Vonda McIntyre - The Moon and the Sun

“You cannot come in! You must not come in!” The usher’s voice penetrated from the next Salon. “Guards!”

A pigeon fluttered wildly into the Salon. It dashed back and forth, it saw the sky through the window, it flung itself headlong toward the glass, it swerved at the last moment. It fluttered to the royal pigeon-keeper, who held it and cradled it against his chest. Other birds rested in his shirt and on his shoulders.

Without anyone’s leave, Lucien approached the pigeon-keeper. Leaning heavily on his stick, he held out his hand.

The pigeon-keeper dug in his pocket. He tipped a fistful of silver message capsules into Lucien’s palm.

Lucien did not condescend to open one. He returned to his place before the King. The tears in Marie-Josèphe eyes created a halo around the gleaming silver. She dug her fingernails into her palms, trying to stop crying, trying not to shout, Open one, read the message—

His Majesty plucked a single capsule from Lucien’s hand. He opened it. He tipped it, but nothing came out. He shook it.

An emerald hit the polished parquet with a bright sharp tap . The ember of green sparks skittered across the floor and came to rest in the fringe of the Persian rug. A guard scooped it up, knelt at the King’s feet, and returned it.

His Majesty read the scrap of paper from the message capsule. He dropped it.

Each message capsule contained a jewel more beautiful than the last, or a perfect jade bead, or an exquisite gold bangle. His Majesty littered the floor with the messages. Marie-Josèphe pieced together the words:

“Aztec gemstones. Spanish gold. Glorious prize.”

His Majesty closed his hand around the treasure.

“The sea monster wins its life.” His bleak voice unnerved Marie-Josèphe.

“Your Majesty—” M. Boursin whispered.

“M. de Chrétien, give him—” Louis caught himself. “M. Boursin, I’ll reward you as I promised. You may retire.”

M. Boursin bowed his way from the throne room.

Louis gazed down at Lucien, and for a moment his impassivity failed him.

“Lucien, my valued adviser… Who will replace you?”

“No one, Your Majesty.”

Lucien’s pride and sorrow moved Marie-Josèphe so deeply that she nearly burst into tears again.

His Majesty called Lorraine to his side. “Take the sea monster to its cage.”

“Your Majesty!” Marie-Josèphe cried. “Sherzad gave you a treasure ship.”

“And I give the monster its life.”

“You promised to release her.”

“Do you dare to argue with me?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“I promised not to serve the creature’s meat at my banquet. If I cannot grow immortal on its flesh, it must make France immortal with its treasure.”

Sherzad tumbled down the wooden steps and plunged into the Fountain of Apollo. The shock of the fetid water roused her from the daze of her grief song. She thrashed and twisted in the net. As it unwound, as she gained some freedom, she slashed at the cables with her claws. The mesh fell away into the inadequate current and drifted toward the drain, spreading and creeping like an octopus.

Aching, ravenous, bruised, scraped, she kicked through the surface. She landed, splashing hard. The door of the cage clanged shut and the lock snapped fast. The wings of the tent hung closed. She was alone. Frantic, she scraped at the sides of the pool with her broken claws; she wrenched at the grating over the drain until her hands bled.

She found no escape.

Musketeers took Lucien and Yves away, forbidding Marie-Josèphe to exchange a word with either of them. Two guards marched with Marie-Josèphe to Madame’s apartments.

In the dressing room, Madame stood with her arms outstretched. Her ladies in waiting tightened her corset-strings. Mademoiselle had already dressed, in magnificent ecru satin studded with topazes. Haleeda put the finishing touches on her tall ruffled beribboned fontanges.

Haleeda dropped the ribbons and ran to Marie-Josèphe and embraced her wordlessly. Lotte followed. Marie-Josèphe clung to her sister and her friend. Elderflower trotted toward her, snuffling; Youngerflower followed, yapping. They sniffed at the hem of her petticoat. Scenting Sherzad, they barked hysterically.

“Stop it!” Lotte toed the dogs away.

Madame ignored the musketeers while her ladies dressed her in a cloth-of-gold grand habit.

“You may retire,” she said to them.

“But, Madame—”

“Do as I say.”

They glanced at each other; they backed out of the dressing room. No doubt they waited in the vestibule, for even Madame’s robust presence could not counter His Majesty’s orders.

Madame pressed her cheek against Marie-Josèphe’s.

“Oh, my dear,” she said. “This is worthy of a tragic ballad. The King is furious, and he commands you to attend his banquet.”

“Madame, what am I to do?”

“Obey the King. Sweet child, that’s all any of us can do.”

Marie-Josèphe helped Haleeda dress Madame’s hair, holding hairpins and the few jewels and bits of lace that Madame would allow. She could take no comfort in the ordinary actions. Her hands trembled. The other ladies in waiting whispered about her disobedience and about her bedraggled appearance.

Sherzad is alive, Marie-Josèphe thought. As long as she is alive…

But she knew her friend would not long survive in the prison of the fountain.

Madame held out her arm. Marie-Josèphe fastened the King’s diamond bracelet around her wrist. The tears in her eyes redoubled the brightness of the facets.

“And now,” Madame said, “what are we to do with you?” She looked Marie-Josèphe up and down, sternly. “You cannot dine in the King’s presence, wearing a muddy dress.”

“Don’t tease her, mama,” Lotte said. She led Marie-Josèphe to a wardrobe and flung open the doors.

The gown inside was the most beautiful Marie-Josèphe had ever seen, gleaming silver satin and silver lace, a bodice paved with moonstones.

“Mademoiselle, I cannot—”

“M. de Chrétien sends it, with his compliments.”

I have destroyed him, Marie-Josèphe thought, and still he treats me with kindness.

Lotte hugged her and kissed her and gave her hands a hopeful squeeze, then left her alone with Haleeda. Lotte and Madame and their retinue departed, leaving behind the rustle of petticoats, the fragrance of rare perfumes, the echoes of their whispers.

Haleeda pressed a scrap of paper into Marie-Josèphe’s hand. Marie-Josèphe unfolded it. She caught her breath when she recognized Lucien’s writing.

We will see each other soon. I love you. L.

“Do not cry, Mlle Marie,” Haleeda said. “Your eyes are red enough already. Sit down, I must comb the rats nests from your hair.”

“Mlle Haleeda, I must send a reply. Do I dare—is it possible?”

“It might be managed,” Haleeda said. “Count Lucien has many agents.”

I love you, Marie-Josèphe wrote. I love you without boundaries, without limits.

Haleeda whispered to a page boy and sent the note away, then turned her attention to helping Marie-Josèphe into the moonstone gown. The mirror reflected her image, engulfed in silver-grey light.

“It’s no more than you deserve,” Haleeda said with satisfaction.

Marie-Josèphe tucked Lucien’s note into her bodice.

“Sister,” Haleeda said, “will you let me dress your hair properly?”

She picked up one of Mademoiselle’s several headdresses and held it out to Marie-Josèphe. Marie-Josèphe tried to restrain herself, but at the idea of balancing the tangle of wires and ribbons and lace all evening, she burst out laughing.