9. Lope
9
Lope
Within the pages of a book,
I wrap myself in solitude and solace.
Words from long-gone poets, friends I’ll never know,
Curl around my heart like loving hands.
I nside the palace, vast corridors extended before us, lined with columns of red marble. Golden candelabras dotted the hallways, and each candlestick bore crystals that resembled long fangs. Every wall, even here in an inconsequential corridor, was crowned with carved leaves and fruits painted gold.
It was beautiful, I could admit. Far too ostentatious for my liking, but perhaps fitting for the gods that had created this palace. It was said that they answered the king’s prayers, if not those of a peasant girl turned lovelorn knight. What had the king done to deserve such a gift, while so many who had done nothing wrong suffered?
Ofelia’s fingers curled against the sleeve of my coat. I looked down at her as she gaped at her surroundings. The wonder in her eyes was far lovelier than anything I’d seen in this palace.
“It’s just like I dreamed,” she whispered. She gave her head a tiny shake. “Why did Mother want to keep me from this place?”
The countess was strict, and though Ofelia always bemoaned her mother’s harsh rules, in truth, I respected them. Her Ladyship carried herself with the carefulness of someone who has had to live in fear. Of someone who wants to protect her daughter from that same fear. Which convinced me further that some unspoken danger lay hidden in these walls, covered up with gold and lies.
Before I could say anything, Ofelia grabbed my hand. My heart swung back and forth between finding the gesture familiar and thrilling. We had always touched each other like this, but now each gentle brush had me foolishly imagining that the contact might be because she was fond of me, fond in the way I was fond of her.
She declared, “Let’s find the library!” and began tugging me forward in her wake, and suddenly we were running, whirling like petals tossed to the wind.
Down one corridor, then another. Past tapestries showing ancient battles. Past épées and rapiers and beautiful ruby-encrusted daggers hidden within locked cabinets. I lingered near those for an extra second, longing for my own rapier, before Ofelia pulled me away again.
Even though this place was new and strange, and even though we had yet to find her mother, she somehow found it within her to laugh as we ran faster and faster. She glanced back at me, slipping her hand out of my grasp. Her nose was wrinkled playfully as she teased, “Catch me!”
She scampered off, taking a sharp turn down the hallway to the right. My heart was like a horse at full gallop. This joy of hers, this light that glimmered even in the darkest times of her life, I loved it so, even if I couldn’t always understand it.
Poetry drifted through my mind, I seek her with the desperation and reverence of a moth to candlelight .
A laugh broke from my lips, even though my ribs were sore, even though my throat ached from the Shadows’ attack. Her giggle bouncing through the marble halls was like birdsong after a long night.
I had been trained my whole life to be strong, to be quick. I caught up with her in no time, looping my arms around her waist and pulling her gently into the air before settling to a stop.
Ofelia beamed up at me. In the warm afternoon light, her skin was like gold, her eyes glimmering like the crystals of the chandeliers; her hair was the same mahogany as the trim along the lintels. She belonged here.
“What are you thinking about?” she asked me.
It was a simple question, I knew, but I stammered. She couldn’t know. She couldn’t know how I adored her. That wasn’t how her storybooks went. It wasn’t how reality went. A noblewoman like her, she would marry a duchess or a viscount or a marquis—not a servant.
Desperate, I looked away from her, gazing at the gold-and-black door at the end of the corridor. It was flanked on either side with guards in shining black armor, like they were crafted from obsidian. If it weren’t for the gold glinting on their armor and the halberds in their hands, I might have mistaken them for Shadows.
“That door,” I murmured. “Black and gold... like that lady mentioned in the salon des jeux.”
Ofelia’s eyes gleamed. “The Hall of Illusions!”
Without another second to assess the situation, she marched up to the two guards, her pale pink skirts fluttering about her like rose petals. “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” she said brightly. “What’s behind this door?”
“Move along, please, mademoiselle,” said the deep-voiced guard on the left.
The one on the right tipped his head, faceless beneath his visor. “You don’t know? You must be new here.”
I joined her by the door, carefully placing myself between her and the men with their halberds. “We’re only curious, sirs,” I said.
The guard on the left shrugged. “The king requests this hall remain closed while it undergoes repairs. Nothing more.”
I did not consider myself very shrewd, but even I knew well enough that this was a lie.
