Belle Révolte

by Linsey Miller

  He left.

  Then we went on with our day as if nothing had gone wrong, none of us able to save Florice, and the eyes of the people around, from the varlets to the guards to the physicians to the other hacks, too threatening to let us near him. We all, I hoped, disagreed with Pièrre.

  But disagreeing wasn’t enough. Thoughts weren’t enough. Words weren’t enough. Inaction—Pièrre’s calculated inaction—was a killer. What sort of comtesse was I if I didn’t act? What sort of person?

  That night I told Madeline I was going to take a bath, but instead, I snuck back to the courtyard.

  Pièrre was going to let Florice die the slow, painful death of sepsis, and there was no part of me that could swallow that truth.

  But when I reached the courtyard, a dark figure was already bowed over Florice, magic flowing from him to Florice’s injuries. Stareaters fluttered about them, white and threatening, and their light flickered across the grass in quick cuts. No one else was around as far as I could see. The fool tending Florice pushed more magic into him.

  That would only wear Florice down faster. All we could do for him was take away the pain or kill him quickly.

  “Stop.” I sprinted to them and paused. “Rainier?”

  He spun, breath leaving in a terrified, stilted sigh. “Lord, you know how to not sneak up on someone?”

  “What are you doing?” I took his hands and used my own magic to stop Rainier. It was night and it was harder, but there was enough left in me to do it. “It’ll kill him faster.”

  Rainier, white skin ghostly in the moonlight, nodded. “I know. He knows too.”

  “Hacks never do have survival instincts,” Florice said. Up close, he was younger than I had thought, and that hurt more. His coat and vest were undone, and his shirt had been pulled up, revealing the hole that had once been his stomach. Two brave Stareaters crawled along the yawning wound, their wings a sickening shade of pink. “You all shouldn’t have come.”

  He smelled of damp earth and singed hair, magic leeching the life from his body even now. A mushroom stalk grew from the jagged edge of a rib, the same way a spine grew—slowly folding in on itself over and over until more cells bloomed. The cap was the pink-streaked gray of brain matter.

  Power corrupted, taking what we were and making us into someone else. Something new, terrible, and incompatible with mortal life.

  “But we did,” I said, and before I could speak, I felt the tug of magic behind me. I spun and raised my hands.

  Madeline appeared from the shadows. “What are you two doing?”

  “Apparently,” I said and dropped my hands, the magic I had gathered dwindling, “we all had the same idea.”

  She sighed and her shoulders slumped. I nodded her over to my side.

  “One of us want to keep watch while the rest of us work?” I asked.

  “I can.” Rainier pulled his blue coat back on. “Someone sees you, they investigate. I can at least distract them.”

  “You new hacks?” Florice asked, coughing.

  Madeline nodded. “I can stop you from feeling pain, though. May I?”

  He nodded, and she began to work on his more painful wounds. His fluttering gaze drifted from her to me.

  “You’re good at this.” He wiped his nose on his shoulder. Blood speckled his teeth. “And you’re breaking a lot of rules for someone none of you have met.”

  “We’re hacks. It’s what we’re supposed to do.” Madeline laughed softly, her magic a balm against his body’s betrayal. “You are a very good patient.”

  Pièrre was going to let him die. His own hack.

  “It’s what physicians are supposed to do,” I said. “Risk their own lives to save others.”

  “Noon. Bloodletters.” Florice coughed and shook his head. “You want to save others, you go there and do something about Demeine.”

  Laurel.

  “I will,” I said softly. “You’re going to live a while. The arts will wear off by then, as soon as the power eats through the nerves she’s blocking.”

  Madeline glanced at me. “You can see the ones I—”

  “Yes.” I licked my lips. “I can make you think you’re something else, somewhere better.”

  Florice laughed, and the Stareaters leapt from his chest, the wound wider now. “Changing thoughts is physicianry and even then, most don’t bother with alchemistry.”

  It had been easier, as a child, to change my thoughts rather than change the world around me.

