The Moon and the Sun

15

The Venetian boat glided along the Grand Canal, poled by a gondolier singing an incomprehensible Italian folk song. In the bow of the gondola, Marie-Josèphe trailed her hand in the water. Silver water lilies bearing lighted candles spun past, swirling.

Lorraine had claimed the next seat in the gondola. Madame and Lotte occupied the central bench, while Monsieur sat aft at the gondolier’s feet.

Ahead of the gondola, His Majesty’s miniature galleon raced his galley. The gondolier had resigned himself to last place as soon as they left the bank. His passengers were entirely content with his singing.

The overseer screamed at the convict rowers. He lashed their backs. The galley plunged into the lead.

“Hardly a fair race.” Lorraine gazed at Marie-Josèphe. The candlelight, and the light of the waxing moon, flattered his handsome face. “A whip against the barest breeze.” He slipped his hand around Marie-Josèphe’s ankle. She moved her foot; he gently restrained it.

There’s no harm in it, Marie-Josèphe thought. His touch pleases me. Yves would not like me to allow it, but Yves allows himself his own pleasures, riding in the galleon with the King and the Pope, reliving the sea monster hunt.

“Why must they race?” Marie-Josèphe said. “The poor men—”

“They’re only convicts,” Lorraine said. “Prisoners of war, or murderers—”

“Surely not!”

“Who else would suffer such treatment? My dear, His Majesty races so he may lose his bet with King James. Then James will have money for another week or two at Versailles.”

“His Majesty is magnanimous,” Marie-Josèphe said.

Lorraine moved his hand above her ankle to her calf.

Monsieur gazed at Lorraine. Despite the shadows of candlelight, despite his powder and diamond patches, distress showed plain in his face. Marie-Josèphe wondered if perhaps the friends had argued.

The galley reached the man-made island that floated where the arms of the Grand Canal crossed. A cheer went up from the English King’s party.

“You are looking particularly splendid this evening,” Lorraine said.

“Thank you, sir,” she said. “It’s entirely thanks to you.” She stroked the peacock feather in her hair. “Odelette had no time for my hair. Mademoiselle needed her—and Mary of Modena particularly requested her attendance. I’m so proud of her success! But if not for your peacock, my hair would be…”

“What a fortunate peacock.” He closed his eyes, and opened them; his long eyelashes brushed against his cheeks.

The gondolier, a fine tenor, held a high note till the bow of his boat touched the island. Marie-Josèphe applauded him; he bowed. Lorraine tossed him a gold piece. The passengers disembarked onto the heavy planks of the island. Lorraine took Marie-Josèphe’s arm and helped her onto the platform. Nearby, in the galley, the rowers gasped for breath. Loincloths and chains hid their nakedness. They glistened with sweat and blood. Lorraine hurried her past them, out of hearing of their groans as their salty sweat stung deep welts.

A fairyland of delicate gold archways and tall spires distracted the guests. Sprays of crystal dispersed the light of a thousand candles in colors across drifts and wreaths of flowers. The chamber orchestra’s music filled the perfumed air. The island was wonderful. Yesterday it had not even existed.

“You must have some wine,” Lorraine said.

At the edge of the island, sprites walked on water, carrying trays of wine and baskets of sweets. The supports of the island lay just beneath the Canal’s surface, invisible bridges for the servants in their costumes. Lorraine fetched Marie-Josèphe a glass of wine.

“Is this your third? Or fourth?”

Marie-Josèphe laughed. “Oh, sir—I’ve lost count.”

They passed beneath an arbor. Moss lay soft under their feet. Lotte plucked a strawberry from the trailing vines and ate half. Red juice shining on her mouth, she gave the other half to Marie-Josèphe. She crushed its sweetness between her teeth. Lotte brushed her fingertip across Marie-Josèphe’s lips.

