Page 7 of Chateau Reverie

Now he watches this woman—this guileless, wide-eyed woman—hum and step with her hands outstretched, like a dancer without a partner. He considers the Château, ever his mother’s willing accomplice, parting its leaves so that Leander can watch.

A gift to him, to aid in his victory?

A snare to entangle himself in, to ensure his surrender?

The woman wanders farther into the maze. Their paths will soon cross.

Leander follows her.

Genevieve’s grandfather built a maze, too, on the estate in England. But that one is small, mostly ornamental; nothing like the vast labyrinth of the Château Reverie, whose hedges are so high Genevieve cannot touch their tops, even by jumping. When she reaches the entrance—a tall arch dripping with wisteria—she feels a moment of odd trepidation. Still, she forces herself to enter and follows the trail, smiling; she will not permit herself sorrow now, when she has been afforded such liberty to explore.

The hedges are peppered with miniature white flowers that burst between leaves, and the occasional rope of honeysuckle tumbles down from the top of the maze, swaying gently in the breeze. The scent of its blooms, sweet and ripe and dizzying, makes the air heavy and Genevieve’s lungs light. Above her the sun has risen fully, and the sky is an extraordinary lapis. Her smile becomes more genuine. It has been a long time since she was in a space quite so beautiful—at least, beautiful in this manner, like a marble statue, considered and sculpted. She appreciates the artistry of it, the sort of artistry she thought had died alongside the king and the Court and the rest of Versailles. Perhaps, for a moment, she might permit herself to pretend. A gentle summer, a woman’s hand in her own.

I adored you in the sunlight, my love. The way your hair glittered like gold.

Genevieve turns a corner and finds a dead end. The memory of Versailles fades, and with it her brief moment of peace. Blocking her way now is a towering topiary of a beautiful nude woman, her legs merging into a serpent’s tail. She meets the woman’s eyes, as much as one can meet the eyes of a topiary, and feels an unexpected moment of profound recognition—the sort of recognition one has when seeing a painting of a monarch or reading a line from a famous poem. She feels a pull to this woman, a curiosity. But as Genevieve moves towards her, she sees a figure standing to the left of the topiary. She shrinks back.

It is a man of around her age, mid-twenties or perhaps a little older. Tall and slender, he has hair that is so light a blond it resembles spun silver, pulled back in a neat ponytail with a navy ribbon. He is pale, his features handsome and symmetrical, excepting a slightly wonky nose that might have at some point been broken. He does not seem French, judging by his fashion: his clothes are dark, well tailored but plain, with grey kid gloves, black breeches and boots, and a navy jacket cut to highlight the slenderness of his waist and the broadness of his shoulders. He wears no wig or powder. His eyes, darting over the topiary, are a warm blue, almost violet.

A lovelier face Genevieve has rarely seen. If this man had been at Versailles, before all had fallen to pieces, the Court would have referred to him as a pièce montée, the term for one of the beautiful and delicate confectionaries that formed the centrepiece of a banquet table. This man has that quality, Genevieve thinks, as if he might shatter if you try to touch him, all needle-sharp threads like spun sugar.

The man’s gaze drops from the topiary and finds Genevieve. His lips pull outward a little; his brow furrows—she cannot tell if he is smirking or scowling.

‘Forgive me, monsieur,’ Genevieve says. ‘I did not mean to startle you.’

‘You didn’t startle me.’

He has a curious accent: drawling and rounded, certainly neither English nor French. Genevieve cannot place it. She curtseys, offering him her hand. ‘Genevieve Célestine de Vienne, daughter of Comte Charles de Vienne, Chevalier.’

He is clearly unimpressed by her pedigree. ‘You’re here for the auction?’

‘Yes. And you also, monsieur?’

‘Yes, I am.’

He is abominably rude; he hasn’t even bowed, let alone taken her hand to kiss. Genevieve drops it awkwardly to her side. ‘You are. . .?’

‘Sterne.’

‘Only Sterne?’

‘Leander. Leander Sterne.’

‘I am enchanted, Monsieur Sterne,’ Genevieve says. ‘Your French is very good. You are from abroad?’

‘Yes.’

‘Where?’ He gives her an exasperated look. ‘Very far?’

‘You could say that.’

‘Might I ask your native tongue?’

‘I speak English, usually.’

‘English!’ Genevieve says, delighted, and so she changes to that language—she is proud, after all, to have become quite fluent in the years since her emigration. ‘But you are not from England.’

‘No, I’m not,’ he replies, changing languages as easily as she has. Sadly, he seems little impressed.