6. Ofelia
6
Ofelia
T he guard shepherded us through the gate—but only after confiscating any weapons he could find in our possession. Lope was too fatigued to even remark on this, but I was certain it would grieve her greatly in a few hours’ time.
A maid escorted us into the palace. Painted ceilings and marble floors and walls lined with golden paper blurred together. My arm was firm around Lope’s waist, and though she could still walk, her head was starting to fall like a wilting flower. Finally, we reached a small room with a bed wide enough for two, a chair, a window, and a washbasin. The maid mentioned something about a doctor before flitting out of the room.
Ever so gently, I helped Lope sit upon the bed. My arms and shoulders ached from supporting her for so long, yet I barely registered the pain. I untied her cloak and tossed it to the floor. Then, with my hand upon her cheek and some fervent whispering, I finally coaxed her into laying her head down. Her dark hair spilled upon the pillowcase like a pot of mother’s expensive paints. I could match the color perfectly—ivory black .
“My lady, I’m fine,” Lope mumbled. By the sunrise pouring through the window, I could see her much better. Her neck and the left side of her face were stained bright scarlet.
“Stay there,” I said, with as much strength in my voice as I could muster. It sounded more like a plea than a command.
She did as I told her. I pulled her knapsack over my head and let it slouch against the floor. Each step was heavy and sore as I shut the painted-white door and then stumbled over to the washbasin. There were some folded linens, the plainest things I’d seen in this palace so far, and a pitcher full of tepid water. It looked clean, at least. I couldn’t do as much good as a doctor could, but I couldn’t sit by and do nothing.
Scarcely an hour ago, Lope had been so weak. Her eyes had been so dull. The fluttering, hopeful, and steady thrum of her heart I knew so well had gone so quiet.
I sat beside her on the bed, pouring water onto the linens with a shaky hand. “You mustn’t scare me like that again,” I murmured, my throat thick with tears.
“It’s just a few scratches,” she whispered. Her eyelids, delicate and blue as iris petals, began to fall shut.
I lightly pressed the damp cloth against her cheek, cleaning away sweat and dirt and blood. A large, deep gash carved from her cheekbone to her jaw. One of my tears dropped onto her cheek, and I brushed it aside with my thumb.
“You nearly died,” I said. My heart ached as I imagined it. If her story were to have a different ending. If the beauty, the bravery, the light that was Lope had been extinguished.
Was this how Mother had felt, that day in the garden? The moment, the second , when she snatched me out of the arms of certain doom?
“It is my duty,” said Lope, her voice fainter than an echo.
“What is, Lo?”
“To give my life. If you ask me to.”
I shook my head at her, cradling her face in my hands. She was so pale, so frail, like she was a drawing fading under sunlight.
“I want you to stay with me,” I said, a quaver in my voice.
A slow, sleepy smile crossed her face. “As you wish.”
She tried and failed to keep her eyes open, and in a moment, her head lolled against the pillow.
Beside the bed, I’d cast aside her knapsack. Perhaps there were more useful supplies among her things, something I’d forgotten. I unwound the little knot keeping the bag shut and set aside items one by one. Extra stockings and a chemise. The flask of water we shared. Then, a journal. Deep red, with the shape of a rose stitched into the leather. I’d given it to her a few days ago.
I cast one quick glance back to her. Her chest rose and fell in loud, slow breaths.
She was smarter than I was. She knew more about the world, about survival. Perhaps among her poems she’d penned down some of her other, more practical thoughts. Gods willing, she’d written something about wound care. I laid the book open upon my lap and flipped through its pages, filled with as much spidery text as could be crammed onto each page. With a smile, I remembered teaching her how to write. My hand upon hers, gently correcting the way she held the quill-pen. The first word I taught her was sun , in both the southern and northern tongues, sol and soleil. And she had looped the word together over and over across the page, a rare smile growing across her face the more graceful the strokes became.
I pushed back another page and found the words aligned differently. Little phrases, almost like a list.
In my head, I could compose for her
A thousand lovely sonnets;
Strung together like diamonds and pearls,
Perfect couplets and rhymes,
But my words run dry before her.
I wish above all earthly things
That I could speak to her
And share with her completely
All manner of my heart’s musings.
In an instant I slammed the book shut, my eyes round as dinner plates.
Her poetry, her sacred poetry.
About a girl .
I hesitantly flipped the book open once more onto a random page and came across another line.
The one I love with flowers in her hair
Blooming under sunlight—
“Good gods ,” I whispered, closing the book and pressing it to my chest.