“Can’t we take a peek?” begged Ofelia.
“No,” the guards said in unison. “By order of the king.”
“You don’t understand,” she said, “my mother is missing. She’s somewhere in this palace, I’m sure of it. I think there’s just been some mistake. Her name is Marisol de Forestier?”
“She wouldn’t be in this room,” said the deeper-voiced soldier.
Ofelia huffed, an auburn curl fluttering in front of her eyes. “Very well. Could you at least tell us where to find the library? Perhaps we’ll find her there.”
A guard pointed us in the correct direction, and we finally acquiesced and returned on our path to the library.
Ofelia smiled mischievously as she looked back at the door. “If there are all these guards and all this secrecy, whatever is in that hall must be something very important.”
“Something horrible,” I murmured.
“Something wonderful,” said Ofelia, her voice soft and dreamlike.
After a few minutes of walking through the splendorous halls, Ofelia and I stood before a massive set of golden doors. They were carved with leaves and flowers and fruits and vegetables—boasting the abundance of knowledge we would be sure to find inside. I started to pull on one door’s handle, but Ofelia’s hand quickly touched mine, then drew back. My pulse ricocheted.
“Oh! I forgot to tell you something,” she said.
I turned to her, my fingers still curled around the door handle. “Yes, my lady?”
“You look beautiful today.”
My breath faltered as I turned to look at her. With Ofelia’s encouragement, I had asked the maids to change my wardrobe a bit, so they’d finally given me a pair of breeches and a waistcoat, simple and cream. They were practical, comfortable. Beautiful was the word I would have reserved for her—her copper curls tucked back with a fabric rose, and the pale pink of her gown making all the freckles on her shoulders all the more prominent. For a fraction of a second, my thoughts veered into daydreams. Into kissing her shoulder, kissing each freckle, and then I cleared my throat and said, “My lady, you don’t need to—”
“I mean it. You were lovely in a gown, and you look beautiful in a suit.” She smiled like her words weren’t in danger of stopping my heart.
I didn’t know what to say to her remark. Instead, I stiffly pulled open the door for her, and she stepped across the stoop. She let out an excited gasp. I hastily joined her inside the library.
My mouth fell open. I had never seen so many books in my life. Every wall from top to bottom was filled with them. It was almost obscene; no one man could possibly read so many books, surely! But even the deepest, most cynical part of myself could shut up long enough for me to recognize the library for what it was: a jewel. The spines of the books shone gold in the sunlight from a large, circular window. The books looked like gems lining the walls, every color of a prism.
The task of choosing only one to focus on seemed impossible. Then I saw that word, my favorite word both in meaning and in sound, poetry , and reached out to touch the spine of the book in front of me.
Something touched my shoulder, startling me. An old instinct was ready to claw and fight back—but it was Ofelia, her dark eyes glimmering in the sunshine. Without a word, she took my hand and pulled me down the aisle of bookcases.
The library was vast, with a ceiling that seemed as wide as a field, painted to show the heroes from different ballads and fairy tales. My neck ached trying to take in the immensity of the painting, and I felt a pang of unease for the poor painter who had to lie on their back creating such a wonder.
Among the shelves was nestled the occasional chair or desk, but none were occupied. I’d heard whispers long ago of how the palace was so large it housed a population the size of a city, and after the vast crowds I’d seen last night, I believed it. But it seemed absurd to me that they weren’t here .
Ofelia halted in her stride through the library, her hand still curled tightly around mine.
Ahead of her was a desk covered in pages. A lady with grayish hair sat at the desk, her head slumped atop a stack of books. For a split second, my heart clenched painfully at her too-still posture, but Ofelia confidently strode forward, saying, “Madame?”
The woman jolted in her seat, looking up from behind round spectacles. Her hair, the faded yellow of tarnished silver, was all in disarray, and her pale cheeks had grown pink with surprise. “Gods! I didn’t see you. I—Can I help you?”
I followed close behind Ofelia, my fingers itching for my sword or my dagger. Any stranger could be a threat, just as any silhouette could be a Shadow.
“We’re looking for a ledger of all the people who’ve come and gone to the palace in the past few weeks,” said Ofelia. “Could you help us find it?”
