Scene XVII The Château Gardens
Night
Immediately Buttons is in my hand, pointing toward my assailant’s throat.
“This again?” A warm, familiar voice brushes against my ear, sending shivers across my skin.
I freeze. “Marie?”
Indeed, I turn to find Marie d’Odette standing behind me, hands held up in surrender, a mildly surprised look on her face and Buttons’s muzzle inches from the elegant curve of her jaw. “Tell me,” she says. “Do you always greet people by threatening to shoot them?”
I lower Buttons, rolling my eyes, and then look around to ensure that we are well concealed from the Chateau.
Thankfully, we are far from the palace, hidden by high hedges and the obscuring fingers of darkness.
Neither of us carries a light, and I can hardly make out Marie’s features by the waning moon.
Still I squat, pulling her down with me in case a guard walks by.
Only then do I relax slightly. Marie’s skirts billow around her as she crouches, and I notice something is different about her clothing. She’s no longer wearing the oceanic gown from the first night, but a dress and cloak of rougher make, a plain skirt and bodice in shades of washed-out blue.
“What happened to your clothes?” I hiss.
“Took a trip into Verroux last night after you left,” she answers in a whisper. “Ran into a young seamstress opening her shop and traded them for something less… assuming, and a bit of coin. She was rather excited about it. It was a very expensive dress,” she adds, sniffing.
“What were you doing in the city?” I ask, trying to keep the anxiety out of my voice. Has she told anyone what happened at the lake?
“Exploring,” she says, and her eyes are bright enough that I can almost mistake her for the girl I knew in my youth. “It was rather wonderful. To walk around in a city in the dark, where no one cared who I was or how I looked or how I was dressed.”
“I’m glad you’re living out all your peasant dreams,” I say tartly. “I’m sure you’ll have a wonderful time indeed once you get robbed or worse.”
“I’m not that incautious,” she assures me. “I know to be careful.” She hesitates, her eyes dragging over me unhappily. “Do you think you could… ah, change? This is getting rather odd.”
I realize with a start that I am still wearing the owl-face pendant. Marie hasn’t been seeing Odile—she’s been speaking to a dark mirror of herself, dressed in obsidian satin instead of sophisticated silver, pistol in hand.
“You’re taking this rather well, all things considered,” I remark. “Close your eyes and I’ll change back to myself.” I don’t want to give her the opportunity to snatch the pendant.
“Very well,” she says, and squeezes her eyes shut.
I unclip the necklace and slip it into the pocket of my jacket. “There. You can open your eyes now, Mademoiselle d’Auvigny.”
She looks me over, taking in my true appearance with a strange, appreciative heat. “Much better.” Then she sighs heavily, her mood sobering. “Odile, we need to talk.”
“Why?”
“Because after what you told me yesterday, I decided to do some investigating of my own.” She clasps her hands in front of her, long fingers twining together.
“I flew over the palace this morning and spent the afternoon in the basin of one of the fountains. As the sun was setting, I saw a cloaked figure walking across the grounds. I thought it might be a maid, but when I looked again, I realized it was Anne de Malezieu.”
I lean closer, intrigued.
“Naturally I followed her, flying overhead. She walked across the gardens to the rightmost boundary wall, the one that runs along the forest. I lost sight of her once she was under the trees. She reappeared sometime later, holding a little bundle to her chest. She went back into the castle through the servant’s exit. ”
My heart is already thumping with excitement. “Can you show me the place where she disappeared?”
“That’s why I came,” she says. “I think I can retrace the way on foot well enough.”
Our journey across the grounds is slow, cautious, careful of patrolling guards.
By the time we reach the Chateau’s boundary, the night has plunged into its darkest hours, and we can barely make out the jagged woodland ahead.
I withdraw a little candle from my pocket and light it, carefully shielding it with my hand.
It spreads tingling heat down my fingers.
“This is the place,” Marie says, her tone hushed and tight with anticipation.
The wall along the boundary must date back to Auréal’s middle ages; it is made of ancient, crumbling stone and coated with moss.
As I hold my candle up toward it, I notice it is broken up by a small archway: a thick, wild tangle of blackberries blocks what appears to be a rotting wooden door, stained by lichen and crooked on its hinges.
