Scene XX The Lake
A Starry Night
Three days have passed since my last turbulent parting with Marie d’Odette.
Seething with irritation, I decide that it is perhaps best to offer her an olive branch, so I filch a few pastries from the kitchens and take a cloak along with me.
It’s a surprisingly pleasant night, clear and bright, and the lake is perfectly still, dusted with the reflections of stars.
I find Marie in her usual spot, watching the lake’s swans as they slumber nearby.
I expect her to meet me with some level of aloofness—or perhaps even anger, considering how I stormed off on her last time. But when she sees me again, she merely tilts her head to the side, eyes bright. “I knew you couldn’t stay away for long.”
My heart gives an excited skip at the sound of her voice. I scowl. “Don’t be so pleased, princess. I need you for something.”
“Of course you do,” she says serenely. “How’s your arm?”
“Still attached.”
She laughs, and it sounds like spring rain, pure and sweet. I want to gather it up in my palms, feel it trickle between my fingers. I want to forget I ever heard it.
Mothers, I hate her.
“Odile—” Marie begins, her voice growing serious.
She’s going to say something about our argument, and it’s not something I want to talk about. “Forget it,” I say. “I cursed you. It’s your right to irritate me to the ends of the earth.”
She shakes her head. “I just wanted to tell you that I don’t… You’re not just a puzzle. That’s not how I think of you.”
For some reason, her words make my cheeks prickle with heat. “I said, forget it!” I snap, loud enough that one of the swans twitches awake.
Marie flinches back, startled. “My apologies.”
“No, it’s…” I run my hand over my face and then remember the pastries I’ve wrapped up in paper and tucked beneath my cloak. “I brought you something. An olive branch.” I set the pastries down beside her, utterly refusing to make eye contact.
I hear the rustle as Marie unfolds the paper, then her delighted gasp. “Oh, Odile, do you know how long it’s been since I’ve eaten a pastry?”
“I thought it was a staple of the noblesse diet,” I say resentfully. “It’s all I’ve been eating. I’m surprised my blood hasn’t turned into powdered sugar yet.”
That elicits another laugh from her, and the effect it has on my body is so physical, I can imagine it being found protruding from my innards if I am ever dissected. She picks up a small, somewhat crushed cream puff, takes a careful bite, and swallows.
“You know, when I’m a swan, there are some instincts I can’t resist,” she says.
I cock my head. “What do you mean?”
“Well, I’ve been living off pondweed.”
“You’re joking.”
The mournful look she gives me reveals that she is decidedly not joking. “My human brain tells me it’s disgusting. My bird brain tells me it’s delicious.”
I snort at that, then quickly cover my mouth. “Sorry. It’s not funny. I, uh, did this to you.”
She glances at me sideways, her smile small and fond.
“What?” I demand.
“I haven’t heard you laugh like that since we were girls.”
I don’t know how to respond. I pick up a macaron and stuff it petulantly into my mouth.
I sit quietly for a moment, the sugary confection melting on my tongue. Then abruptly Marie says, “Did you find anything more about those strange flowers?”
I shake my head. “I tried, but it seems I found only more mysteries.” Quickly I recount to her the events of the past few days, from my father’s arrival to my confrontation with the Step-Queen. When I’m done, Marie taps her knuckle to her mouth contemplatively, then suddenly gets to her feet.
“Come on,” she says. “Let’s go to the city.”
“The city?” I echo.
“We could look for an apothecary’s shop. Where better to ask about mysterious herbs?”
“Will any be open at this hour?” Though I came to see Marie as soon as I could escape without notice, it’s still rather late—eight or nine, at least.
“Surely at least one must be.” Her eyes glitter eagerly, and I huff.
“You want to explore the city.”
“Perhaps,” she says, flicking her hair over her shoulder.
I stare, unable to restrain a fond smile of my own at seeing her old adventurous authority shine through her usual veil of propriety. I should refuse. Verroux is dangerous—Verroux at night doubly so. But she is right. Perhaps the city will hold answers the Chateau does not.
“Very well, then,” I say. “But we won’t go too far past the upper quarters, and we avoid trouble at all costs.”
Marie’s lips curl up. “Between the two of us, that’s rather a tall order, wouldn’t you say?”
I have little love for Verroux. It’s a spider’s web of a city, unraveling in thin, slick threads from the cathedral at its heart, clinging to the Théatre on one side and the fat, snaking Verroux river on the other.
