Page 24 of Chateau Reverie

Leander hums in thought. Hardly an uncommon lot, he’s sure. Plenty of desperate people must have come here seeking a cure for a loved one. Either way, her son is as doomed as she is—and for that, Leander does feel some regret, as pointless as it might be.

‘Best of luck to you, madame,’ he says to her, turning away.

‘And to you, sir,’ she replies. ‘Allow me to provide you some advice, for the remainder of the auction.’

‘I would rather you didn’t,’ he says, but she ignores this.

‘As powerful as desire can be, it is only fleeting. It is not worthy of sacrifice. It cannot last.’

‘What does last, then?’ he asks her curtly. ‘Is there nothing that remains?’

She smiles.

‘Regret remains,’ she says. ‘Desire dies, love fades. But regret, Monsieur Sterne? That lasts. Regret will last forever.’

Nine

Genevieve awakens after a fitful hour of rest to find a letter upon her desk—sealed with red wax, as all the Company’s missives are. Our congratulations, Mademoiselle de Vienne, the letter reads, for your victory in the first day’s trial.

Leander placed her figurine before his own, she realises. And she is grateful, of course, but that gratitude only makes her more ashamed. She will thank him, she tells herself. Regardless of how mortified she feels.

There is little else to be done now except to prepare for the banquet. There is comfort in the familiar routine of lacing and curling, painting and primping, choosing the colour and fashion that suits best. At Versailles, styles had passed as quickly as autumn storms, and Genevieve had always scrambled to keep up: she and Claire strategizing how to allocate her parent’s funds to ensure she was not embarrassed at whatever soirée was hosted that night. Together, they would lay squares of fabrics carefully over their bedchamber floor, bright and beautiful as gems. She could still recall the process of running her fingers over each patch, velvet and silk and the fine fuzz of embroidery. And then, in the middle of the pile, Genevieve and Claire’s hands would meet, fingers folding over fingers, soft warm breath between them. Eyes closed, they would become all sensation: hands over corsets and exposed skin. The warmth of her, the trembling delight of them both.

In the closet is a gown that looks exactly like something Claire would have chosen for her. It is constructed in a shimmering two-toned silk of purple and navy, fringed with silver beading, and its long train would be well suited to a royal audience. The three maidservants lace her into it with impressive efficiency, coil her hair up, and crown her with a tiara of amethysts and ostrich feathers. They powder her cheeks pink and brush her lashes with antimony.

Genevieve asks, ‘Is it the Lady Reverie who has loaned me such finery? Surely I must thank her personally.’

‘The gown is the Château’s gift to you, mademoiselle,’ comes the soft reply from one of the maids.

How they know her measurements, Genevieve cannot guess; nor does she wish to. It is clear that impossible things are happening at Château Reverie, but she now tells herself that it is more of a comfort than anything else—after all, has she not come here to achieve the impossible? Would she let fear guide her now, and lead her away from all that she wanted? She is born anew this night. She will enter this banquet with dignity and elegance, enjoy herself, and then sleep without dreams.

So Genevieve wears the ostrich feathers, the tiara, and the train. She slips her feet into dainty silver-heeled mules that make her teeter as she walks like a near-felled tree. As she makes her way to the dining room, she floats down the steps with her spine held straight, mules clip, clip, clipping against the marble.

Then she almost trips over the fringe of the gown. She has to stop and lean on the balustrade to prevent herself from falling. When she looks up, red-faced, the nameless guest, the broad-shouldered man with the ginger hair, is staring at her from the bottom of the staircase.

‘It-it is the shoes,’ she says tremulously. ‘The Château provided them, and. . .’

He stares at her but says nothing.

Gingerly, Genevieve descends until she is one step above him—there seems some wisdom in maintaining a height advantage—and extends her hand. ‘I believe we have yet to be introduced, monsieur. I am Genevieve Célestine de Vienne.’

The man shakes himself, as if awakening from sleep, and takes her hand carefully. ‘Mattias Kurki,’ he says.

He hasn’t even bothered to dress for dinner; he is in the same clothing as before, ill-fitting jacket straining at his shoulders. She finds this quite objectionable, and she makes it known with a small wrinkle of her nose—still, she will not stoop to insults. ‘Where are you from, Monsieur Kurki?’

‘North,’ Kurki replies. His tone makes it clear he will give no further detail.

He leans a little closer to her. Genevieve shrinks back. There is an extraordinary intensity to his gaze—his eyes a sort of drill, threatening to break into her skull—and Genevieve feels an instinctive, familiar fear. For a moment, she sees the shadowed faces of the men that night in Prairial, hears their cruel laughter and their shouts. Little bird, you are free now. Her stomach churns, vision darkening at its edges.

‘I will win the auction, mademoiselle,’ Kurki says, and although the words are certain, his tone is tight with fear.

‘Oh?’

‘I must win the auction,’ he amends. ‘Please understand this.’

‘We all have our reasons for being here.’

‘Yes.’ He steps back from her. ‘Yes, that is true.’