  “I had to run away to come here and used body alchemistry to do it,” I said, and it was only a half lie. I had tried to run away and failed. “I can, but you have to let me in.”

  Back home, I had a guard named Edouard who was wonderful and kind, whose mind I had crept into. It was harder to filter through to what I wanted since he had fought me, but eventually I had sent him to sleep, a little twist of alchemistry here and a little nudge of his body there. I had made sure his dreams were nice. He deserved that much.

  “Do it,” Florice said.

  I pulled the power I kept in me free and gathered it in my hands, letting the pieces sink into the smallest, most ethereal pieces of Florice’s mind.

  “Think of your favorite memory,” I said. “Then keep thinking of it.”

  I had not done this before, not on this level, and I had known Edouard for ages. He had been my personal guard since I was three, but an oddness swam in Florice’s veins with me. His body was in a panic, every part of him shutting down slowly as the magic of the noonday arts ate away at him. I tucked my power into his body and calmed myself. His body mimicked me.

  One breath, one thought.

  The memory he had selected played out, sparks of life, between the gaps of his brain. I latched onto it, dug my magic into his mind, and forced the sparks to replay over and over again.

  Like lightning.

  A hand closed over my wrist. “He’s dreaming.”

  Madeline.

  “We have to go,” Rainier said, hand on Madeline’s arm. “Now.”

  For a brief moment, my magic still alive, we were all connected, and I could see the power in all of us.

  I shook my head and my vision cleared. “Let’s go.”

  The connection faded as quickly as it had come.

  Eight

  Annette

  Estrel started with the older students. I went to classes like normal, new clothes fitted to me and worlds better than the old ones. Breakfast got worse, but I wasn’t so bad Estrel took notice, and Isabelle was getting better. Watching her go from endlessly blinking and tense with clenched hands, to a steady smile and a chin held as high as Coline’s was the only good part of my mornings. And Coline was getting better at mathematics.

  I wasn’t getting better at faking interest in bookkeeping with Madame Bisset. Isabelle and I had taken to sitting together, mostly so we wouldn’t have to keep correcting Coline’s miscalculations. Isabelle paid attention in each class as if her life depended on it, something I did in all our other classes, but Bisset’s was still a struggle. We were going over the sections of the ledgers Laurel had stolen from Chevalier des Courmers, and Bisset had a whole list of advice for the folks who were as outraged about the expenses as Laurel. More and more posters were showing up in Bosquet, driving a wedge between most of us. A lot of the students were sad about the state of things and wished they could do something. Bisset had taken to providing us advice we could tell folks who needed it.

  “Frugality,” she said one morning. “It is not a word but a way of life, and it is very important to save money when you can.”

  I groaned, and Isabelle kicked my foot.

  “Buying leaner cuts of meat may save only a small amount, but it adds up,” said Bisset. “Frivolity leads to failure, and it will be your job to look after the household expenses.”

  “That’s terrible
advice,” I whispered to Isabelle.

  A person could only buy cheaper things if they had the money to buy things. Buy less wasn’t good advice for the folks who liked Laurel. We didn’t have money to be frugal with. We paid our dues to whomever owned our land and survived. Least we had land too. Folks in cities depended on whatever they got paid.

  She glanced at me.

  “It is!” I hissed.

  Isabelle rolled her lips together and muttered, “It’s good advice and common. You just don’t like her.”

  “I can dislike her and think her advice is bad.”

  All of Bisset’s advice was for people with money who made bad decisions. Or at least ones she considered bad.

  “Girls?” Bisset asked. “Is there something you would like to share with the rest of us?”

  I looked up and found the whole room looking at us. Isabelle withered.

  “No, Madame,” she said. “I’m sorry. Please continue.”

  That afternoon, Vivienne sat next to me as I was reading with Germaine between classes.

  “Emilie,” Vivienne said. “I find it curious that given your mind for mathematics, you would have such trouble with bookkeeping. Your mother, when first broaching the topic of you coming here, said much the same—you had the mind for most things but no desire to apply that knowledge as required.”