“You wear hardly any powder or rouge,” she said. “There, now your lips aren’t quite so pale.” She picked another strawberry and gave it to her mother. Madame embraced her daughter and ate the strawberry. The arbors hung heavy with fruit and sweets tied with gold thread.

“Come along, my dear.”

Monsieur took Lorraine’s free arm. Lorraine bent to kiss Monsieur quickly on the lips.

“Rumor says, our friends plan games in a hidden bower.” Monsieur’s manner excluded Marie-Josèphe; his troubled gaze hesitated on her face, then returned to Lorraine. “You must allow me retribution, after what you did to me last night.”

“It will be my entire pleasure—to gamble with you, Monsieur.” Lorraine’s manner grew formal, and he bowed.

Monsieur and his family and Marie-Josèphe all followed Lorraine’s lead in saluting His Majesty. The King approached, smiling, accompanied by Mme de Maintenon, M. du Maine, Mme de Chartres, and her friend Mlle d’Armagnac. Mme de Chartres wore a towering fontanges, but Mlle d’Armagnac went against the mode in an even more extreme fashion than Marie-Josèphe. She wore as a headdress a great fan of peacock feathers.

Marie-Josèphe wondered where Count Lucien had got to; she always expected to see him, when she saw the King.

“Good evening, my brother,” Louis said.

“Good evening, sir.” Monsieur and the King smiled at each other, despite the ceremony with which they always spoke.

“Mlle de la Croix.” His Majesty raised her gently. “The image of your mother! Ah, my dear, how glad I am that you are safe in France.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty.” She returned his smile. Despite the loss of his upper teeth, he maintained the charisma of his youth, and added to it the refinement of age. He patted Marie-Josèphe’s cheek.

“Your floating island is delightful,” Monsieur said.

“A pleasant little thing, is it not? Brother, I require your knowledge. Who’s the most passionate man at my gathering tonight?”

Monsieur hesitated, but his glance touched Lorraine.

“Chrétien has declined to be entered in the race,” the King said.

“Why, Your Majesty? Because he won’t go to sea?” Lorraine’s gesture encompassed the floating island.

His Majesty chuckled. “No, no, perhaps because it would be an unfair competition. M. du Maine is passionate—aren’t you, dear boy?” The King patted his natural son’s shoulder. “But you reserve your passion for your wife!”

“I must suggest Father de la Croix,” Mme Lucifer said.

“No, no, no, he’s eliminated on any number of grounds. Besides, he must dedicate his passion to God.”

Monsieur finally added a word to the conversation. “You shall choose, sir, as your decision must be correct.”

“I know who you’d choose, if your natural modesty didn’t restrain you.” Louis spoke without irony. “Your advice is most valuable. Now, come along, I must give over to James my command of the ocean.”

As Mme de Maintenon passed, she glared with an expression of ferocious resentment, leaving Marie-Josèphe confused, hurt, and startled. Always before, Mme de Maintenon had treated her with the intention of kindness.

His Majesty led the way to the open center of the island. His guests gathered, their costumes as bright as the candles. The chamber orchestra played, and a wide expanse of gleaming parquet lay ready for the dance. Pope Innocent and his Cardinals, in shining white and brilliant red, challenged the jewels and gold lace of the courtiers. Yves wore only black, but his presence drew the eye. Odelette attended Queen Mary, bearing her handkerchief on a velvet cushion.

Louis and James met in the center of the dancing floor. Louis crowned James with a diadem and presented him with the trident of Poseidon. An exquisite rope of pearls, at least three armspans long, twined around the sea-god’s weapon.

“You bested me,” His Majesty said. “And in my own boat!” He laughed.

“Next time I’ll command a wind from the sky, so the race will be closer.” James laughed, too, and adorned Mary of Modena with the pearls. He could not reach over her fontanges, it was so tall. Instead, he poured the pearls across her bosom and looped them over her bare pale shoulders.

His Majesty took his seat before the orchestra. A little sea-nymph, in golden scales, ran up to place a cushion for his foot. The King invited his royal guests to join him, and the rest of the courtiers gathered behind.

