Page 50 of Chateau Reverie

She is merely my maidservant. Let her go.

Claire remembers it all: she remembers the darkness of that night and the beauty of the starlight; the way she was smiling softly as she looked out the carriage window, relieved that they would finally be safe. Claire remembers Genevieve’s foot in her lap, and circling her fingers slowly around her ankle, tender, questing, as Genevieve giggled at the touch. She remembers reading from their English phrasebook and stumbling over the word through; she remembers the trundle of the carriage wheels as a sort of music: the music of liberty, the music of an ending and a beginning.

But they were not safe, of course.

Sometimes people speak of someone dying peacefully. According to the nuns that raised her, Claire’s own parents, both seized by the same illness, died serenely in their sleep. But now Claire does not believe a peaceful death exists. To her, death is that moment, it always shall be: the death of herself and Genevieve both. It is the moment her fingers interlaced with Genevieve’s as a stranger’s arms reached within the carriage to pull them outside. Sometimes Claire thinks she is still reaching for her, gasping, desperate, as she is flung to the side of the road. She will be there forever, until the moment she might finally forget.

She is there, and the men are saying, ‘Which one of them is the comte’s daughter?’

They have been so careful—have told so few of their flight—and yet still someone must have betrayed them. Some other servant, or some sailor waiting for them; Claire never found out who. But they have prepared for this eventuality. She is in pearls and silks, while Genevieve behind her is in linen and cotton, with her eyes lowered.

Claire is a servant and an orphan and worth so very little, whereas Genevieve is golden light and perfection—joy itself, love itself. Claire has spent years defining herself by her adoration for the woman beside her. Genevieve is a lady. She flushes and speaks softly, sweetly, demure and hesitant. She cannot save herself. Claire is the strong one. Claire must serve her, as she always has.

Which of them is the comte’s daughter? they ask once more.

And in another place, a place now reserved for Claire’s dreams, Claire steps forward. She says, head held high, I am Genevieve Célestine de Vienne, daughter of the comte. I am the owner of this carriage. The woman is merely my maidservant.

She is merely my maidservant. Let her go.

But this is not that place. This is France in revolution. This is a group of highwaymen, opportunists who lie in wait for fleeing nobles in the hope of quick coin, who have no values save that of their own enrichment. This is the night of 13 Floréal, and Claire Marchand sees her own mortality before her, sharp as a bared blade. She is shaking and queasy and so very, very scared.

She is Claire Marchand, and she has always pretended to be brave, but she is not. She is a coward. She always will be.

‘Please,’ she says. ‘I-Do not hurt me. I am not who you think I am.’

Her voice shakes; tears fall down her cheeks. Genevieve turns her head to look at her. And dear, sweet Genevieve, who hides from wasps and weeps at plays, says: ‘Leave her alone. We switched clothes. She is only a maidservant. I am Mademoiselle de Vienne.’

How can anyone doubt that voice, those shining eyes, the fair hair and perfect skin, the quiet authority she exudes? Beside her, Claire is dull and trembling, freckled and callused. There is little doubt of the truth.

Genevieve turns to her. ‘Run!’ she cries, and she shoves Claire back. ‘Find help!’ Her voice is so high and loud, more piercing than a scream; the men panic at the risk of discovery. One strikes out, blade flashing.

Genevieve has told Claire to run, so Claire runs. And as she does so, she looks back over her shoulder to see Genevieve in her amaranth dress crumpled upon the ground, blood dark on the grass.

Claire lurches through the dark, the lanterns following. Little bird! Little bird! An oriole with glass in its stomach; a starling falling to earth; a nightingale returned to its cage. Claire is all these things. Claire cannot escape.

The darkness elides time. Horror elides understanding. The next thing she remembers is a port, the salt air, and the captain’s astonished question: ‘My God, what happened?’

Claire looks down at her hands, her needle-callused hands, hovering over the yellow silk. She is covered in mud and dust, but she still has her pearls and her velvet slippers, heels worn down from running. She thinks of Genevieve’s blind grandfather in his country estate, waiting for the last heir of his line to return to him after more than a decade of absence.

Claire and Genevieve have been together since they were girls. In the corner of the schoolroom, Claire has learnt the same lessons as her employer; she has seen Genevieve smile and giggle and flutter her fan; she has lived her entire life as Genevieve’s shadow, her reflection. When she fell in love with her, it had felt like falling in love with herself.

Now Genevieve is gone. Claire, brave Claire, ran away, and Genevieve, sweet Genevieve, is dead.

Claire will die with her, for the sake of a resurrection.

‘My maidservant was left behind,’ she tells the captain. ‘Highwaymen found us, but she saved me. She allowed me to escape.’

They believe her. It is a miracle—or perhaps not. What madness would such a lie be? In absurdity lies truth. This woman will surely be discovered if she is not what she claims to be. Surely someone will notice.

But no one will notice, not for years. Not until an impossible day in an impossible place, where an impossible man comes to understand there is only one secret great enough, cruel enough, to win an Auction of Dreams:

Genevieve de Vienne died that night.

And Claire Marchand died, too.

Nineteen

Leander takes her face in his hands and leans forward. His lips press, featherlight, against her cheek; he is kissing away a tear.