A Drop of Night(31)

Of course I looked for the secret panel that lets them in, and of course I found it. Two rooms can hold only so many secrets, and for only so long. But alas, the panel is locked from the other side. I pried at it until my fingers bled, and the next day there were bandages and a greasy brown salve on my nightstand.

I had half a mind to throw them across the room, another half to break my toes against the wall and scream until I was hoarse. I would have, had I thought it might help. But there is no use being childish. I have searched every nook and every cranny for a way to escape. I have left desperate notes, and shouted to be released, and I have cried all my tears away. No one is listening. I have nothing to do now but go mad. I feel I am accomplishing that, at least. I am becoming like the batty old dowagers at court, wandering from room to room or sitting half lost in the heaps of their finery with nothing to do but mutter and glance about disapprovingly.

Sometimes I write on the paper provided. Often I stare at my own reflection. It is poor company. During the first several days I would peer at the false windows and pretend I was speaking to Mama, would imagine the dry click of my sobs was her soft tutting and the swing of the clock hands were her fingers, running through my hair.

“Do you think we will get out?” I would say to the glass, and then I would answer in a lovely, foolish voice: “You will get out, Aurélie. You are clever and you are brave.”

I have stopped doing this. Not even the dowagers were quite so mad.


Last night I thought I heard Delphine crying. “Aurélie?” she wailed, somewhere faraway, and I sat straight up, listening until my ears rang, but I heard nothing more. I got out of bed and pressed my ear to the door. I woke on the floor nine hours later, and now I think that perhaps I dreamed it.


Today, I rise at my usual hour and dress behind the silk screen. I don’t know why I bother anymore. Perhaps I will never see anyone again, and I might walk about in a sheet like a Roman princess. Perhaps I will die down here, an old spinster far underground, by then utterly delusional.

I am already having the strangest dreams. Flashes of teeth and butterfly wings, folding open and closed. Delphine with her hair grown wild and vast, tangled with silver forks and toy rocking horses. Mama, pulling a bullet from her breast.

Breakfast is waiting for me in the boudoir when I am finished. Hot rolls and butter, honey in a crystal dish, and a bundle of glossy black grapes. The grapes taste of ashes. All the fruit here does. I wonder if Father grows them in little jars in a laboratory. Havriel said they sealed the palace, closed it up against the blood and ruin of the revolution, so I doubt they are coming from Lyon, as they used to. I pluck a few grapes and eat them. I sit down and butter a roll. The silverware makes soft clinking noises in the silence.

It is different down here, the sound of silence. On the surface, silence is a vast, full thing. It is alive, pulsing with the movement of the sky and the world and the stars. Here the silence is closed and tight. Everything is louder, every breath and every step. It makes it difficult to breathe and difficult to step, and perhaps that is the point. I throw down the roll after two bites and go to the writing table.

I am trying to escape, still. I have come to the conclusion that I have two options. One is to discover how the servants come in and out, which I have done, catch them in the act, beat them senseless, and escape through the secret panel. The second is to wait for someone—Havriel or Father—to come in the regular way, beat him senseless, and leave through the door.

I know the servants are only in one of the two rooms at a time, and that the doors lock whenever they are there, preventing me from ever stumbling upon them face-to-face. I know there is a panel in the boudoir and another in the bedroom through which they enter. They will not speak to me through the door. They will not answer my notes, no matter how kindly I write them and how many francs I promise them.

But I have a new idea. A servant will come again today to clear away the breakfast dishes, and this time I will be lying in wait.


I sit at my desk, dip my pen, and write a few words on a square of paper:

Roses

Viper

Whipped cream

I pause. Pretend I have forgotten something in the bedroom. Slip out of my chair and move toward the door. I take special care not to look at the mirror as I pass it. I doubt they are watching me through it, but I will not have them suspect. I go about the bedroom, singing to myself. I move away from the door, casually. Almost at once it begins to creak shut behind me, as if guided by invisible hands.

I wonder if it has something to do with the floor. Perhaps weight on the boards, or simply a watchful eye and a lever. It makes no difference. As soon as the door begins to close, I spin. A heavy wad of stationery is crumpled in my hand. I drop to the floor and jam it between the door and the frame.

The lock snaps out. It does not catch. Perfect.

I feel a thrill of fear as I press my back against the wall. There may be several servants; perhaps someone is standing guard, and I will be hopelessly outnumbered. But if I do not try, I will never know.

I hear the panel in the boudoir opening and footsteps padding across the floor. Slowly, I move forward to look through the crack between the door and the frame.

I see the boudoir, tranquil and empty, like a doll’s room. . . .

I wait, hardly daring to breathe. I do not see anyone, but I hear movement, the slide and tinkle of plates, the whisper of table linens. I reach for the heavy bronze vase in the corner next to the door. It is with this I plan to do the beating. It is too far away. I slide over the floor toward it.