Page 42 of Chateau Reverie

There is, indeed, a tear in the silk. Rather than being stitched shut, the hole has simply been hemmed and enlarged, so that it is big enough to peer through. Leander looks quickly at Orestes in astonishment, and Orestes meets his gaze readily.

‘Generous of you,’ Leander says, and it feels bizarre to be thanking him for something earnestly, for once. As if he is wearing his clothing inside out.

‘I do not understand,’ Genevieve says.

‘Once these were made with eggshells,’ Orestes tells her. ‘This is a more elegant solution, is it not? You will learn its purpose once you have use of it.’

Genevieve frowns at the fan. ‘If I accept this from you, will I owe the Company something in return?’

He laughs. ‘Clever girl! A canny question. No, you will not. You have won this fairly, thanks to Monsieur Sterne’s actions.’

Hesitantly, Genevieve tucks the fan into her pouch. ‘My thanks, then,’ she says.

Orestes smiles and taps on the wooden floorboards with his cane. The wood distends beneath the metal with a soft, mouldable bend, like flesh beneath a finger. The Château is beginning to grow bored of its pretences, Leander realises. The longer the auction continues, the less tethered to reality it becomes.

‘We shall continue, then,’ Orestes says, and he ushers Genevieve quickly to the door. Her hand falls out of Leander’s own, and he withholds the embarrassing urge to reach for her—Orestes’s attention has turned to him now, as Genevieve walks ahead.

‘What follows now will be difficult for her,’ Orestes says to him beneath his breath. ‘But the stage is set; the players prepared. You must not allow her to leave, Leander. You must ensure she watches. Do you understand? She has already missed one event upon the schedule. If she does not complete this one in its entirety, she will be penalised.’

Leander looks down at him, considering the grim expression on his brother’s face, the way his bronze eyes glimmer in the light. They bear little resemblance—why would they?—but for the first time, Leander wonders if he can see some of the weariness in Orestes’s gaze that he so often notes in his own reflection. Leander knows so little of this man, has so few memories of him, save a certainty that Orestes was already present at the Château when he first arrived. And Orestes has never told Leander how much he knows of him; how many memories their mother permits him to keep.

‘Thank you,’ Leander says.

Orestes shakes his head. ‘Do not thank me yet, brother mine,’ he replies. ‘This is merely the eye of the storm.’

The Château has a theatre. Genevieve stops at the open door, aghast, amazed, for here is a room that should not be possible—so large, so high a ceiling, it surely cannot fit into the geometry of the building. And yet how lovely it is to behold: two-tiered, with rows upon rows of silver-upholstered chairs lined up like gravestones, and a great chandelier lit with thousands of candles. The ceiling, vaulted and glittering with a thousand shattered-mosaic tiles, catches the light of the fires and throws it back onto the floor. The stage has a heavy curtain made from a tapestry depicting lounging women in Greek dresses plucking golden fruit from bowing trees. And in the air, Genevieve can hear an ambient strumming and whispering and rumble, as if there are thousands of other guests present apart from themselves, an invisible orchestra tuning their instruments in preparation for the performance.

The Auctioneer ushers them to the front row. Genevieve sits beside Leander, Missah on her other side, Kramarov at the end of the row in her wheeled chair where a seat has been omitted. Missah has his fingers steepled beneath his chin and his dark brows knitted together, his expression one of deep thought. He seems tired, Genevieve thinks; she had not noticed it in the foyer—his eyes are small and heavy with exhaustion.

‘Have you discovered the truth of this place, monsieur?’ she asks him.

‘I fear not, mademoiselle,’ he replies. ‘I have wandered this place for hours without understanding any more of it. I cannot sleep for curiosity. I am utterly fixated upon it.’

Leander frowns at him. ‘You shouldn’t ask questions that can never be answered. It is the pathway to madness.’

‘I have lived my life by the theory that all questions are answerable, Monsieur Sterne. The Château is much the same. To surrender lies contrary to my very nature.’

‘Your nature will be your undoing.’

Missah sighs. ‘Perhaps so,’ he murmurs. ‘Perhaps so.’

The Auctioneer takes to the stage and bows slightly before addressing them. ‘Mesdames and messieurs,’ he says, ‘the Company Reverie is delighted to present a ballet in three acts: the Tragedy of Rosaline and Épinette. Please provide our performance your fullest attention. We will begin posthaste.’

He withdraws to the side, and Genevieve squirms in her seat.

Leander turns to stare at her. ‘What is it?’ he asks her. ‘Do you need the pot?’

She gasps softly and smacks him on the arm with her fan. ‘You are abominable. Manners, monsieur.’ He rolls his eyes but still chuckles. ‘I am merely excited. We. . .’ She pauses, chokes on her words. Leander waits patiently for her to continue, and she takes a deep breath. ‘We used to love the ballet, myself and— Yes. We would go every week at Versailles.’

He cocks his head in curiosity. ‘Every week? Surely you grew tired of it.’

‘Certainly not. I enjoyed the dancing, of course, but above all the costumes—I adored the costumes. My favourite production was Ninette à la cour. The lead part, Ninette, was a country girl, and she wore a darling white dress stitched all across with honeysuckle, and a peach-coloured petticoat that one could see whenever she kicked her leg.’ Leander is giving her a strange, sad little smile, and she finds herself flushing in embarrassment. ‘It was wonderful.’

She had been so enamoured with that dress. Claire and Genevieve spent weeks searching desperately for the embroiderer, keen to employ her services even though it would likely be outside their budget—their efforts had never come to fruition. And then, one day, there was the dress itself, lying on the bed in their chambers. Genevieve had swept Claire into her arms, laughing with the delight of it. She had borrowed the dress from the production, simply so they could both try it on. They pranced around the room hand in hand, spinning the peach petticoats around their feet as if they were dancing on clouds at dawn.

There comes a rumble from the orchestra, drums and strings low as if signalling the approach of a storm. The front curtain lifts; behind it, another curtain appears, this one of velvet, embroidered with the words THE INNOCENTS.

The curtains sweep to the sides, and the theatre is filled with the delicate scent of lavender. In front of them, the stage is in bloom: stalks upon stalks of purple buds, fluttering back and forth as if caught in a breeze the audience cannot feel. How they grow from the wooden floor, Genevieve cannot divine. And above them, a painted backdrop of a sky at dusk, with clouds that somehow float listlessly as if real. A house is depicted in the distance, faded cream plaster with a tiled roof.