The woman smiled, kindness etched in the lines of her face. “I should hope so. I’m the king’s librarian and registrar.” She rose to her feet, which did not do much to improve her stature; she was shorter than the already small Ofelia. But this was not as remarkable to me as her clothing. She was dressed as ornately as the rest of the court: a gown of shimmering silver fabric, with sleeves and skirts like full moons. It hardly seemed practical for a librarian.
“It’s nice to meet you, Madame—”
“Call me Eglantine, please. There should be no courtesy or stations in a room full of books—at least, that’s what I think.”
I liked her already.
Ofelia curtsied nonetheless and introduced herself. When I told the librarian my name, her eyes twinkled.
“You share the name of one of the great poets and playwrights from the south,” she noted.
My mouth popped open in amazement. The people I consorted with rarely made the connection.
“Lope named herself after him,” Ofelia said, her voice strangely gilded with pride.
I nodded to Eglantine. “That’s correct. I... I thought the name suited me better than my old one.”
Her smile brightened. “My mother did the same thing, in fact. She renamed herself Sagesse —she named herself after wisdom. There is great power in claiming a name of your own.”
Eglantine sorted through the pile of documents and books surrounding her. “So, what name is it you’re looking for, my ladies?”
In a small, uncertain voice, Ofelia said, “Marisol de Forestier.”
Eglantine hummed and sorted through the stack of books before her. “That name does sound familiar.”
Among the books and the papers, something gold twinkled in the sunlight. A small, thin penknife. My breath caught. They’d taken away all my blades. They’d taken away the clothes I could run in. They said there were no Shadows here, but... we had believed we’d been safe before.
“You know her name?” Ofelia cried, dragging my attention away from the knife. “Did you see her? Did you ever know her? Were you here at the palace about twenty years ago?”
“Just a moment, child.” She flipped open a large, leather-bound volume as long as my forearm. After flipping through the pages, she dragged her finger down a column of names. She jabbed one with her index finger. “Yes, she arrived five days ago!”
Ofelia let out a squeal of delight and hopped up and down, and suddenly she was embracing me as tight as she could. “I knew it! I knew she’d be all right!”
“And there’s no indication that she left the palace,” said Eglantine.
“So she’s here? On the grounds somewhere?”
“It appears so.” Eglantine held up a finger and then flipped through another book, pushing back pages with a furrowed brow. After a minute, her frown deepened.
“What?” asked Ofelia. “What is it?”
Eglantine tapped the book. “I can’t find a record of her being assigned any rooms.”
Ofelia’s arms loosened around me, and my heart fell an inch. “What does that mean?” she asked.
“I—I’m not sure.” She stared down at the words like they would whisper some secrets to her if she glared hard enough. “Where are your parents, Mademoiselle Ofelia? Have they provided you with no answers about this missing woman?”
“My—my mother is that woman,” she said meekly. Her fingers trembled. She picked at her nails until I stilled her hand. “And... and my father died before I was born. I have no other family.”
Eglantine shrank back into her chair, her skin grown ashen. “My apologies, dear. I... I know what that’s like.”
Ofelia’s complexion was growing very pale again. Her hand clung to mine, her skin clammy and cold.
“Perhaps,” I said, “perhaps there is some record about her father? And his family who might be here?”
Ofelia nodded eagerly. “Yes! He was Comte Luc de Bouchillon.... He served in the king’s army about twenty years ago, Mother said.”
Eglantine tilted her head, like Ofelia had said something amiss. “He was a count, you said?”
Though she bit her lip, Eglantine rose from her seat and walked toward the massive forest of bookshelves. “Follow me,” she called. “We have records of all of His Majesty’s military victories. Your father’s name will be on there, as well as more information about his family. Perhaps your relatives have some quarters here or a summer home not far away. Anything is possible....”
Ofelia’s hand pulsed against mine, gently letting go. She wordlessly followed in the librarian’s footsteps.
I lingered for only a few seconds. I’d been trained to strike fast, to move quietly. In a blink, I had grabbed the penknife and tucked it in the pocket of my breeches.
Ofelia would scold me for stealing or perhaps for being so overly worried. It couldn’t be helped. As it was a Shadow’s instinct to consume the breaths of the living, I was driven and desperate to wield a blade.
I joined the librarian and Ofelia before an oak bookshelf filled to bursting with identical gold-spined tomes. Eglantine gestured to them. “Just a fraction of the glorious victories of our king.”
