Page 12 of Chateau Reverie

Leander splutters. ‘I didn’t—’

‘All is well, madame,’ de Vienne says soothingly. ‘Monsieur Sterne has been very accommodating.’

She doesn’t understand how that sounds, Leander tells himself, as Kramarov begins to smirk. ‘Ah, I see,’ she says. ‘It was that sort of quarrel. No matter. I ought to introduce myself to the other guests, also, but I wish a good day to you and your young man, hmm?’

‘I’m not anyone’s young man, madame,’ Leander tells her. ‘I met Mademoiselle de Vienne only this morning.’

‘Ach, so serious! More extraordinary things have happened in a morning, you know, than a rendezvous with a beautiful woman.’

‘A rendezvous!’ the mademoiselle echoes, scandalised. ‘Indeed no, madame, I believe you have the wrong impression—’

‘As long as you are healthy,’ Kramarov concludes diplomatically, ‘it does not matter to me what young things choose to do. But a word of warning to you, Monsieur Sterne—if you frown so much, you will find yourself stuck that way. And then your fine lady will look elsewhere.’

She wheels away. In her wake, de Vienne clicks her tongue and says, ‘Oh là là,’ with such mournfulness Leander snorts. They trade bemused glances—and then the bell rings.

There is one guest they have yet to speak to, although it seems the opportunity has now passed. On the other side of the staircase, hiding in a corner, is a prodigiously large man—not quite as tall as Leander, but still tall, broad, and muscled as a dockworker. He seems to be trying—and failing—to hide his largeness by bending his knees and stooping his back. His hair is a light ginger, eyes blue, and features brash and uneven, expression acidic. He wears his fine clothing with great awkwardness, tugging at his sleeves and fiddling with his buttons. Leander notes that his coat is a little too small for him—but perhaps any coat would be, considering the extraordinary width of his shoulders. It seems no great loss, in Leander’s view, that they haven’t had time to be introduced.

Orestes enters the foyer. He has forgotten his height again—he has a habit of doing that—and is at least an inch taller than he usually is. His bonnet has grown more flowers, also: an exuberant patch of sea-green lilies that scatter yellow pollen at his feet. He meets Leander’s gaze so briefly that no one else could possibly notice. For a moment Leander wonders if his brother is angry at him for his presence—there is a sort of fury in that look—but he can’t be. To be angry would require caring about him, and Orestes doesn’t care about Leander, ‘siblings’ or no. Orestes doesn’t care about anything. In all fairness, Leander would likely be the same if he had been trapped here as long as him.

‘We are all present!’ Orestes cries, clapping his hands together. ‘Excellent, excellent. Ah—Señor Ortiz, please be careful with the Dawn Clock. It is Company property, and any tampering with it will be treated as a violation of our hospitality.’

Ortiz bashfully steps away from the tree clock, which he seems to have been attempting to open; Leander can see a hinge upon its side, although the metal panel is locked with a small keyhole. Small temptations, as always. His mother enjoys it when people break the rules because she enjoys doling out their punishment.

‘Very good,’ Orestes says affably. ‘Now, if you would follow me, mesdames and messieurs: the courtyard has been prepared for our demonstration.’

The courtyard is framed by vaulted pink-plaster arches and filled with myriad foliage, some real, some clever illusions made of gemstones and marble. On occasion, a leaf in the low hedges is a chip of peridot or a crawling flower made of russet jasper. The most evidently false are the ornamental orange trees that line the path, boasting bronze trunks and perfect, blown-glass fruit. The air is scented as if the oranges are real; some of the fruit has even dropped from its branches as if ripe, leaving shards scattered across the jade grass.

There are murmurs of appreciation from some of the guests as they walk along the porcelain gravel. Genevieve is distracted by the body of a golden oriole lying dead beneath one of the orange trees, its stomach bloodied, its little wings spread as if it still intends to fly. Perhaps it attempted to eat one of the fruits and sliced itself open from the inside out.

Little corpse, she thinks, left there to rot. And there is a moment, brief and terrible, when she sees a woman instead of a bird. An amaranth gown, golden hair. A hand sprawled with its fingers curled, as if reaching out.

Genevieve is going mad. She has these momentary delusions sometimes, an encroachment of memories upon the present. She buries the past so persistently, but it still pokes its hand out of the soil.

Someone approaches at her back. Transfixed by the vision, Genevieve does not turn her head; the voice that admonishes her is Leander Sterne’s. In English, he says, ‘Leave it.’

The corpse becomes a bird once more.

‘I will not leave it, sir,’ Genevieve says through her teeth, turning her head to look up at him. ‘Mon Dieu, what callousness is this? The poor thing could be covered, at least.’

Sterne’s brow raises. She has forgotten herself, she realises. Genevieve tries to make her expression settle into something contrite.

‘The rose has thorns,’ he says, not without amusement.

‘The rose has decency,’ she mutters to herself. Genevieve pulls a kerchief from her pouch and crouches beside the bird. She lays her kerchief over it, wincing at the brown stain that spreads through the silk. Then she digs a little furrow in the soil beside it with her bare hand and gingerly uses one finger to tip the bird into the grave, whispering a prayer.

Sterne offers her his hand to help her stand. She takes it. His fingers are unusually long and slender; it is noticeable even beneath his gloves. Musician’s fingers, she thinks. They fold so elegantly beneath her palm. One draws itself along her inner wrist, a touch perhaps accidental, perhaps not. Genevieve’s heart flutters.

‘Monsieur Sterne,’ comes the Auctioneer’s voice, ‘Mademoiselle de Vienne. My apologies for the interruption, but if you would be willing to join us, we have much to speak of.’

Sterne drops her hand as if it is a hot coal. When Genevieve looks at the Auctioneer, he seems uncharacteristically angry, although his ire is directed at Sterne: his copper eyes narrowed and gleaming, back held rigid as a temple column. It’s as if he suspects Genevieve is being taken advantage of. Sterne meets his gaze boldly, his posture loose, a perfect picture of defiance.

The Auctioneer spins on his heel and marches away. Ashamed, Genevieve mutters apologies to his back as they follow him down the path to where the other guests are waiting.

They are crowded in the centre of the courtyard. There stands a statue, formed entirely of gold. It is a lovely woman in a classical-style robe, one breast bared, both hands outstretched and cupping a closed lotus blossom. Her face is the same as that of the lamia in the maze. She is smiling beatifically, golden eyes lifted to the sky, as if awaiting future orioles who might fall into the courtyard and gorge themselves to death. The marble plinth she stands on has a small set of steps before it, so that an observer might step up to match the height of the statue. At the base of the steps are inscribed a number of words in Ancient Greek.

Sterne comes to stand before her. ‘Can you read it?’ he asks her. ‘The writing?’

She would expect him to have some education in the language—by his clothing, his bearing, he seems well-to-do enough. But she will humour him, if it is a test, since she knows that she will pass. Genevieve has received instruction in Greek from her grandfather, and this is a passage she has already read. ‘It is from the Odyssey,’ she replies. ‘Book nine. No other home, no other care intends—he leaves his house, his country, and his friends. The sailors visit the isle of the lotos-eaters, where they eat the lotos-fruit, lose all their memories, and live forever in repose. Do you think we ought to take it as a warning?’