Page 5 of Chateau Reverie

He does not know, then. Leander feels little inclined to explain.

‘I was sleeping,’ Leander says. ‘In a grave.’

‘Where?’

‘By the bathing pond.’

‘What a bother,’ Orestes replies with a small frown. ‘Did you insult the Château?’

‘I must’ve done, although I can’t remember doing so.’

‘It is being so petulant at present,’ he huffs. ‘I suspect it is bored. Very well. If the ground does not heal itself, I shall send some servants to replant the grass.’

Leander nods sharply. He makes to walk past him.

‘Wait,’ his brother says.

He stops.

Orestes folds his arms over his chest. ‘I have seen the list. You are a guest at this auction?’

‘Yes.’

He bites his lip, aquamarine tooth worrying into the flesh. ‘And what is it you have wished for?’

‘What do you think?’

Orestes sighs, and then—inexplicably—he glances back towards the staircase. A frown shadows his brow; copper eyes flicker uncertainly back to Leander, and then to the ceiling, as if he has suddenly lost interest in the conversation.

‘Best of luck, then, brother,’ he says in dismissal. ‘May your time at the auction, short though it may be, remain only a pleasant dream.’

Genevieve cannot make sense of her maidservants. They are stubbornly resistant to her attempts at conversation, responding always curtly and respectfully, and yet refusing to offer any information about themselves or the Château at all. It is not that Genevieve expects them to like her—she knows that an employer’s attempts at friendship can be more a burden than a blessing—but still, the opportunity to converse with women her own age is rare. At Brambling House, the servants are all older than her. Her grandfather, concerned about her seclusion, encouraged her to attend society events in Exeter. The sole time Genevieve tried to go, she found the parties too loud, the people too enquiring, the men too frightening. She had screamed when a dance partner had attempted to put his hand upon her back, and in the aftermath of such humiliation, she had decided she would not return. Now she converses with her grandfather, with the maids, with the fat terrier named Captain that Cook keeps to catch rats. For the past few years, she has told herself that their company is enough. Yet now, seeing these three girls with their downcast gazes, she can’t help but wonder what it would be like to have friends.

No matter. She is Genevieve de Vienne, daughter of a comte, and of course she cannot befriend the maids—not here, in a French château, where the aesthetics and etiquette of Court are clearly still adhered to.

Her chambers are on the third floor. The gold plaque on the door reads LUNA SUITE. Inside, the ceiling is painted with a mural of a goddess in a chariot drawn by oxen; a bathtub studded with pearls stands imposingly in the corner; the wallpaper, a pale lavender, is covered in illustrations of crescent moons and clouds. The bed is enormous, and Genevieve can lie upon it horizontally with her arms outstretched, without touching either end with fingers or toes. Its canopy is a semi-sheer gauze of white, rippling in the faint breeze from the half-open terrace doors.

These doors lead to a small balcony with a view of the gardens. Genevieve bounds through them and grips the railing as she observes the view. It is extraordinary: directly below, there is a marble fountain of a lion, spurting water from its open jaws, and along the horizon Genevieve can see a jagged line of distant mountain peaks. A hedge maze is visible to the east, framed by stooping willow trees, the sun burning brightly behind it.

Back inside, she looks in the closet. She can hardly breathe for her excitement: it holds a vast array of gowns, as well as square shelves with wooden mannequin heads for hats and tiaras, and an impressively sized jewellery box. Genevieve runs her hands across the fabrics, feeling the soft shift of velvet and silk beneath her fingers. Her nails catch on the lacing of one dress in a vibrant shade of pink, the colour of an amaranth flower. It is the same colour she has avoided since that night in Prairial.

Genevieve slams the closet doors shut. The triplet servants stare at her impassively from the other side of the room.

‘Shall we dress you, mademoiselle?’ one of them asks.

‘Perhaps the gown of cornflower-blue velvet, with the straw bonnet to match?’ says another.

‘It shall suit your complexion,’ remarks the third.

Genevieve feels dizzy—perhaps it is the thinness of the air, or the weight of their attention.

‘I should like to bathe,’ Genevieve says. ‘I have been travelling. Would you fetch water?’

They curtsey in unison and leave the room.

Genevieve sits on the bed and stares down at her skirts. A coil of black hair has escaped her hat, and it falls in front of her face, limp with grease from days on the road. Surrounded by the lavishness of this bizarre and unfamiliar place, she feels utterly revolting. Attempting to distract herself, she opens the schedule provided by the Auctioneer.

Schedule of the Auction