Vonda McIntyre - The Moon and the Sun

“Don’t you approve of my creations?” Haleeda asked sternly.

“I’m sorry!” She pressed her hands against her mouth, stifling her laughter. “Mlle Haleeda, I don’t mean—”

And then Haleeda was laughing, too, at the absurd edifices she had designed, at the fashionable ladies who wore them.

Haleeda put down the fontanges. She arranged Marie-Josèphe’s hair in a simple style.

“You must wear these.”

Haleeda looped a long string of jewels into Marie-Josèphe’s hair.

“Your pearls—!”

“I must have them back,” Haleeda said, “for they will buy my passage home.”

The source of any gift from Mary of Modena was in truth His Majesty. Marie-Josèphe took some comfort in knowing that if Louis would not free Sherzad, he would contribute to Haleeda’s liberty.

The afternoon sun poured through the windows of the Hall of Mirrors, reflecting from the expanse of mirrors with blinding brightness. Rainbow spectra sparkled from crystal chandeliers. The sigil of the King, the golden sunburst, gleamed from every wall. Gods and heroes frolicked and made war on the ceiling.

Long banquet tables crowded the floor; the aristocracy of France and all its allies crowded the tables. The clothes, the food, and particularly the seating at His Majesty’s banquet would occupy court gossips for months afterwards, as it no doubt had occupied the Introducer of Ambassadors and his assistants for months beforehand. Music filled the room; orange trees perfumed the air.

“Mlle Marie-Josèphe de la Croix.” The usher announced her. Unescorted, she entered the hall. She walked, alone, dazzled by the light, into a hum of speculation. When her guard appeared, the whispers ceased. She held up her head and glided forward.

They would whisper just as furiously, Marie-Josèphe thought, because my hair is dressed unfashionably or because I am unescorted, as because I am under guard.

She almost burst out laughing. Perhaps they were exclaiming over the simple arrangement of her hair. Haleeda’s grotesque and fantastical headdresses loomed over all the court’s most fashionable women, like a forest of lace towers.

Marie-Josèphe took her isolated place at the farthest end of the banquet table, grateful to be out of the gaze of so many people. She did not want to be here; she wanted to be with Sherzad, with Lucien. Lucien’s note rested inside the glowing moonstone bodice, against her breast.

“Father Yves de la Croix.” Yves had put aside the King’s medal. A severe sketch in black, he joined Marie-Josèphe. Guards accompanied him.

“Lucien de Barenton, count de Chrétien.”

Lucien entered, the equal of any guest in attire, in demeanor, in pride. He had put aside his blue coat; instead, he wore silver satin and diamonds. He might have been a foreign prince, with a bodyguard of the King’s musketeers. His place at the foot of the banquet table, as far from His Majesty as one could be seated, might have been the place of honor.

“You have neglected my footstool,” he said coolly to the lieutenant of his guards.

“I beg your pardon, M. de Chrétien.”

Lucien waited patiently, indifferent to the uneasiness of the musketeers, who must be wondering if they should take orders from their prisoner. His smile to Marie-Josèphe was so luminous, so full of love and humor, that she accepted it as real, not a facade created by his pride.

When the footstool arrived, when Lucien had climbed onto his chair, the guards retreated behind the orange trees. Their tobacco smoke drifted out. Marie-Josèphe envied them.

Yves sat at Lucien’s right hand, Marie-Josèphe at his left. Their nearest neighbors edged their chairs away, leaving a no-man’s-land. Marie-Josèphe wondered if they would build a wall of candelabra, knives, and salt-cellars.

Marie-Josèphe put her hand over Lucien’s.

“Thank you,” she said. “Thank you for everything. I’m so sorry. I wish—”

He raised her hand and brushed his lips against her fingers; he kissed her palm. Her thoughts tantalized her: What must it be like to kiss him, if his touch to my hand speeds my heart?

“It’s been too long since my last adventure,” he said.

“Is that the only reason?”

“The reason is, you let me see your spirit, and I love you. Without boundaries. Without limits.”

“I wish we could trade places with them,” Marie-Josèphe said softly, nodding toward the hidden musketeers.

Lucien smiled.

“Control yourself, sister,” Yves said.

Despite Yves’ glare, Marie-Josèphe rested her hand against Lucien’s cheek. He leaned into her touch, closing his eyes. He shivered.

“Lucien—?”

“Never mind,” he whispered. He straightened up; reluctantly, she dropped her hand.

“You must tell me.”

“You understand my ordinary situation. At times, my situation becomes extraordinary.”

“The cure—?”

“There’s no cure for this, but patience.”

The usher announced the visiting monarchs. One after another they entered the Hall of Mirrors and took their places at the high table. The jewels and gold on their costumes weighed them down.

Marie-Josèphe caught a glimpse of Queen Mary, moving stiff-necked beneath the weight of an enormous fontanges of gold lace and ribbons, diamonds and silver embroidery. Powder turned her skin dead white, while thin lines of blue paint meandered across her temples and across the curve of her breasts, following her veins, accentuating her paleness.

“His Holiness Pope Innocent, Prince of Rome.”

Innocent turned away from the high table. The usher, horrified, looked around frantically for assistance, found none, ran after Innocent and whispered, received a quiet answer, stopped and bowed and backed away. Slowly, proceeding through the silence of shock, Innocent approached Marie-Josèphe. She rose and curtsied; he allowed her to kiss his ring. Yves knelt before him. Lucien remained where he was.

“Bring another chair.”

“Your Holiness!” Yves exclaimed.

Innocent’s command jarred the stunned servants to obedience. Yves seated Pope Innocent in his own place and took the new chair in the no-man’s-land at Innocent’s right hand. While the guests marveled in horror at the Pope’s breach of etiquette, servants rearranged the high table, whisking away Innocent’s place and leaving the King’s gold setting in the center. The usher looked faint.

“His Majesty, Louis the Great, King of France and Navarre, the Most Christian King.”

Everyone rose; everyone bowed. His Majesty, in cloth-of-gold, rubies, and diamonds, took his place without acknowledging that something terrible had happened. He gazed down the Hall of Mirrors, impassive. One moment of his glance raked Marie-Josèphe, and her brother, and Lucien, and pierced His Holiness.

“Your Holiness…” Yves said. “Your place—”

“Our Savior ministered to lepers. Can I do less?” Innocent regarded Lucien. “Though Our Savior was not required to traffic with atheists.”

Marie-Josèphe blushed with anger at the insult.

“If He had,” Lucien said, “no doubt He would have been gracious about it.”

“You are gracious, Your Holiness,” Yves said quickly, “to share our dishonor.”

“My royal cousin is very angry,” Innocent replied.

“We deprived him of a meal,” Marie-Josèphe exclaimed. “To keep him from committing murder.”

“We feared for his soul, Your Holiness,” Yves said.

“Perhaps you’ve protected a demon,” Innocent said, addressing Yves. “Or perhaps you deprived my cousin of immortality.”

“Sherzad cannot give anyone immortality, Your Holiness,” Marie-Josèphe said. “Only God can do that.”