Ofelia looked at the ranges of dates carved on the spines, drifting toward the time her father would have been here.
I asked, “Are only his victories recorded, madam?”
The librarian blinked. “His Majesty never fails, my lady.” An odd, sloppy smile formed on her painted-red lips. “It would be silly to have a blank book on the shelves, wouldn’t it?”
And yet his own people were tormented by monsters. I managed the one-beat chuckle that I always gave when some superior expected a laugh. “Quite, madam. Excuse me.”
Following Ofelia’s suit, I piled up several golden tomes and carried them over to the large table where she’d splayed out hers. Eglantine settled at a nearby table with a tome of her own, and Ofelia sat close to me in a painted-gold chair, running her finger down a column of text. The way her forehead scrunched together reminded me of bunched satin, and I found it terribly lovely.
I turned my attention forcibly to the page of the records in front of me, detailing the strategy the king had devised himself as he prepared to sack some vast, foreign city. But my gaze was pulled to a watercolor painting on the following page, one so vivid, so detailed, it was like a window had been placed between the pages of the book.
The sky was a soft robin’s-egg blue, with fat, fluffy clouds shrinking and pulling apart on the horizon. Beneath the sky, in a perfectly straight line, was a massive body of water, shimmering in the sunshine, stretching from the left page to the right. Beneath this was sand, a strange, pale shade of pink, like it was made of petals. A line of text was written beneath, “The southern shores were claimed and now belong to His Majesty’s blessed kingdom.”
This was the ocean.
Carlos had longed to see this place. I had thought him mad for wanting it. For thinking it was possible to ever go to such a beautiful, perfect, faraway place. A place set aside for kings.
And here I was, looking at it.
I pressed my fingertips to the page, feeling dried ink and not the wet, shifting surface of the ocean like I imagined.
Before I could drown in my thoughts again, I shut the book and took a deep breath. I turned my gaze to Ofelia. Ofelia, whose heart I would rather fear for than my own.
She glowered down at the book before her. Her cheeks were flaming a deeper and deeper red, and when she blinked, looking to me, her eyebrows were furrowed and her brown eyes glimmered. “Maybe I’m mistaken,” she said. “The—the date, it doesn’t make sense.”
I frowned. “My lady, I don’t understa—”
She rose from her chair, lifting the book with trembling hands. She heaved a deep breath and dropped the book onto the table before me with a coarse thud, pointing to a line in the text. She leaned over my shoulder, her lovelock tickling my bare skin as she read, “Of the number who happily gave their lives in the foreign lands for the service of our blessed king, whose campaign began in the year sixteen hundred and forty-two, on the day of the twenty-fifth of May—”
She interrupted herself and moved her finger to point at a name near the bottom of the list of the dead: “Luc de Bouchillon, July 1642.”
“Eglantine,” called Ofelia, her voice crumbling, “there’s a mistake in this book. It—it says that my father died in the summer of 1642, but that couldn’t be. That couldn’t be, because I was born in... I was born in...”
Her lips moved, but no more sound came forth. But I knew the date well. We shared the exact same birthday: August 1, 1643.
More than twelve months after Ofelia’s father’s death.
My blood went cold at the insinuation. I tried my best to keep my expression stony for Ofelia. All the while, I thought, Who, then, is her father?
Eglantine’s eyes grew wide, and she glanced from Ofelia to the book. “Count Luc de Bouchillon,” she mumbled to herself. She snapped her fingers, pointing. “His—his wife, she was a—a composer? A singer?”
“A painter,” said Ofelia. “I don’t understand. If Father died a year before I was born...”
Ofelia brushed tears from her eyes, though I longed to do it for her myself. I hastily passed her a handkerchief, and when Eglantine touched a hand to her shoulder, she began sobbing in earnest.
“Perhaps there is a mistake,” Eglantine said softly. “But... you did not even know this man. Whether or not he is your father does not matter—”
“Mother told me!” she snapped, her left hand curling into a fist on the tabletop. “They were married. They were in love; they fell in love here . How could—” She cut herself off.
Yet according to the gossipers’ stories... Marisol had fallen in love with another.
A mosaic of facts was piecing itself together in my head.
The countess. The king. A baby, raised as far from the palace as possible.
