Page 57 of Chateau Reverie

Twenty-Two

Leander says, ‘She will bid, and she will win.’

His mother smiles at him. It is night still, but before him Lady Reverie is clear as day. He sees her now as he has never seen her before: the whole of her, the reality beneath her skin, a shuddering patchwork of flesh that is dark as shadows, perhaps darker still. Beneath the loveliness, beneath the flowers and the trees, there remains the squirming of the worms and the soil and the rotting carcasses they feed upon; for Lady Reverie is alive, more alive than anyone or anything else. Leander’s mother stinks with her aliveness; she has the slippery newness of a squalling babe and the paper-dry smile of a dying man.

She presents herself and these things as golden and gleaming to her guests, but seeing her now, Leander knows the truth. His mother cannot die, because his mother is being born constantly, building herself from the bones and the blood of those she takes, constructing a personhood from their dreams and their regrets. Perhaps she is lonely, as Orestes had said, but she is also a parasite. To live, she must continue her cycle of promise and denial. She must show herself and her horrors to her guests, to others in their dreams: that way, she can remain. A myth, an island, a court, a château. As long as she is required, she exists.

‘She will bid,’ Leander says once more, ‘and she will win. I fell in love, and so my first wish was granted. But I surrender my second wish now. I surrender my liberty, and I will stay here with you.’

Lady Reverie laughs, and the Château laughs with her: chandeliers chiming, wooden floors creaking, trees shedding their leaves in ecstasy.

‘Leander turns away from the lantern,’ she says. ‘So neither he nor Hero shall drown. A less romantic tale, perhaps—but a pretty one, all the same.’

Claire is home, in Devon.

It is around noon; it rained that morning, but now, in the manner of English skies, the wind has come and blown the clouds away, leaving brilliant blue and the scent of petrichor.

She dresses herself, as she prefers, in her room of ivory wallpaper and velvet curtains. There is a portrait of a dog—Genevieve’s dog, when she was small—above the mantel. There is a vase of fresh flowers by the bay windows, scenting the air with lilies. Claire wears a white gown with little adornment. She ties her hair with a silk ribbon and ignores her powder pot. It is a typical day, a simple day. She will spend it with her grandfather, reading and wandering the grounds, and this evening an artist or a poet will come for dinner. They will drink lemonade with fresh mint, and Claire will not weep, for years have passed—and in that time she has not healed, but she has learnt, on good days, that she might ignore the wound. She wears Genevieve’s smile and walks the halls of her family’s home, and she tells herself this is a method of preservation: that this is kindness, not thievery. But she does not believe it, and Claire wears the guilt of that alongside her white dress and her silk ribbon and her lace shawl. She carries it with her down the steps and out onto the patio, where her grandfather is sipping tea beside a small table of scones and butter, the wind ruffling his thin pale hair.

He hears her coming. ‘Genevieve,’ he says, as he does all mornings, ‘come, sit with me.’ He turns to her as he speaks, although he cannot see her. There is beauty in the lines of his face and the blueness of his eyes, which—although now filmed over with white—were once the exact shade of Genevieve’s. He has Genevieve’s nose, too, and her wide, guileless smile.

‘What are we reading today?’ he asks her. He always asks her this.

She sits beside him. ‘We must finish Ovid’s Heroides.’

‘Of course, of course. Which letter is your favourite so far?’

‘That of Hero to Leander,’ she says, and she has the most curious moment of pain—a contraction within her chest, as if her heart, for a moment, has forgotten how to beat.

‘Yes. It is lovely. Do you recall the end?’ When she is silent, he smiles softly, and continues. ‘It will come to you eventually.’

Claire pauses. ‘I had a curious dream last night, Pépé.’

‘Tell me.’

‘I was in a beautiful place,’ she says, ‘but it was beautiful in the manner of a pinned butterfly—somehow awful, also. And in this place, they told me I could trade my secrets for my heart’s desire. I met a man whom I wondered if I could learn to love. I went there to forget, but now I am afraid that I shall.’

‘Dear girl,’ he replies, and his voice is steeped in pity. ‘What did you wish to forget?’

‘Who I am.’

‘But you are so many things,’ he says. ‘My granddaughter, my companion; a scholar, a woman; defiant, kind. How could you possibly forget all that?’

‘What if. . .’ Claire shakes her head. ‘What if I am not who you believe me to be?’

‘Then I mourn the lie,’ he replies. ‘I mourn the loss of Genevieve. But I do not mourn you, Claire. How could I, when you have loved me so earnestly?’

Her eyes meet his. Is it possible, truly, that he has known all this time?

‘Which is real, Pépé?’ she asks him. ‘Here, or the Château?’

He smiles at her.

‘Perhaps neither,’ he says. ‘Perhaps both. It does not matter. Whichever place you may be, you must trust it is the right one.’

A knock, a sudden onrush of light; Claire is awoken.

The maidservants have come an hour before dawn, as requested. Their lanterns illuminate the dark room. When Claire sits up on the bed, awfully—expectedly—Leander is gone.