Page 3 of Chateau Reverie

‘Will you take a ginger lozenge, mademoiselle?’ a manservant asks, leaning towards her in his saddle. The white mare Genevieve is riding stamps its foot against the soil. ‘It may settle your stomach.’

She blinks at him. She must have fallen half asleep, somehow, staring out into the view; she feels as if she has just awakened from a vivid dream.

‘Please,’ she replies, outstretching her hand.

It has been a long journey from England, made longer still by the winding and labyrinthine roads that brought them up the Alps, forcing the horses to slowly pick their way over the uneven ground.

It is early still, the sun only partly risen, and westward behind them the sky is crowded with stars. The dawn has gentled the colours of the earth, fading them to burnished bronzes and pinks. But the elevation makes Genevieve lightheaded and queasy. Even the beauty of the view cannot distract from her migraine, which pounds at her head as she pokes at her lozenge with her tongue.

Across from Genevieve, her three lady’s maids mutter amongst themselves upon their ponies, uncaring of the scenery surrounding them. They are all on horseback; Genevieve can no longer travel in carriages. The first time she and her grandfather attempted it, she screamed and clawed at him like a wild thing, but he would not let go of her until she calmed, even when she scored red lines into the soft, liver-spotted skin of his arms. The past is stubborn, but her grandfather more so. No more carriages, he had told her, in quiet command. She had agreed.

If the servants think her mad for this undertaking, they are paid well enough not to comment on it. They must have suffered enough, regardless: following Genevieve on a circuitous route through the continent, skirting battles and sieged ports and storm-tossed seas. It has taken so long; it must have—but somehow they have arrived on the appointed date.

Genevieve suddenly feels uncertain. ‘What day is it?’ she asks the manservant.

‘The first of Floréal, mademoiselle.’

‘Of course,’ she says, relieved. As it must be. This is the day the auction begins, after all. She wrote her desire upon the invitation, and so she has come.

The Château Reverie itself is visible from here, a waterfall of peach stone and blue conical roofs. It is framed by twisting, verdant gardens, rising from an ouroboros path that doubles over itself as it attempts to climb the slope.

As they approach, the sun continues to rise, and the details of the Château become clearer. The architecture is of a style that has only recently gone out of fashion, and thus it must have been built within the past few decades, but the ivy that tangles itself over the orange-pink façade is so thick it seems the work of centuries. The balustrades are topped with marble statues of wingless cherubs that peer down at Genevieve with lurid grins, their chubby fingers pressed eagerly against the pediments.

The gardens in front of the entrance are intricate, lush lawns mown short, the grass pockmarked with sunbursts of mustard-yellow tulips and fragrant lavender. The gravel beneath the horses’ hooves has a curious crunch to it. When Genevieve looks down, she realises that the chips are not stone but porcelain, lacquered and enamelled, some pieces still retaining small strokes of blue paint.

Genevieve spent much of the last decade in Versailles, so she is hardly unaccustomed to opulence. Still, the thought of this—the thought of someone purchasing thousands of vases and candlesticks and inkpots, then crushing them into pieces, simply for the ability to have porcelain gravel—it is ludicrous, and it is marvellous. She catches the eye of one of the cherubs, and its expression is so comically lecherous she almost laughs with delighted astonishment. But it would be uncouth to show her teeth to the servants, or to her hosts. She hides her mouth with her fan to prevent them from noticing.

At the door stands a footman whose livery is a velvet emerald, and whose complexion and features seem to invite the eyes to slide away from him without much notice. Perhaps part of the issue is the man standing beside the footman, who is in a manner of dress so loud that it drowns out all those surrounding him. He wears a men’s jacket in pin-striped mustard silk, a cerulean vest, brown velvet breeches, and a pair of high-heeled women’s mules. Above all of this hovers a wide-brimmed bonnet trimmed with metallic fabric flowers of various shades and sizes. The man himself appears to be younger than Genevieve. He has bronze skin and curling dark hair that bursts out of the bonnet and brushes his shoulders. His bow, when Genevieve and her party approach, is as extravagant as his clothing—his arm wheeling behind him, fingers glittering with dozens of golden rings.

‘Mademoiselle de Vienne,’ the extravagant man cries, ‘welcome, welcome, to the Château Reverie! It is our honour and our pleasure to greet you!’

Genevieve’s manservant helps her down; her feet hit the gravel with a delicate crunch, satin slippers skidding along the unfamiliar surface of the porcelain. She has dressed in a pale, semi-sheer muslin, simple and loose: the sort of dress that would have had her thrown out of Versailles for its plainness, but which in England is the very height of sophistication. She now regrets this choice, considering the crispness of the mountain air. She suppresses a shiver as she straightens her skirts, then offers her hand to be kissed.

The man takes her hand. Genevieve permits it, but she feels somewhat bashful, to have someone near her own age touching her after so long with no one for company. His features are quite unlike any others she has seen, girlish in their delicacy and yet handsome all the same. He has glued a dark patch of fabric to his cheek to affect a mole, as ladies at Versailles often did, trimmed into the shape of a tiny heart. It is so convincing that Genevieve briefly believes it is real.

He kisses her hand with the fawning flourish of a courtier presented with a queen. ‘I am the Auctioneer. Son of Lady Reverie, and your humble servant for the duration of your stay.’

He has a high voice, and his accent is foreign, but Genevieve cannot place it. Furthermore, he does not provide a name, nor does it seem he intends to do so. It would perhaps be impolite to press the matter. Genevieve takes her skirts in both hands and curtseys, hoping to conceal her nervousness. ‘I am delighted, sir,’ she says, pitching her voice soft and high. ‘I was very glad to be invited.’

The Auctioneer seems pleased. ‘How courteous you are, mademoiselle! I suppose I should expect nothing less from the daughter of a comte. But I feel your courtesy may soon be stretched, as I must inform you that your company and your baggage must return to the commune.’

‘Pardon?’

‘At Château Reverie, numerous servants are present to attend to you. For these three days, we shall provide to you your every wish and whim, but we ask that nothing and no one accompanies you from home.’

‘Why is that?’ she asks.

He smiles softly, dimples pressed into each cheek. Genevieve feels tempted to smile back, before she recalls that she ought to be vexed. ‘Well—we cannot have the Outside come in with you, lest we be turned inside out, so to speak.’

That makes no sense at all. ‘But,’ Genevieve says feebly, ‘what of my things? What shall I wear?’

‘All will be provided by the Company, mademoiselle.’

‘And where shall my servants stay?’

‘We have made generous arrangements with the inn to the east of the commune; there are more than enough rooms, and all their meals shall be provided for.’

Genevieve glances back at her servants, chewing at the inside of her cheek. None of them seem much aggrieved by the thought of a three-day holiday, nor particularly bereft to be abandoning her.