“It looks like there’s a narrow path back here,” Marie says, peering behind the briars, her back pressed to the wall.
She gathers her skirts against herself and shoves her way through the thorns, toward the old door.
I follow behind her, shielding the candle; the rough stone scrapes against my shoulders.
Marie pushes open the door, and I’m about to reach her, when—
“Ow!” I jerk back at the sudden pain. I’ve been so focused on keeping my candle away from the briars that I did not notice the giant thorn until it was stabbing into my skin.
I stare down at my arm, at the deep gash already welling with shimmering blood.
A mangled flap of my skin hangs off the thorn, shivering in the wind.
“Are you all right?” Marie asks worriedly, midway through wrestling the old door open.
I grit my teeth against the sting. “Fine,” I say. “It’s just a scratch.”
It doesn’t feel like a scratch, but I’m not about to admit that. I finish struggling past the thorns and slip through the gate as Marie holds it open, ignoring the wet stickiness of the blood on my arm.
The forest engulfs me immediately. It is dark and damp, the smell ancient, like old bones rotting by a riverside.
The trees seem to fidget restlessly, rubbing against one another, boughs clattering and trunks creaking.
Ahead, a small path snakes between the trees, bare branches and evergreen fronds forming a latticework overhead, the soil underfoot crackling with pine needles.
Strange, spindly plants cluster on either side, their shadows crooked and lengthened by candlelight.
“They’re blooming ,” Marie says in surprise. She crouches by a patch of the plants, carding her hands gently through its curled leaves. Like any flowers that survived Morgane’s curse, these are wrinkled, unsightly things, their edges curling like burnt paper.
But Marie coos at them, gathering a few blossoms carefully in her palm. “Oh, how long it has been since I’ve seen real flowers,” she murmurs. “Look, Odile.”
I wipe the stream of blood off my arm and onto my shirt, ignoring the aggressive throb of pain, and walk over to her side, eyeing the little blooms in Marie’s cupped hands. In the faint light of my candle, her skin looks just as soft as their petals, and I have a sudden urge to touch her palms.
Obviously, I resist it. Instead, I pluck one of the flowers and hold it between my fingers. I squint at it and notice with a start the color of its petals—a familiar sickly yellow.
Medicine, Aimé had said. For my nerves.
“This is what she comes here for,” I say in realization. Marie looks at me questioningly, and I tell her about the drinks I’ve seen the Step-Queen give Aimé.
“I never saw him drink anything like that when we were children,” she says, her brows drawing together. “It seems odd.”
“Odder still,” I add, “why come here disguised? Surely if it’s only a mundane medicine, there would be no need to keep the location of these flowers secret.”
Marie’s eyes widen. “Do you think it could be poison?”
I nod, chewing on my bottom lip.
Marie huffs. “I never did like that woman.”
“She seems to have a particular hatred for you,” I agree. “Care to explain?”
Marie glances at me in surprise, curling her fingers around the flowers. “You… you really don’t know why?”
I have my suspicions, most of them revolving around a diamond necklace, but I don’t tell her that.
“If you don’t know, then I’m glad,” she says, and that’s all. Her tone makes it clear that she doesn’t wish to continue the topic, and I don’t pry, focusing back on the flowers.
“The Step-Queen has a motive,” I reason. “If she were to kill Aimé, her son would be next in line. That would only give her more power.”
“Yes,” Marie agrees. “It does, though—” Her attention abruptly drops to my arm. “By the Mothers, Odile!”
Her sudden exclamation makes me jump. Disconcerted, I follow her gaze from the flowers to my arm, and the breath whistles out of me.
I was so distracted by our discovery that I had forgotten about the pain in my arm.
Now I see that my entire forearm is marbled in streaks of gilded blood, and I have left a trail of shimmering drops behind me on the narrow path.
Marie reaches for my arm, but I pull away instinctively. All I can think of is Regnault’s thunderous gaze the first time he saw me injured, his scolding words. Since then, I’ve never let anyone see my wounds. Not even Damien.
“No,” I say, too sharply. My voice rings in the silence. Marie’s lips part in surprise, and I force myself to take a shuddering breath. More quietly, I grit out, “I’m fine. I can deal with it myself.”