Marie-Josèphe’s mind wandered from the play and its balletic interludes, for it retold ancient history: the Fronde, the civil war. Her attention drifted from the music. She fancied she could hear the sea monster’s singing.

Before her, Madame nodded, jerked awake, nodded again. Her chin sank toward her ample breasts. In a moment she would begin to snore. Marie-Josèphe laid her hand on Madame’s shoulder. The duchess d’Orléans snuffled once, snapped awake, and sat up straight in her chair. Marie-Josèphe smiled fondly and tried again to follow the action on stage. A dancer represented the young King, triumphing though his uncle Gaston roused a large faction of France’s aristocracy against him. The coup d’état failed.

Marie-Josèphe wished she had seen His Majesty dance. When he was younger, his performances as the sun, as Apollo, as Orpheus or Mars, formed part of his legend. He had not taken part in ballets for decades.

The entertainment ended. His Majesty’s guests expressed their appreciation, and His Majesty accepted their gratitude.

The Grand Master of Ceremonies, who had paid handsomely to hold the position for the quarter, approached Madame. He bowed to her, then turned to Marie-Josèphe.

“The King requests your attendance, Mlle de la Croix.”

Marie-Josèphe sketched a quick and startled curtsy to Madame, slipped out of the crowd of courtiers, and hurried after the marquis.

His Majesty sat in his armchair, listening to the music, one fine leg outstretched, the other resting on its cushion. Marie-Josèphe dropped to the floor in a rustle of silk and lace. She felt improperly dressed, with her hair so simply arranged.

His Majesty bent forward, lifted her chin, and gazed into her face with his beautiful dark blue eyes.

“The image,” he said, as he always said, “the very image of your mother. She dressed her hair in just such a manner—no towers, no apartments for mice!”

His Majesty rose, drawing Marie-Josèphe to her feet.

“Let us dance.” The King escorted her into the music, into the dance’s intricate patterns. Before all the court, Marie-Josèphe danced with the King.

She could hardly breathe. Her cheeks flushed and her sight blurred. His Majesty’s touch, his friendly gaze, his favor, combined to make her feel faint.

“You dance as exquisitely as you play, Mlle de la Croix,” Louis said. “As your mother did.”

“She was very beautiful and very talented, Your Majesty,” Marie-Josèphe said. “Much more than I.”

“We all remember her well,” Louis said.

For Marie-Josèphe, her parents existed in a halo of golden tropical light, her mother wise and kind, her father absent-minded and good humored, until the dreadful week when she had lost them both.

“My old friends and enemies, my protegés and advisers are passing,” the King said. “Queen Christina. Le Brun, Le Vau, evil old Louvois. Molière and Lully. La Grande Mademoiselle… sometimes, do you know, I even miss old Mazarin, that tyrant.” The King sighed. “I miss M. and Mme de la Croix.”

“I miss them too, Sire. Terribly. Only God could have saved my mother, she was so ill. She died so quickly.”

“God was tempted, and He took her. But He does not allow His angels to suffer.”

She did suffer, Marie-Josèphe thought. Her fury at God and the physicians flared bright from its embers. She suffered dreadfully, and I hate God so much that I do not know why He has not struck me with lightning into Hell.

During a turn in the dance she brushed away a tear, hoping His Majesty would not notice. How could he help but notice? But he was too much a gentleman to comment.

“I think they would not have died, if…”

“If I had not sent them to Martinique?”

“Oh, no, Your Majesty! It was the physicians—the surgeons… Your commission honored our family.” Marie-Josèphe curbed the uncharitable thought: if you missed them so, Sire, why didn’t you call my family back to France?

“Your father was honorable, indeed,” His Majesty said. “Only Henri de la Croix could increase his poverty while holding a colonial governorship.”

“Father lingered,” she whispered. “I thought he would recover. But they bled him—”

The King’s gaze focussed blankly beyond her shoulder.

