filed out past Thaïs, one or two casting sharp glances at her from under their lashes. She looked away. They knew Madame used her to carry messages to her less savory friends. It had not made her popular.

  Well, and she could live with that. The last girl left, and, at a nod from Madame, Thaïs closed the door behind her. Madame said, “This neckline. . . .” She plucked at the lace, fretful, frowning. “It doesn’t lie properly. I told you to fix it.”

  Thaïs peered at the lace, patting it into place with her fingertips. She could see nothing wrong. But it did not do to contradict Madame. Instead, she fetched needle and thread from her pocket and set a tiny stitch at one edge, to hold the lace flat. “I beg your pardon, Madame. I trust that’s now acceptable.”

  Madame gave herself a perfunctory glance in the mirror. “It will do, I suppose.” She stepped backward. “Be more careful next time.”

  “Yes, Madame.”

  “I’m not sure about these earrings.” Crossing to her toilette table, Madame re-opened the jewelry box and began to pick through it.

  Thaïs followed her. The fortune-teller’s letter still lay on the tray. Carefully, she said, “Madame, the angel-speaker. . . .”

  “That woman does not know her place. And in the current circumstances. . . .” But Madame was distracted, holding up a new pair of earrings against her cheeks to try the effect. “Read it to me, will you.”

  “Yes, Madame.” Thaïs picked up the letter and turned it over. The seal snapped easily beneath her fingers: a shiver ran through her, and despite herself she looked over her shoulder. Nothing there. A draught. Versailles was full of draughts. She unfolded the letter, faint unease still spilling down her spine. The letter was short, little more than a note, scrawled in the fortune-teller’s clumsy hand. She read it quickly, voice low. “Esteemed Madame, finding my health declining, I send this letter to express my gratitude for your care for me and to commend to you my daughter Madeleine, in the h
ope that you will aid her as you have aided me.” The chill laid tighter hold: Thaïs dropped the letter back onto the tray and stood there, shivering.

  Madame looked up at her and frowned. “What is it now, silly girl? The woman wants money, I daresay.”

  “Yes, Madame.”

  “It can wait.” And, in a swish of brocade, Madame swept from the room.

  By noon, the news of the flight of the Comtesse de S_____ had spread across Paris and the court. Other great ladies began to censor their dressing tables and burn their correspondence. The following morning, the diviners La Vigoureux and Marie Bosse were first put to the question and then burned at the stake.

  Two days later, the police came for Madeleine.

  “She won’t do anything.” Thaïs set her cup down on the counter and pushed her hair back out of her face. “She has the ear of the king. It’s easy for her. And she won’t do anything.” She shoved the cup back towards Monsieur Gilles. “No one will touch her, she’s the safest person in France. But she won’t lift a finger.”

  Gilles studied her for a moment, taking in the sloppy male dress, the disheveled hair, the stains on a once starched collar. Then he took the cup away and replaced it with a mug of ale. Thaïs spat. “What’s that? I’m not English.”

  “Indeed not.”

  “Well, then. . . .”

  “But you are in my bar. Which means you drink what I give you.”

  “Hah.” But she picked up the mug and took a deep swallow. “Tastes like washing water.”

  “So I’ve been told.”

  “The things I know about her.... I could threaten to tell the king. . . .”

  Who would not listen. Sober, Thaïs would know that well enough. Gilles propped an elbow on the bar and looked at her again. A thread wound about the fingers of her right hand, tangling them. Too thin for most eyes to note, most likely. Certainly too thin for Thaïs to see, set as she was in her worldview of patronage and corruption. His brows drew down: he glanced quickly below the counter, at a tall black bottle.

  She had to ask. It was better that way. All he could do was wait. She finished the beer and wiped her mouth. Then she said, “The old woman is one thing. But Madeleine.... She’s done nothing. She doesn’t even remember what happens when her mother summons the voices. The angels. She’s just a silly girl.” Gilles said nothing, refilling her mug. She said, “There must be something. . . .”

  There was something. Gilles looked again at the bottle beneath the bar. Thaïs said, “It should be Madame, not her. Or one of those other court women. They’re the ones who wanted things.” She sighed, running a finger round the rim of the mug. “It should be me, I suppose. I went with Madame and I never said anything.”

  “What would you do if it was you?” He had to ask carefully, now. Leading was improper.

  “What do you think?” Thaïs shot him a wolfish smile. “What I do anyway. Let people know what they’re like, those courtiers.” The smile dropped. “Madeleine doesn’t know anything. But they’ll put her to the question anyway. And she’s such a little thing.”

  “Perhaps her mother will exonerate her.”

  She snorted, “Monsieur de La Reynie doesn’t believe anyone is innocent. That’s what they’re saying at court, anyway. The king believes it, too. He thinks everyone wants his love and favor and will do anything to get it.”

  Dangerous words, those, in any other Paris bar. Not so much here, where too many of the other patrons had heavy secrets of their own.

  Thaïs said, “Madame could save her. She should save her.” And then, at last, “I would, if I had the means.”

  Gilles’ hand closed on the bottle. He said, “I could help you.”

  “How?” Thaïs snorted, this time in derision. “Oh, you’re big enough, but not even you could overthrow Vincennes.”

  “There’s no need to overthrow Vincennes. But I can help you get her out.”

