Page 60 of Chateau Reverie

‘Orestes.’

‘After the man who killed his mother?’

‘The same,’ he says. ‘If it is a prophecy, it is a cruel one. I love my mother above all things, as she has never allowed me anyone or anything else. I am the only one who stays. She has had other children before me, and after me, but they are gone now. I presume one day Leander will join them, wherever they went.’

Claire realises she is trembling. The cold air of the morning is gusting through the open window; the breeze is damp and bracing. She takes her muddied skirts in her hands and takes a deep breath, feeling her lungs jolt with the chill. The blood on her palms will stain the fabric. She does not care.

‘Take me to him. Please.’

‘Mademoiselle. . .’

She can see the hesitancy in his eyes; she reaches desperately for it.

‘You told me yesterday that you do all you can to accommodate your guests’ wishes. Did you lie?’

‘Certainly not,’ he says.

‘It seems to me you have not done all you can.’

‘This is true,’ he replies. He turns, goes to the window, and closes it. Then he turns his head to her and smiles.

‘Dearest mademoiselle,’ he says. ‘How ferocious you are. If my brother has always been destined to drown for someone, I am glad that it is you.’

He offers her his arm. She takes it, and he leads her out the door, leaving the birds and their cages behind.

Twenty-Three

Orestes takes her to a study of some sort, although instead of books, all the cases on the walls hold a great profusion of flowers: some in vases, some not, but all wilting and browned. A large blackwood desk placed awkwardly in the centre of the room bears a chessboard with glass pieces all of the same colour, placed as if in the middle of a game.

Orestes opens the drawer of the desk and pulls out a gold chamber stick, its handle curved elegantly, the candle itself burnt down to almost nothing.

‘What is that?’ Claire asks.

‘My mother’s patience,’ he replies. ‘I keep this here so that I might know when it fails.’

Together they leave the study and go out to the gardens.

Orestes does not light the candle, ignoring the gloom of the nascent morning. They go together to the lion fountain, passing by the lilac trees, which now seem to be ailing despite the spring: some blooms have begun to wither and fade from palest purple to the brown yellow of aged paper. Fallen blossoms carpet the grass, scenting the air with sweetness and decay.

At the fountain, the water does not move. The stone is overgrown with moss, as if it has lain abandoned for years. The lion remains absent, and Claire turns to ask where it has gone—but then Orestes whistles, a sound high and bright as a fork striking a glass, and in the distance, a figure bounds towards them.

The lion may be animated, but its mane does not rustle with the wind; its weight is such that it sinks into the ground as it runs, leaving pondlike impressions in the dirt. When it stops before them, it unhinges its jaw in a silent roar, revealing an impossible darkness within its throat. Its lips are still stained with Kurki’s blood. Claire shudders, stepping back.

‘It will not hurt you,’ Orestes said. ‘It loves Leander, as all creatures here do, for the music he plays each night. It will take you to him, because it knows he would wish to see you.’

Obliging, the lion bows its head, lowering itself onto its haunches.

Claire casts a desperate look at Orestes, but he remains placid. Slowly, she clambers onto the lion’s back. It is not comfortable—of course not, it is marble—and she cannot sit side-saddle without slipping down. She is forced to ruck her skirts up and straddle it like a man hunting. The part of her that is still Genevieve, that always will be, winces at the impropriety.

Orestes hands her the candle, now lit. ‘Shield the flame,’ he advises. ‘Lady Reverie will soon know we are here.’

‘Then how can I hold on to the lion?’

‘Trust you will stay seated, and you shall. Belief is as strong as reality here. Go now, mademoiselle. You have until the light burns out and her patience ends.’

She glances at the tiny stub of the candle. ‘But. . .’

‘Go,’ Orestes says, and his tone brokers no argument.