Ofelia’s hand covered her mouth, as if the realization had struck us both at the same time. She looked to me, desperate, frightened. My heart beat against my breast, wanting to fly to her, to comfort her.
The deep clanging of bells sounded in the distance. I turned to the sound—near the palace gates.
“His Majesty has returned,” Eglantine said. She looked to us, her brow wrinkling almost apologetically. “We’ll all be expected to attend his homecoming celebration.”
Ofelia slowly wobbled to her feet, her cheeks still red and tearstained. “I need to speak to him.”
Eglantine’s eyes widened behind their spectacles. “You mean to approach His Majesty?”
My mind plunged into disaster. I could so easily picture sweet Ofelia standing before him, declaring him to be her father, and how he’d have her imprisoned with a flick of his hand. “My lady,” I said, “I do not think it would be wise to speak so publicly about any of... this in front of the king, with the whole court watching—”
“Then I’ll speak to him privately.” She leveled a stare at me, arresting me with the determination blazing in her eyes. “You cannot dissuade me from this, Lope. If anyone knows where Mother is, it’ll be him.”
When she strode out of the library, I followed her, even though my pulse was crashing madly. Even though my heart was screaming how dangerous this was.
“Wait!” called Eglantine. “My ladies, please wait!”
We turned, and the librarian met us in the hallway, her lips pressed into a thin, grave line.
She touched each of us on the arm. “I know that you are new here, so please, might I offer you some words of caution? Please, I will not be able to rest easy if I do not speak plainly with you.”
Ofelia’s gaze met mine. We nodded at the same time.
Already, courtiers in their bright gowns and suits trickled down the honey-colored halls to see the king. Eglantine pulled us into a quiet alcove.
“It is forbidden to go to the gardens after sunset,” said Eglantine softly. “Furthermore, though the whole palace is at your disposal, you must not travel alone. The two of you—you must stay side by side at all times.”
The request was unnecessary. It was as though she were instructing me to breathe. I would never leave Ofelia alone.
Yet Ofelia’s head tilted. “Well... well, yes, madame, I never walk without Lope by my side. But why do you give us such a warning? This palace is a safe and blessed place.”
Eglantine squeezed her hand against Ofelia’s arm. “Yes, dear,” she said softly. “It is safe and blessed.” Her eyes met mine, serious and cold. “That does not change certain facts. Your mother’s disappearance, for one. I pray she is on her way to you, but... it concerns me. Not a month ago, a singer in the royal opera, a young lady of only twenty years, vanished. If your mother is the—” She cut herself off abruptly before seeming to choose her words carefully. “If she’s the second in a series of women vanishing from this palace... I only ask that you stay together. Please.”
My eyes narrowed. “An opera singer? How could she have disappeared? Was she not well-known among the court if she was a performer?”
“She was well-known, yes. Her name was Francoise de la Valliere. A soprano. The court loved her.” Eglantine retracted her hand, folding her arms as if she had a chill. “But she is gone now, and no one speaks of her anymore.” The librarian nodded and then glanced back at the flood of nobles excitedly walking—and even running—to the courtyard. “That’s all I know about her. No matter how loved she was, she wasn’t safe from... whatever it is that happened to her.”
I stood in front of Ofelia. “Speak plainly, madam. Do you think there is some kind of danger at this palace?”
She gazed at me, unblinking. “Gracious, no, I’d never suggest such a thing. The king watches over us all.” The librarian offered me a stiff smile and a curtsy. “You know where to find me, mesdemoiselles.” And with that, she turned and swam along with the current of lords and ladies streaming to the palace gates.
Ofelia clung to my arm. “If there is some sort of danger,” she murmured. “If I see the king, if I tell him that I am his... that I am his daughter ... he would keep us safe. You and me and Mother. Wherever she is.”
Her body was rigid, her fingers upon my arm as firm as claws. Fear shone in her amber eyes.
“All will be well,” I told her in a soft voice. It was not a lie, not really. It was my own hope, desperate and frail. But I would gladly give her any strength within my own heart if it meant she would smile again.
Just as I’d wished, a small, faint smile graced her lips. Her hand squeezed into my arm, as if to say, Thank you . And she led us on.
While I walked by her side, I kept my gaze forward and my focus solely on the knife at my hip.