Jonathan Strahan - The Best Science Fiction and Fantasy of the Year. Volume 10

She glanced at Madame. “I was sent to scold you, not favor you with my company.”

“You can always say I forced you.”

She laughed and took his arm. He led her through a clot of courtiers toward the royal dais. The king had returned his attention to his most favored guests but displayed a shapely length of royal leg for the two sisters to admire.

“Much better, my dear Sylvain,” said Gérard as they approached. “I hate to see you brooding over that fountain. My wife strokes her great belly with the same anxious anticipation. You looked like a hen on an egg.”

Sylvain dropped his hand onto the pommel of his sword and glared. Gérard barked with laughter.

“Your friend the Marquis de la Châsse can’t manage civil conversation, either,” said Annette as they moved on.

“Gérard doesn’t need to make the effort. He was born into enough distinction that every trespass is forgiven.”

“You sound jealous, but it’s not quite accurate. His wealth and title do help, but he is accepted because everyone can see he is true to his nature.”

“And I am not?”

“A bald question. I will answer it two ways. First, observe that at this moment, you and I are walking arm in arm among every person in the world who matters. If that is not acceptance, I wonder how you define the word.”

“I am honored, madame.”

“Yes, you most certainly are, monsieur.”

“And your second answer?”

“You are not true to your nature, and it makes people uncomfortable. Everyone knows what to expect from a man like the Marquis de la Châsse, but one suspects that Sylvain de Guilherand would rather be somewhere else, doing something else. Heaven knows what.”

Sylvain closed his glove over hers. “Not at all. I am exactly where I want to be.”

“So you say, but I do not believe it. Our well-beloved king toasted you this evening. Many men would consider that enough achievement for a lifetime, but still you are dissatisfied.”

“We discussed my character before. Remember how that ended?”

A delicate blush flushed through her powder. “I am answering your question as honestly as I can.”

“Honesty is not a vice much indulged at Versailles.”

She laughed. “I know the next line. Let me supply it: ‘It’s the only vice that isn’t.’ Oh, Sylvain. I can have that kind of conversation with any man. I’d rather go home to my husband and talk about hot gruel and poultices. Don’t make me desperate.”

Sylvain stroked her hand. “Very well. You enjoy my company despite my faults?”

She nibbled her bottom lip as she considered the question. “Because of your faults, I think,” she said. “The fountain is successful, the king is impressed with you, and you have my favor. Take my advice and be satisfied.”

Sylvain raised her palm to his lips. “I will.”

They walked on, silent but in perfect concord. As they circled the gallery, the atmosphere seemed less stifling, the crowd less insipid, the king’s air of rut less ridiculous. Even Madame’s poses seemed less futile and her sister’s pouts less desperate. Sylvain was in charity with the world, willing to forgive its many flaws.

The guests parted, opening a view of the fountain. A girl in petal-yellow silk reached her cup to one of the blossoms. The curve of her bare arm echoed the graceful arc of the fountain’s limbs. She raised the cup to her lips and the crowd closed off his view of the scene just as she took her first sip.

“Nature perfected, monsieur,” said a portly Prussian. “You must be congratulated.”

Sylvain bowed and drew Annette away just as the Prussian’s gaze settled on her cleavage. The king rose to dismount the dais and the whole crowd watched. Sylvain took advantage of the distraction to claim a kiss from Annette, just a brief caress of her ripe lower lip before they joined the guests in a ripple of deep curtseys and bows. The king progressed down the gallery toward Madame and her sister, his pace forceful and intent as a stalking hunter.

Annette slid her hand up Sylvain’s arm and rested her palm on his shoulder. A pulse fluttered on her throat. He resisted the urge to explore it with his lips.

“I suppose it is too early to leave,” he whispered, drinking in the honeyed scent of her powder.

“Your departure would be noticed,” she breathed. “It is the price of fame, monsieur.”

“Another turn of the room, then?”

She nodded. They moved down the gallery in the king’s wake. The African cat gnawed on its harness, blunted ivory fangs rasping over the jewels. Its attendant yanked ineffectually on the leash.

“Poor thing,” said Annette. “They should take it outside. This is no place for a wild animal.”

Sylvain nodded. “I have not thought to ask before now, but how is the monkey? Happier, I hope, than that cat?”

“Very well and happy indeed. My maid Marie coddles her like a new mother. They are madonna and child, the two of them a world unto themselves.” She glanced up at him, a wicked slant to her gaze, daring him to laugh. He grinned.

“And what name did Madame give the creature?”

The color drained from her cheeks. “Is that the viceroy of Parma? I would not have thought to see him here.”

“I couldn’t say. He looks like every other man in a wig and silk. Are you avoiding my question?”

“Show me your fountain. I haven’t had the chance to admire it up close.”

The crowd parted to reveal three young men in peacock silks filling their cups at the fountain. One still kept his long baby curls, probably in deference to a sentimental mother.

“There!” Annette said. “Not quite as delicate a tableau as the girl in yellow, but I think I like it better. You must make allowances for differences in taste, and I have always preferred male beauty.”

“I am sure you do. What did Madame name the monkey, Annette?”

“She is called Jesusa. It is a terrible sacrilege and my accent makes it bad Spanish too, but what can I do when I am presented with madonna and child morning, noon, and night? God will forgive me.”

“Madame didn’t name the monkey Jesusa.”

“Don’t be so sure. Madame is even worse a Christian than I am.”

“Very well. I’ll ask her myself.”

Sylvain strode toward the Salon of War. The crowd was thick. The king was with Madame now. The tall feathers of the royal hat bobbed over the heads of the guests.

Annette pulled his arm. “Stop. Not in front of the king. Don’t be stubborn.”

He turned on her. “Answer my question.”

The jostling crowd pressed them together. She gripped his arms, breath shallow.

“Promise you won’t take offence.”

“Just answer the question, Annette.”

She bit her lip hard enough to draw blood. “She named the monkey Sylvain.”

He wrenched himself out of her grip and lurched back, nearly bowling over an elderly guest.

“It is a joke,” said Annette, pursuing him.

“Does it seem funny to you?”

“Take it in the spirit it was intended, just a silly attempt at fun. It isn’t meant as an attack on your pride.”

“Madame thinks I am a prize target. Did you laugh, Annette?” His voice rose. Heads turned. Guests jostled their neighbors, alerting them to the scene. “Who else would like to take a shot at me?”

“Sylvain, no, please.” Annette spoke softly and reached out to him. He stepped aside.

Sylvain paced in a circle, glaring at the guests, daring each one of them to make a remark.

“I have done more than any other man to make a place for myself at court. I’ve attended levees, and flattered, and fucked. But worse – I’ve worked hard. As hard as I can. You find that disgusting, don’t you?”

“No. I don’t.” She watched him pace.