Upper Verroux is for the wealthy, for lesser nobles and merchants and fanciful shops, the buildings neat and clean and fronted by arches and columns.
Marie and I weave through them cautiously, seeking any promising establishments.
The upper sector appears to have only one apothecary.
It is, to my dismay, closed, forcing us to leave the secure embrace of orderly streets to continue our search.
As the city deepens, its facade of finesse peels away like an apple skin, revealing a moldering brown core.
Filth lines the flagstone roads; livestock brays in muddy pens; beggars slump in alleys.
We stick to the main street—the evening is cold, but the streets are lively, music erupting from nearby taverns and drunk men swaying under eaves.
Eventually the main street spits us out into a town square, meant for markets and gatherings.
In the center is a neglected fountain depicting the Good Mothers, their hands outspread.
Once, I imagine, water would have burst from their palms. Now they are still, a fine layer of frost spread over the basin’s green water.
A fiddler plays nearby, and a young urchin entertains a small crowd with a gambling game.
Marie draws her cloak tighter around her shoulders. She starts forward eagerly, ravenously taking in the chaos of the square.
“Wait.” I tug her back, feeling strangely protective.
The wonder in her eyes is that of someone unaware of the world’s darkness—and though this area of Verroux is safe enough, I’ve learned that safe enough is the siren song of danger.
“We have to be careful,” I whisper. “Two young women out unescorted is certain to draw attention.”
Sure enough, one of the gamblers turns to stare at us, beady eyes glistening. I try to pull Marie even closer, but her attention has already caught on a small shop across the square, with candlelight still flickering inside and jars of what looks like herbs in the windows.
“That looks promising,” she says. “Come on. It might still be open.” To my shock, she seizes my hand in her own, her elegant fingers wrapping around my calloused ones. It’s like being struck by lightning. I nearly stumble when she tugs me along, my heart pounding ridiculously.
We don’t get far before we both splash into a large puddle, which I’ve failed to notice in the dim lamplight. Marie gasps at the cold kiss of water, and I can’t help my chuckle.
“Scared of a little mud, princess?”
She kicks some of the water at me in response, and I barely manage to jump out of the way. She giggles. “It appears you are too.”
“Why, you—” But before I can think of adequate revenge, a roar goes up from the group of gamblers in the corner of the square. We both turn to see one of the men rear back, gripping the skinny wrist of the little urchin.
“You cheater! Where are you putting it?”
“I’m not putting it anywhere!” The urchin tries to tug his hand free, to no avail. “I swear, look under the cups! It’s there!”
One of the other men shoves him aside, the scar over his eye giving him a vicious appearance as he storms over to the little overturned crate with the three cups stacked on top.
The boy had been shuffling them around. The burly man turns over the first cup—nothing.
The second—also nothing. The third reveals a golden coin. Another roar goes up.
“It wasn’t there a moment ago,” says the man holding the boy. He’s built like an ox, with a thick red beard.
“It was, monsieur!” the boy cries. “I haven’t been cheating, I swear!”
Red Beard tightens his grip, spittle flying from his lips. “If you weren’t cheating, then how come none of us have won?”
The boy tugs his hand free and leaps back. “Maybe you’re just bad at the game!”
Red Beard growls. He lunges for the urchin, who ducks aside, only to be grabbed by the man with the scar over his eye. “I’ve another explanation,” Scar Face snarls. Something glints in his free hand. “Little whelp could be one of them sorcers. Usin’ magic to cheat.”
“ Sorciers, you idiot,” the red-bearded man corrects him, grinning hungrily. “They’re called sorciers. And I think you might be onto something.”
I freeze, horror spearing through me. I know where this is going—I’ve seen it happen before. My pulse thuds against my ears.
“I can’t be here.” The words slip out of me inadvertently. I reach out shakily, seize Marie’s sleeve. “Come on.”
But she doesn’t move. “We cannot simply leave him!”
“There’s nothing we can do!” I hiss back.
In front of us, Scar Face snaps his teeth near the boy’s ear, making the child cry out in fear. “Only one way to find out, isn’t there?” He raises the object in his hand—a knife, gleaming viciously in the darkness. He presses it to the boy’s cheek. “What color do you bleed, little rat?”
My vision narrows to one thing. The boy’s wrists are covered in mud—too precise to be unintentional.
These men are simple, fattened with paranoia and folktales of evil gold-blooded traitors.
They’re too dumb to understand that magic is gone from Auréal.
That even if the boy was cheating, he isn’t doing it through sorcery.