Love poems. All these years, she’d never spoken of such things, despite my musing about romance and true love and all that I had read about in storybooks. She had always listened carefully, but never contributed anything; if she found anyone handsome, she didn’t tell me so. I thought that perhaps romance was simply something she did not care for. I would have supported her if this had been the case. But she’d never had anything to say on the matter.
She kept her heart hidden so deeply, her eyes stony and stoic, but I always knew that beneath her severe, knightly face lay a churning storm of emotions.
This, though. These words. They spoke of love .
I wondered for a moment who the girl she wrote about could be—who she knew well enough to love in the barracks. Except for that boy, Carlos, I hadn’t a clue as to who her friends were.
Besides myself.
At the thought, my heart ached. A lump formed in my throat. Could I be—? What if that girl was me ? Could I dare to hope that girl she called beautiful, that girl she felt so shy before, who she longed to recite poetry to, who she loved— was me?
There was a knock at the door.
My stomach dropped and I hastened to tuck the book back into the bag. A blush scalded my cheeks. I glanced over my shoulder—thankfully, Lope hadn’t stirred and hadn’t spotted me rifling through her things. How would she react, knowing that I’d read her private poems and learned this secret? It could crush any budding confidence in herself, in her words. It could topple the years of friendship that had been built between us.
I scurried to the door and found a man dressed in plain, brown clothing with a dark apron over his suit and a leather bag in his hand. For an instant, I was back at the manor, watching an almost identical man suture up the flayed flesh of my mother’s arms. The smell of blood and chemicals I had no names for, her cries of pain muffled by a sponge.
“Mademoiselle,” said the physician with a bow. “I was told there was someone injured?”
“Yes,” I said, unmoving in the doorway. “I entreat you, please be very careful with her.”
His lips quirked in the vaguest idea of a smile. “I will do my best.”
I stepped aside, letting him enter. From behind his spectacles, his eyes widened at the bloody cloths I’d hastily set at the foot of the bed. At this angle, he couldn’t see the injured half of her face—but a few steps more and he hissed, like he was in pain himself.
“I tended to it as best as I could,” I piped up. “I—I just wanted to clean the blood from her face.”
He set up a chair at her bedside. “Young lady?” he asked. “Can you hear me?”
Lope’s eyes stayed shut, even as she sluggishly swiveled her head toward him. Before she could say anything, he was grabbing at her face, peering first at the gash on the left side. Then he began prying open her eyelids.
Lope moved quick as a striking snake—her right arm sweeping his hands away and her left hand suddenly upon the man’s throat. “Don’t touch me,” she snarled.
I grabbed the man by the back of his coat and jerked him out of Lope’s hold. He gasped for air and threw her a glare.
“I’m sorry,” I murmured, keeping my voice cool and sweet to coax him to stay. “She’s only frightened. We just escaped an attack from a horde of Shadows.”
As he rubbed at his throat, the doctor shook his head. “No, you didn’t.”
My simpering mask cracked just a little bit. “I can assure you my memory is quite clear.”
“It’s simply not possible,” said the man matter-of-factly. “Such creatures do not dwell anywhere near this palace. It is holy ground.”
“Then what in the bloody Underworld is this ?” Lope asked, her voice raspy as she pointed to her newest wound.
“Judging by your temperament, I daresay it could be a prize won from a duel,” the doctor said primly, distaste plain. He turned back to me, looking me up and down. “What is she to you? Your servant?”
My protector. My confidant. My dearest friend. My savior. And, when I glanced at her, her soft, silver eyes meeting mine, the way my heart fluttered assured me that there was some other word for her altogether.
“La Caballera de la Rosa is my sworn knight,” I said softly. “It’s thanks to her valor that we arrived here safely. Deny the monsters we fought, if it helps you sleep well. Set that aside. I only want to know that she will be well.”
“I think she means to bite me if I continue my inspection, mademoiselle.” He sniffed and pushed his glasses farther up his nose. “A bit of sleep will tend to that spirit of hers. Her color is a bit pale, but a turn in the garden will do her well. As for that wound... let it rest. Her body is getting rid of her bad humors through her blood. She will heal with time.”
What an utter waste.
I thanked him profusely and kept a smile pasted on my face until I could shut the door behind him. I sighed. “Forgive me, Lope, I didn’t think he’d be so intrusive.”
She sleepily smiled at me from the bed, utterly relaxed again now that it was just the two of us. “You did nothing wrong.”
