Page 65 of Chateau Reverie

Claire shivers. Lady Reverie leans closer to her.

‘Indeed, what is tragedy without hope?’ the Lady asks her. ‘How can a flame be doused if it is not lit? And so I offer you a bargain, you and Leander both. A fourth act in the tragedy—rare, but not unheard of. It is often so in ballet, is it not? With one hour per act?’

Claire cannot lie. ‘Yes.’

‘Then I will hold the dawn still for one hour. I will release Leander from his prison. If you find each other while the sun still touches the horizon, you may depart this place together, unimpeded.’

‘And I will remain Claire Marchand?’

‘Yes. That is the sacrifice you make.’

‘Leander must be living,’ Claire says. ‘As he was when we met.’

‘Of course.’

‘And if I do not find him?’ she asks.

‘Then I must honour my son’s original request, and ensure you win your original wish: you will leave this place as Genevieve de Vienne and forget Claire Marchand entirely. Am I not most generous in this?’

Claire clears her throat. ‘Indeed. And Leander. . .?’

‘His story is now finished. I shall make him a statue of ivory and gold; that way, he shall never again attempt to leave.’ She pauses. ‘Of course, Claire Marchand, this pageantry is not necessary. I remain beholden to the terms of the auction. If you wish to leave here now, you may. You will become Genevieve de Vienne, as you have always wanted—and your dear Leander will be remembered only as a moment in a dream, if that. You will not grieve him. You will not even know his loss.’

Claire wonders, then, if she will remember him even if they do leave together—if this place, this threshold between sleep and wakefulness, will keep her memories in its covetous grip and force her to once more see Leander as a stranger. For all there have been horrors in the Château, there has been unbearable sweetness, also: his hand in hers, her lips on his cheek, the whispered words of devotion. To lose these things seems a great cruelty, whether she loses them as Claire or as Genevieve, whether she takes Leander with her or abandons him to his fate. Whether, indeed, she fails in her task, and he finds his end in gold and ivory.

‘You will keep your word?’ Claire asks.

‘Dear thing.’ Lady Reverie leans forward once more and draws an ice-cold finger down the side of her cheek. Claire finds herself frozen, hairs standing on end. ‘Dear thing,’ she repeats, ‘you will trust me because you must. All I may take from you, I may also give. That is the beauty, the pain, of true honesty. You must wound yourself to receive its rewards.’

‘Then I accept these terms,’ Claire says.

Lady Reverie sighs in pleasure, as if Claire has given her a great gift. ‘What delights this auction has provided. What diversion!’

She turns her head to inspect the horizon. The sun is half crowned, a perfect semicircle of light, and the sky is the deep red of an open wound.

‘Go then, fair Hero,’ she tells Claire. ‘One hour remains—the final act begins.’

Twenty-Five

Claire runs through the halls of the Château. They are empty: all the servants seem to have disappeared, like the mist the previous morning, leaving no trace apart from gleaming surfaces and beaten curtains. In the grand foyer, the silence is so heavy Claire finds herself slowed, feet skidding across the pink marble, and she almost collides with the tree-shaped clock.

She has so little time and no way to determine how much has passed. She must find Leander. Claire lurches towards the front door so that she can enter the gardens and finds that it is locked.

What a ludicrous thing to stand in her way; it is so mundane, so obvious, that she knows Lady Reverie must find it terribly amusing. She knocks against the metal, too strongly, and she winces at the pain that glances across her knuckles. ‘Hello!’ she calls, ludicrously, but there is no response. Then—after a moment’s pause—‘Orestes!’

The door makes a clicking noise, as if many latches are being lifted at once. Claire steps back. The door swings open, and Orestes emerges into the foyer.

He is no longer dressed in Company livery; he wears a long robe, of the sort she imagines men might have worn a thousand years ago, woven of glittering bronze threads. Around his shoulders is an iridescent cape of green and blue, which she presumes has been embellished with beetle wings—then one beetle takes flight, and she realises that the beetles are whole, after all.

‘Claire Marchand,’ Orestes says, in a tone of resigned bewilderment. ‘You have succeeded in your negotiations with my mother?’

‘I must find Leander while the sun still touches the horizon. The Lady has locked the door.’

He sighs. ‘She will do more than just that. You have challenged her, challenged the Château, and this masquerade is near an end. Reverie will do all it can to keep you here.’

‘Perhaps so. But please, sir, if you have any love for your brother, you must aid me in my search. I haven’t much time.’

‘I cannot give you more aid than I have already offered.’ He gives her a brief bow; a beetle skitters over his sleeve. ‘Forgive me, mademoiselle, but my mother’s patience with me is at an end. The candle is burnt out, and I have no choice but to recuse myself.’