Scene I Théâtre du Roi #2
Regnault had given me the mission after we finished a performance of Le Ma?tre de Malvaine.
There is a custom, at the Théatre, for the actors to mingle with the noblesse after every performance, the most popular receiving praise or expensive gifts from wealthy patrons in exchange for…
ah, favors. It always pained me to watch as the other actresses simpered for attention, allowing themselves to be dragged into shadowed corners by jewelry-dripping noblemen with greedy mouths.
I avoided such encounters—unless, of course, Regnault asked it of me.
That night, he’d come up behind me right as I had stepped off the stage. He’d bent to murmur in my ear: “The Ministre d’état is wearing a pendant of goddess-gold. I want you to get it for me.”
I am never one to refuse a challenge. After the curtain fell, I had allowed the King’s minister to corner me in this very stairwell, his breath stinking of wine and his brocade robes drenched in sweat.
I’d endured his wandering hands while I’d draped my arms around his shoulders, easily slipping the pendant from his neck.
Then I’d fled, mumbling some excuse, feigning a shy young girl too flustered by the attention of such a great man.
Regnault’s eyes had shone with excitement when I’d placed the pendant in his hand.
“This is it,” he’d exclaimed, holding the pendant to the light.
“With this, I will finally have enough magic for the spell. And when this is over, we will never have to scavenge again. We will have all the magic we desire, and I will teach you all I know.”
Now, Regnault’s eyes find mine, and I wonder if he is remembering the same moment I am. After a second, he tucks the pendant back under his collar. “The tests are over, little owl,” he says quietly. That nickname falls, weighted with burden, between us. “Do this and we will bring magic back.”
With that he turns away, cloak billowing around him. As soon as he is out of sight, I gulp in a deep breath, my pulse pounding.
Do this and we will bring magic back. A reminder of the true stakes of this mission.
The Couronne du Roi, the King’s enchanted crown, is the only goddess-gold object that contains enough magic for Regnault to summon back Morgane.
To force the kingdom’s once-patron to return and lift her curse from our lands.
A clamor sounds behind me, jerking me from my thoughts. I’ve tarried too long—the rest of the troupe is coming. I turn and hurry up the remaining steps, squaring my shoulders and putting on my signature devil-may-care grin as I emerge into the gallery.
It’s always unsettling to be above the stage and not upon it, looking out onto the echoing vastness of the auditorium.
The galleries spill before me like a bloom of fresh blood, every loge sheltering a row of chairs drenched in crimson velvet.
Sconces shaped like hands grip ruby-red candles, and gold shines from the balcony railings.
It’s a stark contrast to the dark of the parterre below, where the commoners are still filing from the room in a stifling herd.
The noblesse peer down at them from the loges, gossiping shamelessly and sipping from crystalline flutes.
In a way, they are no less garish than the troupe in their costumes, faces powdered white, heads crowned in perukes and ostrich feathers.
Dark fabrics have become popular as of late—deep emeralds and muddy blues and even true blacks dominate, making the crowd appear as if they are gathered for mourning.
Mourning what, I couldn’t tell you—probably the death of fashion.
There’s a flurry of activity behind me as the rest of the troupe catches up, spilling out at my heels. Many nobles rise to greet them with delighted cries, as though spotting their favorite animal at a zoo.
I step to the side and pause, casting my gaze around for my prize.
It’s not hard to locate Marie d’Odette—she stands out from the crowd in her pale hues, a wash of watercolor against a world of somber oil paint.
Anticipation rises within me, and I plunge into the crowd, skirting by actors and dancers and noblesse.
A gaggle of noble girls, chortling over sloshing drinks, momentarily obscures Marie from my sight.
They are close to my age, and I guess they are also candidates for future queen, hoping to catch the Dauphin’s eye tomorrow night.
As I slip by, one of them snorts loudly, her watery eyes landing on me.
“Look, that one’s dressed like a boy. I bet it’s because she makes such an ugly girl. ”
I tilt up my chin and throw her a derisive glare. I long to start a fight, but that would risk my mission. And Regnault’s plans are more important than my honor—more important than anything else.
Still, the damage is done. When I look away from the girls, Marie d’Odette has vanished.
Muffling a growl of annoyance, I pick up the pace, threading between the crowd until I spot her again: she is stepping through one of the arched exits connecting the loges to the entrance hall, fastening a ribbon-trimmed cloak around her narrow shoulders.
Marie d’Odette has changed. Gone is the girl I remember from my youth, the troublemaker with a fawn’s exuberant gait, who bounded more than walked as she pulled me around the Chateau.
Now she practically glides over the marble, as precise and graceful as a dancer.
There is no emotion in her face, no wonder in her eyes.
It’s enough to fool nearly anyone into thinking she’s just another noblewoman.
Perfectly proper, contemptuously cultured.