My pulse leapt at this, for I had indeed done something very wicked moments ago, peering through her journal and into her heart. I bit on my lip to keep my calm facade from falling.
“The surgeons here likely only know how to treat broken nails or ankles twisted while dancing,” said Lope. She took a deep, labored breath. “I know plenty about Shadow attacks. I just need air. And sleep.”
Without another thought, I dashed to the window, unlatching the two panels so they would swing inside, letting in a rush of warm, end-of-summer air. Blinking back sunlight, I stepped forward, craning my neck out the window.
Before me was a sprawling, seemingly endless garden, all the plants gilded by the morning sunshine. Bushes were carved into perfect cones and swirls, and between them, golden-pink flowers were planted in an arrangement so vast they made a flowerbed seem like just that—a giant bed upon which I could easily fall asleep.
“Lope,” I said in a hallowed whisper, “it looks like a dream.”
She made a little murmur of agreement, the same sound she’d make when it was late at night and I had chatted her ear off, even while she was half asleep.
“Describe it to me,” she said from the bed, her words drawn out and slow.
I was no poet. Not compared to her. I knew myself well enough to take pride in my storytelling, the way I could unfold a tale in delicious, captivating ways. The words themselves, though? Lope was the true master there. When I gave her a book to keep, I’d even see her taking notes inside it, circling individual words, like little gems to collect.
And—my heart stuttered—if I was right, what pretty words she’d chosen for me in her journal.
I cleared my throat and focused on the gardens beyond. The sweet perfume of flowers wafted inside, and faintly, I could hear robins greeting one another. “There are so many flowers. Like a meadow. Petunias, I think,” I said. “They’re all matted together, almost like they’re forming a great quilt made of petals. What a lovely bed that’d be. How soft it would feel.”
The exhaustion and the fear that had coiled up in my body seemed to pull at me as I described what I could see of the garden, reminding me that I, too, was overdue for rest. I yawned and turned back to her—as I’d hoped, she was already fast asleep, with one hand in a loose fist against her heart.
It was so plain to me now. How beautiful she was... and how my heart longed for her.
I curled up in the far corner of the room, watching her and counting her every breath. My stomach ached, and I suddenly, desperately missed my mother. I wanted to ask her, Is this what love feels like? I wanted to hug her tight and to ask her what she’d do in my place. I wanted to assure her that I was well and safe. I just wanted to be in her arms again, swept away from darkness like she’d always kept me.
The anxious thoughts rang in my head, echoing like lightning and thunder—a bright, sharp pang of concern for Lope, her weakened state, and her tender heart. Then the worries, rumbling inside me, Is Mother in this palace? Is she hurt? Is she even alive?
My worries swirled around and around like Mother mixing linseed oil and pigment. The smell of her studio, sweetened with flowers, soured by oils. The graceful movement of her palette knife arcing across the canvas. The soft tap of her brush against her palette. Exhaustion and memory finally swept me away, making the world grow dark.
Someone knocked at a distant door.
I lurched awake, alarmed by my hard pillow, by the ache in my neck, by the fact I was sleeping on a chair—but felt a measure of steadiness again when I saw Lope already on her feet, facing away from me. A woman about my mother’s age stood in the doorway. She wore a deep gray gown with an apron about her waist. In her chapped hands was a large ring of keys.
“Where’s my sword?” Lope hissed at the lady.
She frowned at Lope and then at me. “Every courtier’s weapons are confiscated upon entry to Le Chateau,” she said. She curtsied to each of us. “The day’s fête begins in a few short hours. As residents here, it is mandatory that everyone attend.”
Though my heart thrilled at the thought of a party, a real one here at Le Chateau Enchanté, my body and my spinning head protested the idea of any sudden movement. But I clung to another word: everyone .
My mother would be there.
“I’ve come here looking for someone,” I told the maid. “My mother, la Condesa Mirabelle de Bouchillon? Will she be there?”
Behind her eyes, I could detect a flicker of annoyance. “My lady, there are hundreds of nobles in this palace. I could not account for each one. But if she is at this palace, she will be at the fête tonight.”
I glanced back at Lope, at the dark rings under her eyes, at the red cut along her face, at the way her shoulders slouched.
“We—we have traveled quite a long way,” I told the woman. “My friend is recovering from... our journey. Perhaps she could stay here while I—”
“I’ll come with you,” said Lope.
I twisted the fabric of my skirts in my fists. “You don’t need to—”
“Yes, I do.” She stood at my side, and her presence alone made my heartbeat settle and then quicken again.