  Germaine stared studiously at her own book on Deme fencing history. I had been reading Emilie’s most recent letter—Perhaps foolishly I believed that my time here would be easy, but the world is not as I anticipated, and I must admit, on this side of it, I wish I had learned how to scry.

  “Madame Bisset says I get distracted.” That much was true. It was easier being Emilie des Marais than I thought it would be. She’d spat in the face of most of this knowledge, but it meant my being bad at most things was expected. “Sentimentality, she called it.”

  “Ah.” Vivienne patted my hand. “Sometimes, we must present the appearance of acceptance while working toward change. Practice doing what Madame Bisset says, dear. If nothing else, you’ll learn how to better control your expressions. And do try not to embarrass Isabelle during class. Unlike you, she does not have a legacy to fall back on.”

  When Vivienne was gone, Germaine lowered her book, face unreadable, and said, “Vivienne had to hire Madame Bisset last year at His Majesty’s insistence.”

  “Why?” This was a school for people he hadn’t even let into the lawmakers’ court until a group of nobles pushed for laws so their daughters could inherit. “And bookkeeping’s normal, it’s just—”

  “They think Vivienne has grown soft in her ways and needs a noble hand to guide her,” said Germaine. “You’ve never been to court, but I have with my father. It is believed the Laurel issue is because we have weakened and given ground to needless sympathy. Kalthorne has taken advantage of us, and now our people follow their example.”

  Germaine’s father was the baron de Beldeme in the northeast corner of Demeine, far too close to Kalthorne for comfort, and too small now that there were a dozen different taxes imposed on Thornish trade. The court said it was because Kalthorne was too stingy.

  “But you’re in charge of nearly all the bookkeeping for your lands and the crown’s lands,” I said. “You know that’s not true.”

  Politics, so far as I could tell, was lying until the truth got too worn down to care.

  “So I do.” Germaine marked her place in her book and closed it. “Did you know that in 1268 Before Midnight, a Deme duchesse challenged the marquis who was set to inherit her estate to a duel for it, pretended he had mortally injured her, and then as he approached to check, disarmed him? It’s a fascinating tale, but it was ripped from most books. His Majesty hates it.”

  So what? I should let Bisset think she’d won? That wasn’t enough. I wanted more. I wanted to do something.

  “I’m deaf in my left ear,” Germaine said suddenly, fingers crushing the book. “It’s hard to notice—I was taught to deal with the world, the world wasn’t designed for me—and I love Vivienne, but sometimes she is misguided. She doesn’t understand the small aggressions some of us deal with every day. Instead of asking me to leave or taking you outside, she pretends I’m not here.” She sniffed. “Demeine makes the people it doesn’t want invisible. Does that make sense?”

  “I know what you mean.” I shook my head when she raised an eyebrow. “Not the same thing, not at all, but I know what you mean about Demeine making us invisible.”

  She studied me for a moment and nodded. “Help those you can, but especially help one another.”

  As Emilie des Marais, I had enough power to help without getting hanged, and I wanted to help Demeine.

  “Thank you,” I said, gathering up my things. “For everything.”

  After supper, I lay in bed, Coline’s sleeping mask across my eyes, and asked if she knew the story of the Deme duchesse.

  “It’s my favorite,” Coline said, and I could hear her sneer. “They called her the Dishonorable Duchesse, and she said her people were worth far more than her honor. Her direct line ended when Henry du Rand overthrew the last queen and tore the names of every family who stood against him from the history books. I wish I knew her name. I think Laurence du Montimer’s family is distantly related to her, though.”

  She broke no rules, only a noble’s pride, and kept her estate.

  “Are you visiting the kitchens tonight?” Coline laughed and smiled in that breathy way that meant nothing funny was happening. “For sustenance.”

  “I usually eat toast,” I said, confused. “Why? You want some?”