  She examined him narrowly, slowly. He could feel her gaze on his skin, weighing his reliability, his honesty, his sanity. He held still and, at the last, she dropped her gaze and nodded. “Do it, then.”

  He brought out the bottle and a clean drinking glass. Into it, he poured a single finger of a dark fluid. Then he set it in front of her. He said, “All you have to do is drink this, and wish. I’ll tell you how.”

  “You get five minutes,” the guard said. “No more. And I’ll be watching, so don’t try passing notes.”

  Thaïs nodded. It had cost her all she had earned for her last two satires to bribe her way this far. It would be enough, if what Gilles had promised was true. More than enough. She made herself look up and smile at the man. “Thank you, Monsieur. Your kindness means much to me.”

  The man shuffled his feet. “Just don’t make any trouble.”

  They reached a turn of the stair and he turned onto a small, cramped landing. Three doors led off it, all dark and heavy. He rummaged through the keys on his belt and selected one. Then he opened the lock on the left-most door. “In here.”

  The door opened on a small dank cell, lit only by a thin sliver of late daylight that squeezed its way through a long slit high in the wall. The floor was scattered with greasy straw: to one side, this had been heaped up to form a makeshift bed. Madeleine huddled on it, wrapped in a thin blanket. She did not look up at the sound of the door. Pain closed a hand on Thaïs. She crossed the room in three steps and crouched down. “Madeleine. Madeleine, it’s me.”

  Madeleine uncurled, raising a face smudged with soot and tears. Her long hair hung lank over her cheeks. She said, “You’re not. It’s a trick.”

  “It’s really me.” Thaïs reached out and put her hand on Madeleine’s shoulder. “See.”

  Madeleine gulped. “Did . . . did she send you? She must be kind, she’s so pretty.”

  Thaïs shook her head. Madeleine was likely to realize soon enough that Madame’s pretty face did not always guarantee kindness. Then she said, “No, I came by myself. To help you.”

  Madeleine clutched at her hand. “How?”

  “I’m going to get you out.” Thaïs’ heart pounded in her ears. If she did this, if she went through with it, she was signing her own death-warrant, most like. But Madeleine, sweet silly Madeleine, would go free, as the fortune-teller had wished. She glanced quickly over her shoulder at the hatch in the door, through which the guard watched them. He would take her words for comfort, for false hope. She turned back to Madeleine. “You liked my job, remember? All the pretty things?” Madeleine nodded, hanging onto her hand. “Would you like to do a job like that?”

  “Yes.” Madeleine’s voice was a whisper.

  “Well, when you leave here, that’s what you’ll do. You’ll have to be careful, especially at first, be quiet and polite and don’t make any fuss. Can you do that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then close your eyes, and wish hard, and it will happen. I promise. Do you believe me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Close your eyes, then. . . .” Madeleine squeezed her eyes tight shut. For a moment, Thaïs hesitated, listening to the thud of her own heart, the quick rhythm of her breath. She looked down at her hands, thin and brown and strong. Then she leaned forward, and kissed Madeleine on the lips.

  The room dipped: she gasped and fell forward. And then she opened her eyes and found herself gazing upwards from the straw bed into what used to be her own face.

  THE TAVERN FIRE

  D.B. Jackson

  Boston, March 19, 1760

  THERE was no fire when he woke. The room had gone cold and a bleak gray light seeped around the old cloth that hung over his window. He heard no wind, which was good. Tiller didn’t like the wind; not this time of year. But he wanted to see gold at the window edges, and there was none.

  He sighed and rolled out of bed, the ropes beneath his mattress groaning. He relieved himself and left the pot by his door, so that he wouldn’t forget to empty it. He did that sometimes.

  Then he dressed, donning a frock over his shir
t for warmth, shrugging on his coat over that, and pulling his Monmouth cap onto his head. He stepped to the door, pausing as always at the small portrait of his mother and father. He touched his fingers to his lips and then to the drawing.

  “Bye, Mama, Papa. I’ll be back later.”

  He opened the door, emptied the pot into the yard, and, after checking to see that the key hung around his neck, pulled the door shut.

  A leaden sky; still, icy air. Just as he had known.

  He heard Crumbs before he saw him; a coarse cawing and the rustle of silken feathers as the crow glided down from the roof to Tiller’s shoulder.

  “Good morning, Crumbs,” Tiller said. “Looks like we got a cold one today.” He fished into his coat pocket and found a morsel of stale bread, which he fed to the bird. Crumbs ate it greedily.

  “We’ll find more later. I’m hungry, too.”

  He started toward the cart, but before he reached it, he heard a door scrape behind him.

  “Thomas!”

  Tiller turned, but kept his gaze fixed on the ground. “Good morning, Peter,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry if we woke you.”

  “That’s not—you didn’t. It’s time for rent, Thomas.”

  Tiller knew that. Just as Peter knew that he didn’t like to be called Thomas. He hadn’t been Thomas since he was a boy. But it angered Peter when Tiller reminded him, and since Peter leased him the room, Tiller tried not to make him mad. A cousin should have known what to call another cousin. Tiller should have been allowed to remind Peter of that, at least. But he rented the room and he kept his mouth shut. He had heard bad stories about the almshouse.

  “Do you have the money, Thomas?”

  Tiller shook his head. “Not yet. But I will.”

  “Today is Wednesday, Thomas. You know that, right?”

  He nodded slowly. Yes, that sounded right. Wednesday.