The maid smiled stiffly at us both. “If you’ll follow me, I’ll take you both to your chambers. We’ll get you looking your best for the party.”
I raised an eyebrow. “I thought... I thought this was our chamber.”
She guffawed loudly and then covered her mouth with her hand. The maid cleared her throat to try to tamp down the offense. “No, my lady, this is just a place for footmen to clean their boots and get new cloaks.” She tipped her head toward the hallway. “Come, come.”
Lope picked up her cloak and slung the bag over her shoulder with a stormy look. Her gaze softened when it fell upon me. Her skin was clean of all the blood from before, leaving only the deep cut from the Shadows tracing down her left profile.
Now that I’d read her poems, now that I understood my own feelings, every time I looked at her, I saw someone a little different from who I once imagined. It was like her secret was painted across her face, and I had to pretend I couldn’t see it.
If I said anything, I’d only shred this beautiful, golden veil between us, this peace and trust and love that was so precious.
I did not want to tarnish what was already so marvelous. I resolved to keep her secret close to my heart until she was ready to share it unbidden.
For my own sake, to hide my own blushing, I broke our gaze and swept into the hallway, following fast behind the maid.
She led us to a large room that may have well been lifted from my dreams. The walls were the color of cream but lined in gold. The only gold in our home was inside Mother’s jewelry box. Hanging from the ceiling was a sparkling chandelier, laden with crystals like a tree with fruit ready to be picked. There were two privacy screens, each painted with springtime blossoms, a wash basin, a wardrobe, a vanity, a daybed, another breathtaking view into the gardens... and a large, white bed, with bed curtains embroidered with more flowers.
My attention snapped from the fairy-tale bed to the young women standing by it, carefully laying out matching bodices and skirts in midnight blue.
“Virginie and Carmen will prepare you both for the fête.” Our guide curtsied to us and then slipped out of the room, the oak door clicking shut behind her.
As if the closing door was a command in itself, the two women, a little older than us, swept to our sides. The redheaded maid took Lope’s bag, ignoring her protests, and then pulled her by the hand behind a privacy screen. Before I could even think, the blond maid had done the same to me. The way we were positioned, we would have been face-to-face were it not for the two screens in our way.
At the manor, we had no maids, just a cook and one servant to help us keep the place clean—otherwise, all our funds went to protecting ourselves. Mother and I would help each other dress when it was needed. Sometimes she would have dinner with a wealthy benefactor or a prospective customer and would wear her best gowns: rich silks that must have come from her time at Le Chateau. I often begged to try on such fine clothes, but she refused and kept the gowns locked away.
Now my maid, Virginie, slipped a buttery silk skirt over my head and tied its strings at my lower back. I held the fabric in a loose fist, watching the silk shimmer in the sunlight.
I had dreamed of this for so long.
I had hoped my mother would be there, too. Safe and happy. Without a single thought about the Shadows. But she was gone. Missing. What if she hadn’t made it here? What if something happened to her?
Something slowly wrapped around my throat.
I gasped, grabbing at it; I could almost feel the cold breath of the Shadow upon my neck.
It was a strand of pearls.
Virginie tied the ribbon of the necklace and then gave my bare shoulder a little tap. “Come to the vanity, mademoiselle.”
With the haze of sleepiness and fear still clouding around me, I settled on the velvet stool before the table and mirror. I couldn’t help but laugh at my own reflection. My matted curls, a bit of grass hidden within; my pink, sleepy eyes; the utter lack of color in my face.
Virginie, too, seemed overwhelmed by the task before her. She sighed heavily and took a brush to my hair with great fervor. I was immune to the way she tugged at my hair; Mother had been ruthless when it came to brushing my curls.
I couldn’t think about her. Not then.
I took a deep breath and imagined unpinning myself from the tangled threads of the past few days. Instead, I was simply a girl, the luckiest in the world, at the world’s most splendid palace with her dearest... her dearest friend.
“Are you well, Lope?” I called.
“As well as can be, my lady,” she replied, her voice taut and forced.
It would all be worth it. “You’ll look just like I imagined,” I cooed. “In a ballgown and everything! And with your hair curled and pinned and decorated... you’ll look like a princess!”
There was a long silence. “I suppose anything’s possible.”
Virginie gave me large pearl earrings, and as I put them on, I said, “Where did such fineries come from? Lope and I brought precious little with us.”
“Directly from His Majesty,” said Virginie. “The king likes the court looking their best for his parties. Even the color of dress is decided by the king.”
