Page 41 of Chateau Reverie

‘Don’t,’ Genevieve gasps, but then Leander reaches out with his hand and pats the lion’s head. It butts into his palm like a pleased pet, rumbling its satisfaction.

‘Thank you,’ he murmurs to it. ‘You’ve done well.’

The lion stands, stretches extravagantly, and clambers back into its position on the fountain.

Leander returns to Genevieve. He pulls her into his arms and raises her, slack as a doll, up to standing. Her head falls forward, limp upon his chest. He uses both hands to lift her face back up to his. She is frightened still, so frightened. He shimmers before her like the horizon on a summer’s day. Blue eyes, blond hair. It is her. It is him.

‘Stay with me,’ he says. ‘Where are you going, Genevieve?’

Where are you going, Genevieve?

Blood on the ground. The lion, the darkness. The garden, the carriage. A woman’s hand in her own; a man’s hand on her shoulder. And she is always at the centre of it all, screaming without sound. Always.

Forget Claire Marchand, she tells herself. Forget Claire Marchand. Stay here, with Leander. Feel his eyes on you and the strength of his arms around you and fall into him, as if you are falling into a well, into the cool dark water, then sink. Genevieve, Genevieve—

She goes up on her tiptoes and kisses him. He is as still and smooth as marble beneath her touch. She wonders if he will reject her now, this broken thing she has become, the woman in the amaranth dress lying bloody on the ground. Then he kisses her back, his teeth at her bottom lip, his tongue against hers. He pulls her closer and scrapes his nails against the back of her neck, so that she trembles and whimpers and all she can think of, all she knows, is the taste of him.

She has never had this, never clung to someone so different from her, so much taller, all hard lines and harsh angles. She runs her fingers along the fine hair on his forearms, delights in the way her fingers cannot close around his wrist. He pulls away from her, lips parted—attempting to speak—and she cannot allow it. She takes him by the collar, pulls him back in, presses herself against him so that she can feel the broad planes of his chest against her own. He groans. ‘We shouldn’t,’ he manages to murmur, ‘not here, not now,’ but even as he says this, he is pulling her back to him and tugging at the pins in her hair. The pins fall to the ground, her hair drops to her waist, and he is twining his fingers in it as if to bind her to him. They kiss until there is nothing left to her but desire and desperation. Until all she can think of is him.

When they part, they are both gasping. His pupils are blown wide and dark, and she can feel that he is hard against her through the thin cotton skirt of her chemise. She considers asking him to come to bed with her; she considers falling back to the ground and pulling him down with her.

He sweeps a finger over her cheek, her jaw. ‘I’ve been so afraid of drowning in this place,’ he murmurs. ‘Every moment, I’m terrified that I’ll sink beneath the surface and never return. But for you. . . For you, I’d drown willingly. I’d let you push my head below the water and thank you for it.’

‘I’d go with you,’ she says. ‘Both of us, together. Leave the lantern behind.’

He leans down to kiss her once more.

And then, in the distance, a bell rings.

Fifteen

In the foyer, Orestes awaits them. Leander is holding Genevieve’s hand—he can sense that the other guests are staring, but how could he possibly release her? She is still trembling, her fingers quivering in his grip with such violence it’s a wonder her teeth aren’t chattering. He is grateful to the lion for saving her, but he wishes she hadn’t been exposed to such brutality. She’s clearly seen enough of it to last a lifetime.

There are so few of them remaining. In the foyer, only Missah and Madame Kramarov await them. And then there is Orestes, descending the steps with his hand squeaking along the banister and his high-heeled shoes clipping over the marble. He is holding a cane in his right hand, finely wrought in braided vines of gold and silver, its head a sneering enamel mask resembling the sort the Greeks once wore for Tragedy.

‘Mesdames and messieurs,’ he greets them, ‘my thanks for gathering here. As your schedule promises, a second entertainment has been prepared for this afternoon for your delectation. If you would oblige to proceed down the left-hand corridor. . .’

He holds the door open. Madame Kramarov passes through, then Missah. As Leander and Genevieve step forward, Orestes pauses them by outstretching his cane, in an unusually blatant display of rudeness. ‘You were both absent at luncheon, mademoiselle, monsieur.’

‘We apologise,’ Genevieve says, her hand tightening around Leander’s, despite what must be an embarrassing impropriety for her. ‘We were otherwise occupied.’

She doesn’t realise how damning that sounds, Leander thinks, exasperated, as Orestes’s lips twitch with amusement and something else—frustration, perhaps. ‘Be that as it may, you are required to attend all the events upon the schedule.’

Leander feels his stomach drop. ‘Will we take a penalty?’

‘No. Our Lady is merciful, and she understands that your other activity was of the utmost importance. But, if I may—since I could not find the mademoiselle previously—I wish now to impart upon you your prize.’

‘Prize?’ she echoes, in confusion.

‘As you are aware, you were the winner of the treasure hunt.’

From his pocket, he produces a familiar fan: cream damask silk, dark wood, and a tassel topped with a garnet. It’s the one Genevieve has been waving in Leander’s face for the past two days. He’d wondered where it went.

She says, ‘This is my fan, monsieur. I thought I had lost it.’

‘Indeed, mademoiselle. Is it not most gratifying to see it returned?’

Frowning, she takes it from him. She opens it, then says with charming indignation, ‘But, Monsieur Auctioneer, there is a hole in it!’