But I know better—it’s all a mask. And I’ve seen her take it off.
During the play, when when attention was on the stage and she thought no one was looking, she’d raised her hands, long and dexterous, to the railing of her box and begun fluttering them to the rhythm of the music.
There’d been a frantic sort of longing to it, as though she might leap over the railing and spread a pair of pearly wings, alight among the dancers, and join them in a caper.
She may act like she’s a forlorn deity, but even goddesses have desires. And I intend to exploit this one.
I pause just behind her and set my feet apart, putting my hands on my hips. “Leaving already?” I call out, adding a petulant note to my voice.
Marie turns, and I suck in a breath. She was always striking in appearance, but now she looks revoltingly good.
Her formerly cherubic face has taken on a celestial regality, her cheekbones high and her silver eyes knowing.
Her full lips, once always twitching into an eager smile, are now shackled into an expression of demure politeness.
When she sees me—when she recognizes me—they part in surprise.
“It’s you !”
Her voice is surprisingly low—soft in a way I don’t remember, lilting and polite in a way that sounds feigned.
I can’t help the flash of resentment that the sound of it sends through me.
For an instant I am thirteen again, humiliation heating my cheeks as a pair of hands lifts prismatic diamonds from my throat.
Come away. You’re going to get your dress dirty.
I shove the memory back, ignoring the taste of betrayal it leaves behind. With meticulous precision, I curl my smile into one of friendly mischief. “Is it? I hadn’t noticed.” I make a show of inspecting myself. “Ah, yes, so it is. Unfortunate.”
Marie blinks at my antics, disbelief still in her eyes.
“Odile,” she says, as though I’m some sort of fairy-tale creature come to life.
Then she collects herself, shaking her head minutely, scrubbing any excitement from her face.
When she next speaks, it’s courteously subdued.
“I—I thought I saw you onstage, but then I thought I was imagining it. When did you join the Théatre?”
“Oh, some time ago,” I say vaguely—a lie in line with all the others I told her once upon a time. “But tell me, Mademoiselle d’Auvigny—what are you doing here all alone and forlorn?”
She frowns. “I am not forlorn.”
I cross my arms. “It seemed to me you were making a rather swift exit. Some might even call it an escape .”
A smile tugs at her lips, but she quickly smothers it. “I protest. I was making my graceful and very distinguished retirement. Which I should probably resume.” She dips a shallow curtsy and continues toward the entrance hall.
“Wait,” I call after her. “Can’t you postpone said retirement an hour or two? I have an offer for you.”
Marie hesitates, and I hold my breath. To my relief, she glances back at me.
“I…” She pauses, eyes flicking up and down the corridor. Ensuring that no one is witnessing her continuing to interact with a lowly peasant, I’m certain. But we’re on our own for the most part—the noblesse have either gone into the main hall to gossip or hidden themselves in the more private loges.
Slowly, Marie allows a glimmer of curiosity to enter her eyes. “What is the offer?”
“Remember how you always used to wonder what the backstage of the Théatre was like? What if I showed you around?”
Immediately, she shakes her head. “Oh, no. Thank you, but I cannot.”
“Certainly you can.”
“No, I mean… Things have changed, Odile.” She looks away, lacing her fingers together nervously. “I cannot simply run off anymore.”
I’m losing her. I can’t let that happen. “It’s really a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, you know,” I say impishly. “Usually we only give tours to our most generous of patrons.”
That makes her eyes narrow. “But I haven’t paid you at all, so why are you offering me this?”
I have to hand her this: she’s not as na?ve as she used to be.
“Out of self-interest,” I say honestly— hide a lie in a truth, Papa always says , and it’s harder to find. “Everyone is whispering that you are the one most likely to be picked by the Dauphin tomorrow.”
But at the mention of the Dauphin, Marie’s expression flickers strangely. “I suppose so,” she says, looking away.
I don’t have time to contemplate her reaction. “Well, just in case, I’d like to win your favor. Every actress wants a wealthy patron, after all.”
Marie laughs, but even that is strained—as though she might be punished for anything too expressive. “When did you become so sly?”
“It’s a vicious world out there, Mademoiselle d’Auvigny. I’m clever when I have to be and run away when I can. So”—I hold my arm out to her in a gentleman’s fashion—“what do you say? Can you truly refuse a little bit of freedom?”
That seems to finally do the trick. Marie glances toward the exit, then to me, then toward the boisterous crowd in the distance. A light appears in her eyes, hesitant yet hungry, and I know she’s fallen into my trap at last.
“I suppose…” Marie places a skittish, silver-pale hand on my arm. “I suppose I could, if it does not take too long.”
“I will keep it brief, I promise,” I say, holding back a smug, triumphant smile. “Believe me, Marie—you have no idea what’s in store for you.”