One by one, like placing stars in the sky, she tucked my curls away with pearl-tipped pins. She let one lock of hair fall gracefully over my shoulder. I was looking more and more like...
Like my mother.
No. Not now. All will be well. She will be fine.
“Will—will we see the king at the party?” I asked.
“He is traveling tonight, but he will be back soon.”
I frowned. “Then what is the occasion for the fête?”
“Every day we celebrate His Majesty,” said Virginie with a smile. “He shares the blessings of the gods with us all. This palace is our sanctuary. Everything we have, it’s all thanks to him.”
It was all quite odd, I thought, having parties by royal command. But then again, our world was so dark, so cruel. Monsters lingered not too far from the palace gates. If Le Chateau was truly the one place where Shadows dared not go, why not rejoice in that fact? After all, we celebrated our grandest holy feasts every year during the bleakest winters. A little bit of hope and delight to shield us from the world beyond.
I longed for that. A beautiful, golden bubble to keep me safe from nightmares.
Virginie painted my lips red and daubed rouge on my cheeks and helped me into my matching blue bodice, lacing the back with nimble hands. Then she slipped on new stockings, bright yellow, with red ribbons holding them in place, and white shoes with crimson heels. I could barely believe that these were all real and for me—but I forgot about myself entirely when Lope emerged from her corner of the room.
She strode toward me with the elegance and control of a true noblewoman. Her broad shoulders were pulled back and her head was held high, exposing the long, graceful arc of her neck. A long black lovelock rested over her heart. Beneath her voluminous, sapphire sleeves, her pale forearms were also bare, covered in faint, silvery scars in the shape of claw marks.
My throat had gone dry. It had not occurred to me how she always kept herself so covered up. A soldier’s breastplate over a coat and breeches, a cravat at her throat, her hands often protected by leather gloves. Now I felt as if the pale touches of skin at her arms and shoulders would make my heart leap right out of my breast.
“Thank you, ladies,” I told both maids, and quietly dismissed them. They looked to each other, as if they had more to say or do, but deferred to my request, slipping out of the room.
“I’m sorry,” said Lope.
I coughed a laugh. “Gods, what for?”
“I—I am unused to this way of things. I am unused to... all of this.” She gestured to the chandelier, the furniture, the gowns. The painted-on blush on her cheeks was quickly overtaken by her skin flushing a true red. She bowed her head to me. “Forgive me. I’ll endeavor to adapt as quickly as I can.”
I swept her hands in mine. “You look like a queen , Lope. You look so very beautiful—I can scarcely put it to words.”
She forced a smile. “Thank you.”
I could feel the discomfort emanating off her. She was so lovely . Yet it was as if someone had painted over a portrait of the girl I adored.
“Here,” I said, dampening a handkerchief with a pitcher of water. I carefully pressed it to her soft lips, brushing away as much of the paint as I could. Her lips were left a little redder, but at least she looked like herself again. Nearly.
“Perhaps I can take those pins out of your hair,” I said.
Light entered her gray eyes. Her whole face was the color of the azaleas in my garden. “If—if you’d like, my lady.”
I shook my head with a smile. “What would you like?”
She blinked rapidly, like I’d said something truly alarming. “I prefer my hair pulled back,” she said softly. “It makes me feel like myself.”
I urged her into the seat before the mirror. She frowned at her reflection. But she tipped her head, looking at the pearl earrings they’d given her. “I don’t mind these, though,” she said.
With a grin, I smoothed back her hair. “That makes me think of that night I pierced your ears. You were so brave. And I nearly swooned from the blood.”
“I had to pierce my other ear myself,” she said, shaking her head. Her gray eyes crinkled as she smiled. “I wanted to match you.”
Back at the manor, when we spent time together, sitting and reading, I’d let her wear any of my earrings she liked.
They make me look like a pirate , she had said.
Smiling fondly, I plucked pins from her hair like I would have picked clovers as a child. As I swept her hair into its usual chignon, I asked, “Do you remember when I’d gather clovers for you in the garden?”
Her reflection smiled. But she kept her gaze averted from the glass. “I kept them in a jar at the barracks.”
My eyes widened. “You kept them?”
“For good luck, you said.”
What a marvel she was. Gentle and poetic and fierce and brave. The bane of any monster. But before us lay the court that Mother had always warned me about. A cruel, selfish place, she had said, a place that preferred fame and riches to kindness or truth.
Could my knight defend me from monstrous men?
Or was it my turn to protect her?