Vonda McIntyre - The Moon and the Sun

“Yes, Your Majesty.” Lucien’s pride finally failed him. He could barely speak.

“I’ve condescended to spare your lives—but I wish never to see any of you again.” He nodded graciously to Innocent. “Here is your priest, cousin.”

“Did the sea woman repent?” Innocent asked.

“No, Your Holiness.”

“She declared war on the men of land,” Marie-Josèphe said. “And then she disappeared.”

“I should excommunicate you all.”

Yves fell to his knees.

“I shall not. Father de la Croix, you will have use for your priestly authority. Holy Mother Church faces a terrible threat. The sea monsters—”

“They’re people , Your Holiness!” Marie-Josèphe said.

“Yes,” said Innocent.

Lucien was as surprised as Marie-Josèphe and Yves, that the holy man would admit something so damaging to his influence.

“Your Holiness,” Yves said, “they’re nearly extinct because of the Church. Instead of offering them the word of God—”

“That is why—”

“—we tormented them as demons—”

“—history must be—”

“—and we preyed on them as cattle. I —” Yves cut off his words when he realized he had interrupted Innocent.

“—corrected.” Innocent nodded. “History must be corrected,” he said again.

Innocent opened the drawing box. He drew out a handful of pages: Marie-Josèphe’s dissection sketches. He crumpled one. He thrust its edge into the candle flame. It burned to his fingers. He dropped the ashes in a golden Aztec dish.

“Father de la Croix, your penance is this. You will search out every mention of the sea monsters.”

He snatched M. Boursin’s book from the table beside him, and flung it to the floor.

“Every book.”

He scattered a sheaf of letters, the current prize of the King’s Black Cabinet, waiting to be read, many addressed by Madame’s bold handwriting.

“Every letter.”

He ripped a handful of pages from the current volume of M. de Dangeau’s journal.

“Every chronicle of this self-indulgent celebration of the monsters. This week of Carrousel must vanish utterly.”

He flung down a handful of broadsheets, the Stories of Sherzad.

“Every painting, every myth, every memory of the creatures. The decree of the Church that raised them from demons to beasts.”

He handed Yves a roll of vellum, inscribed with black ink and illuminated with gold and scarlet.

“You will erase the existence of the sea monsters from our conscience. And from our posterity. You will do as you know you should.”

Yves bowed his head. He unrolled the vellum and held it to the candle flame. It smoked, contorted, burned. The stench of burning leather filled the chamber. With blistered fingers, Yves dropped the ashes into the Aztec dish.

Innocent rose.

“Who gives this woman?”

Yves remained silent.

“I do,” His Majesty said.

I am married, Marie-Josèphe thought. Married by the Prince of Rome, given in marriage by the King of France and Navarre… and I’m perfectly indifferent to the honor. I care only that I love Lucien, and he loves me.

But he did not look like a man in love. Sitting on the window-seat while she packed her few things, absently stroking the cat, he stared into space. Marie-Josèphe readied a basket for Hercules, who watched suspiciously.

“You may live apart from me,” Lucien said.

Marie-Josèphe stared at him, stunned.

“You’ll have your dowry, your liberty, time for your studies. I must leave court—I’ll never trouble you—”

“You’ll be my husband, in all ways!”

“But, my love,” he said, “I’m no longer M. le comte de Chrétien. Only ordinary Lucien de Barenton.”

“I don’t care.”

“I do. I have nothing. I can give you nothing. No title, no comfort—no children.”

“We’ll have more than nothing—I promise you! But I’d choose nothing, with you, over everything, with anyone else. Nothing, with you, is liberty and affection, consideration and love.” She took his hands, stripped of their rings. “I’d find only joy in a child with your spirit. But I’ll never torment you.” She stroked her fingertip along his eyebrow, down his cheek. “I will hope for you to change your mind.”

Lucien kissed her palm, her lips. He drew back reluctantly, sharing her anticipation.

Yves strode in, carrying his bag and Marie-Josèphe’s drawing box. He was smiling. Lucien tried to remember the last time he had seen Yves smile. On the dock, at Le Havre, such a long time and such a short time ago, when he gave the captive sea monster to the King. “Are you ready?” Yves said.

“Marie-Josèphe,” Lucien said, provoked, “how can we be happy? My position is gone. My resources. You’re forbidden music—”

“Innocent thought to torment me, but all my music belonged to Sherzad,” Marie-Josèphe said to Lucien. “He never noticed that what I want is to study and learn and discover… And the King gave me what I love most.”

Lucien glared at Yves, who shrugged.

“I have what I wished for, as well,” he said. “To spend all my life searching for knowledge—”

“To destroy it!”

“To… do with it as I know I should. To employ intelligent obedience.”

Marie-Josèphe looked from Yves to Lucien.

“Does His Majesty know what he’s done?”

“His Majesty always knows,” Lucien said.

“We’re cruel in our happiness, sister,” Yves said. “Lucien has lost everything—”

“The King has lost Lucien!” Marie-Josèphe said. “And Lucien has gained me .”

In Paris, on midwinter night, Yves de la Croix strode through sleet and darkness to his tiny house. He dropped his heavy cloak, lit a candle, opened the secret door, and stepped into the library.

He opened his satchel, drew out his most recent discovery, and unwrapped it from its covering of oiled silk.

In the illuminated manuscript, sea people leaped and played in waves of cerulean blue and sunlight of pure gold. He admired the illustrations, closed the book carefully, and placed it on the shelf next to Marie-Josèphe’s exquisite opera score, now bound in calfskin, M. Boursin’s dreadful cookbook, and the sheaf of Madame’s letters.

Candlelight gleamed on the sea monster medal, and on the frames of two of Marie-Josèphe’s drawings: One of Sherzad, the other of the male sea monster, haloed with scraps of gilt and broken glass.

The skeleton of the male sea monster lay in a reliquary of ebony, inlaid all over with mother-of-pearl.

For now, I must protect the sea people with secrecy, Yves thought. For now. But not forever.

Lucien’s Breton ship sailed through moonlight. Lucien stood at its stern. The wake glowed, a widening arrow of luminescence.

Lucien feared the return of his seasickness. He had endured the Atlantic crossing better than he ever dared hope. The choppy waters of France’s north coast brought misery to him, but the soft calm sea of the Tropic of Cancer caused him little distress.

I shall worry about hurricanes, Lucien thought, when I have a hurricane to face.

Marie-Josèphe joined him, sat on the deck beside him, and laid her hand along the side of his face. He kissed her palm.

I cannot regret my decisions, he thought. I’m too proud—too arrogant—to rue leaving court, if His Majesty believes he can find a better adviser, which he cannot. I cannot live in Brittany with my fortunes so reduced.