  Coline closed her eyes and shook her head.

  The door creaked open. I lifted the mask, spying Isabelle peeking around the door. She blushed when she saw me.

  “I embarrassed you, did I?” I asked.

  “Yes, but I didn’t, you see, I—” She sighed and shut the door behind her. “She asked me what was wrong, and I couldn’t lie, so I told her I was still a little upset about class. You didn’t get in trouble, did you?”

  I shook my head. She collapsed onto my bed next to me.

  “I feel stuck,” she said. “I want to do something. I know you’re still having trouble with the silver room—”

  “That’s putting it kindly,” Coline muttered.

  “—you don’t know the meaning of the word,” Isabelle said quickly, eyes rolling to glare at Coline before she turned back to me. “But even though you’re having trouble, I know you can see things. I mean, I know you can scry.”

  “That’s sort of the point.” I pulled one hand free and tucked a blanket over Isabelle’s hands. “I can’t stop seeing things.”

  “But they’re clearer than what I’m seeing,” she said. “I need to scry my brother.”

  “That’s against the rules.” Coline lunged across my lap and bed, ripping the blankets off with her—she only ever managed to mess up my bed—and grabbed Isabelle by the shoulders. “I’m so proud of you.”

  Isabelle swallowed. Even when faced with Coline, she managed to keep her emotions hidden. “I don’t care.”

  Mostly hidden.

  “I love a good nighttime sneak about,” Coline said and rolled off the bed. She started riffling through my wardrobe. “We’ll wear socks—they’re quieter—and I’ll keep watch. If this were illusions or some foray into the noonday arts, I would join you, but this will keep me out of the way.”

  “Least we found a way to do that,” I told Isabelle. “Why do you want to scry him?”

  “He’s a hack for a chevalier, and he hasn’t written me in a while.” She shifted. “And if you could divine him, I would appreciate that too.”

  When Isabelle was thinking, she chewed on the dry skin around her nails, and Vivienne, no matter how many creams and oils she provided, had not been able to break Isabelle of the habit. I pulled her hands out from
under the blanket. Red lined the cracks around each nail.

  “I can’t divine,” I told her, hands still clasping hers. “But I’ll try to scry him. Just promise me if I ever say something embarrassing again, you’ll come to me instead of talking to Vivienne.”

  Isabelle threw her arms around my shoulders. “Thank you.”

  “Excellent,” Coline said, throwing open the door. “Let’s go.”

  We crept downstairs and stole a bowl from the silver room, sneaking into one of the private study rooms with a skylight. I sat on the floor, back to the wall and moonlight streaming in from the windows behind and above me, and Isabelle sat next to me. It was a crescent night. Vivienne wasn’t holding lessons in the midnight arts tonight because Estrel was here, and Estrel insisted on teaching during the day when we were at our weakest. There was so much power in the night, ribbons of moonlight that pooled in my palms and seeped into me, and I channeled it into the bowl. Isabelle’s thigh pressed against mine as she leaned in closer. A ring fell into my open hands.

  “His name is Gabriel,” she whispered. “He gave that to me.”

  And there he was, my magic plucking the leftover pieces of him from the ring. Everyone, especially artists, changed the world wherever they went. Imprints of power left behind. I dropped the ring into the bowl.

  “As I said, I can’t divine, but I can try to scry him.”

  My lungs were too tight, my breaths too fast, the flutter in my heart too heavy, and all of it felt wonderful. Divining was all about the details, the magic a touch less controllable and its power several touches less than Lord Sun’s. There were as many possible futures as there were stars. I hadn’t divined since I was a child, the wrong stars were all that I found. Scrying was safer.

  A chevalier in armor light as ash. A one-handed sword in a hack’s worn-down, bandaged hands. He ran a palm down the sword, magic bubbling and burrowing into the steel, and handed the chevalier the hilt. The blade thinned and lengthened, deadly sharp point bright in the sunlight of a battlefield strewn with bloodied wheat.