Page 47 of Chateau Reverie

He rolls his eyes. ‘If I wanted to kill you, sweetheart, I’d have thrown you into that river.’

‘You almost did!’

He ignores that. ‘They’re horns of plenty. Delicious raw.’ He takes a mushroom and puts it whole into his mouth. She watches him chew, then swallow, shadows fluttering in the hollows of his cheeks.

It is not nearly enough food, considering her current appetite. But it is something, at least. She takes a mushroom from his palm, raising it to her nose. Its scent is curiously sweet, like overripe apricots, and its flesh is waxy and soft. She puts it in her mouth: it bursts into pieces at the slightest press of her tongue. The taste is extraordinary, like truffle and churned earth and bonfire smoke, like lust and fury and hunger itself.

The pupils of Leander’s eyes dilate as he watches her eat, dark and wide and wanting. Food is power in this place. By letting him feed her, she is surrendering to him. Leander seems to like that—like the fact that she still trusts him, even now.

‘Another,’ Genevieve says, slightly breathless, and this time he takes one for her and presses it to her lips. She closes her mouth around it, her lips brushing his fingertips. She hears his breath stutter in response. She is already full, somehow, but she wants more. His finger moves from her lips and draws a line down the side of her cheek. She wonders if the dark skin of the mushrooms will leave a stain, if his touch will mark her.

He gives her another, then another. Each time the flavour is stronger, the experience more overwhelming, and she begins to feel lightheaded.

‘Genevieve,’ he says, and his voice is shaking, just a little.

‘Come closer,’ she murmurs.

He steps nearer, his shoes brushing her skirts. The mushrooms are gone now; she does not mind. ‘Genevieve,’ he says again.

She raises herself on her tiptoes and skims her mouth over his jaw. She is delirious. She does not know what she is doing. His hand is on her lower back, and he is pressing his cheek to hers, and she feels an ecstatic lightness that is somewhere between joy and terror. In the distance she can hear the orchestra still playing, strings and drumbeats and echoing flutes.

She is frightened of this place, so frightened. But she cannot leave, and neither can he. If they must remain, if they must destroy themselves, then at least they can do so in each other’s company.

She presses her lips against his cheek: once, twice, three times. He shudders.

‘Dance with me,’ she says, almost a whisper.

‘I-I can’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘I don’t know how.’

She laughs softly. ‘Then I will show you.’

Genevieve tugs him gently towards the music. He goes quietly and willingly as a lamb, his hand loosely in hers and his breathing fast.

She would prefer a cotillion, perhaps even another minuet. She has a weakness for minuets, despite how old-fashioned they are. But if Leander has not danced these dances before, he will not be able to do so now. She must request something simpler. She leaves him standing at the centre of the dance floor, looking somewhat overwhelmed, and goes towards the stage.

None of the players look at her, nor do they pause the odd, unending song they are playing. Feeling foolish, she makes a request, in a voice that surely is not loud enough for them to hear. And yet, with the smoothness of those who have practised the transition a thousand times, they shift into a new song.

She returns to Leander and holds out her right hand. ‘I shall show you the steps.’

He places his left hand in hers. Her skin is so much warmer in tone than his. He is almost translucent, veins a brilliant blue beneath his wrist.

‘Put your right hand on my back, beneath my shoulder blade,’ she tells him. ‘It is performed in a closed position.’

His brow raises. ‘This is a very intimate dance.’

‘It is Viennese,’ she tells him. ‘It is called a waltz.’

‘A walls?’

‘Something to that effect. It is very popular in Paris. I believe it to be too scandalous for the English, as I have not seen anyone dance it since I moved.’

‘I understand why,’ he mutters, but he pulls her closer, and he consents to be led through the steps. It is a simple dance, and soon they are spinning slowly in time with the music, the cocoon lights above them like so many called-down stars. Leander’s fingers press into her back in rippling movements, as if he is playing one of the instruments.

Genevieve recalls the glass mandolin. ‘You are also a musician,’ she says, as they make another turn round a corner.