Enchantée(70)

“You go,” Camille called out, waving her and the others on. Her heart hurt. She tried to understand what Lazare was doing at Versailles, but she could not. Why was everything so hard?

Chandon stayed behind, flicking at the grass with the toe of his gold-buckled shoe. “Something on your mind?”

She blurted out, “I don’t belong here. And nothing is as it seems.” Though she was one of them by blood, the horror of what Lazare had said haunted her: one of her aristocrat ancestors in her finery—perhaps in this very dress—slicing open the arm of a peasant and putting it to her lips. “Is it true that aristocrats used the blood of others for their magic?”

Chandon rubbed the back of his neck. “I wish it weren’t, but I know it to be so. They often preyed upon the poor, sometimes even their own servants. After all, who has more sorrow than the poor?”

She had nothing to say against that.

“What happened, in the shrubbery?” she asked, recalling Chandon and Séguin with their swords drawn, tethered by anger and that erupting line of energy.

His hands shook as he adjusted the lace at his cuffs. “Séguin? He wished to remind me of my place, as he sees it. He is a cheat, Baroness, and he is very clever.” He glanced down the lawn to the others. They were out of hearing, but still he dropped his voice. “This is what I have needed to tell you for all these weeks, but couldn’t find the right time. And now with his talk of strolling with you in the shrubbery, I can’t stay silent. I wish someone had warned me.” He lowered his voice further. “Séguin is a magician. And unlike us, he’s not a nice one.”

“A magician?” she stammered. How had she met him all these times and never known?

“You didn’t guess?”

“How should I have?” she said, uncertain.

“Have you never noticed how a magician smells? Like burned wood? Perfume helps, of course. But Séguin works so much magic he positively reeks of it.”

She recalled the card game, the scent she couldn’t place lingering under his cologne. “But before tonight, he seemed so helpful. And then with the Marquis de Sablebois—”

“That’s precisely it!” Chandon’s voice hardened. “Sablebois is noble and honorable and he doesn’t give a fig for Séguin’s feelings. Séguin is beneath him, and Sablebois decides to shrug. But we may not. That is what I meant when I said you must be the Baroness of Pretend,” Chandon added, urgently. “You must not reveal anything to him, for he will use it against you. Don’t even show him your wariness, vous comprenez? Promise me, you won’t let on?”

“Come on, you two!” Aurélie sang out.

“Of course, I promise. But—is it not safe here? Because of Séguin?”

Chandon cocked his head. “I for one cannot stay away. And it seems, neither can you.”

“I won’t be here long,” she said, though she hardly believed it herself. “Soon I’ll have enough louis that I can stop gambling.”

“How many louis is that? I’ll admit, I’ve never seen a number that satisfies.” Chandon smiled wanly. “It’s hard to stop gambling, and harder even to stay away, if you’re a magician. Don’t you see? Versailles is one enormous, fantastical magical object. Every roof tile and doorknob and armoire bristles with magic. And—I’m guessing your dress is the same—those threads of magic grasp at us like tiny hands, or fishhooks. It is very difficult to tear yourself loose.”

“Thank you,” she said, wearily. Everything had become so complicated.

A shadow slid over Chandon’s face. “Why thank me? It’s a warning, madame. The best I can do, considering. As for belonging at Versailles, you know that you—we—of all people, belong here. We made this monster.”

In front of them, the long rectangle of water had turned to gold. Inside the palace, servants would be stumbling awake as nobles tripped from gaming tables and secret trysts into their beds. In the orangerie, gardeners would be harvesting fruit for the queen’s breakfast; in the royal stables, the king’s horses would be snuffling at their grain.

“It’s so beautiful,” Camille said, and was surprised by the catch in her voice. “This monster.”

“It’s a pretty prison, no more.” Chandon gingerly touched the scratch on his cheek. “I’d rather be home in Normandie, drinking cider in an orchard with Foudriard, not a care in the world.”

“Why stay, then?”

Chandon gazed down the lawn to the shimmer of water behind Foudriard’s broad-shouldered silhouette. “For him. He loves what he does. As long as his post with the cavalry keeps him here, this is the best place for me to be. Imagine if he were sent elsewhere, and I not allowed to go—” He sighed, his breath ragged. His hazel eyes were bright with tears. “Am I being foolish?”

“Not at all.” Camille took his hand. It was strangely hot. “Are you not well, Chandon?”

“As well as can be expected, Baroness Whoever-You-Are.”

“You must call me Camille.”

“A bient?t, then, Camille, mon amie,” Chandon said. “Until next time?”

“How did you know I was leaving?”

“You’d better,” he said, sotto voce. “Your dress is turning.”