I’ve said too much, she thought. He has important concerns, I mustn’t trouble him with my grief and my anger.

“Those times are returning,” the King said. “The times of youth and glory. Your brother will bring them to me.”

“I—I hope so, Your Majesty.”

She blinked away her tears, made herself smile, and concentrated on the perfect pattern of the dance. She feared what might happen when His Majesty realized Yves could not help him to live forever.

“I must find you a worthy husband,” he said offhand.

“I cannot marry, Your Majesty. I have neither connections nor dowry.”

“You must want a husband!”

“Oh, yes, Sire! A husband, children—”

“And scientific instruments?” He chuckled.

“If my husband allowed it.” She blushed, wondering who had been making fun of her to the King. “But I see no way of achieving such a dream.”

“Did your father never tell you—? I suppose he would not. I promised, at your birth, that you would be properly dowered.”

The music’s final flourish ended. His Majesty bowed graciously. The applause of His Majesty’s court raked Marie-Josèphe like wildfire. She gathered her wits, fell into a deep curtsy, and kissed his hand. He lifted her to her feet. Like the perfect gentleman he was, he conducted her to the edge of the dancing floor, where Monsieur and the Chevalier stood whispering.

“You will dance the next dance with Mlle de la Croix,” he said to the Chevalier de Lorraine, and put her hand in his.

Marie-Josèphe ran up the stairs to her room, ecstatic. The candle flickered in her hand. She cupped her fingers around the flame to shield it. She hoped Odelette had returned from attending Mary of Modena; she hoped Yves had returned from attending Pope Innocent. She hoped they were both still awake. She wanted to tell them the King’s wonderful news. She might tell Odelette about her long walk with Lorraine, crossing the water on the clever secret bridges, strolling beside the Grand Canal in the moonlight. She thought she would not tell Yves, not quite yet, though Lorraine had gone beyond the bounds of gallantry only once or twice.

Muffled voices disturbed the quiet. Marie-Josèphe smiled. Odelette and Yves have both returned, she thought, and Yves has done something to aggravate Odelette. We might as well be back in Martinique. The three of us together, with Odelette abusing my brother because he’s left his linen in a pile on the floor.

She opened the door to her room.

She could not make out what she was seeing. The light was dim. Beyond that, she did not believe what was happening.

A nobleman writhed on her bed, scrabbling beneath the bedclothes, his hat upside-down on the rug and tangled with his coat. His breeches twisted around his knees. His shirt hiked up, exposing his naked buttocks. One of his shoes flew from his foot and clattered to the floor.

“You want me.” Desperation thickened the familiar voice. “I know you want me.”

“Please—”

Marie-Josèphe bolted forward and grasped the young man’s shoulder. Odelette clutched his arms, her fine dark hands clenching, fighting.

“Go away,” said Philippe, duke de Chartres. “Can’t you see we’re busy?”

“Leave her alone!” Marie-Josèphe cried. “How dare you!” His lace shirt tore in her hands.

“Mlle de la Croix!”

Astonished, flustered, Chartres leaped from the bed and fumbled to cover himself. Odelette sat up, her blue-black hair spilling around her shoulders, her eyes pure black in the candlelight, her complexion suffused with heat.

“How dare you, sir! How do you come to assault my servant!”

“I thought—I meant to—” His hair stood out in wild ringlets. “I thought she was you!”

He smiled into her silence. Odelette burst into tears.

Chartres bowed to her. “Though I would certainly enjoy an hour in your company.”

Odelette flung herself around and sobbed into her pillow.

“I believe you do not dislike me,” Chartres said.

He held out his hand. Marie-Josèphe slapped him hard.

“How dare you think I’d welcome the attentions of a married man—of any man not my husband!”

Marie-Josèphe pushed past Chartres. She sat next to Odelette and gathered her into her arms.

“If you intended to drive me away,” Chartres said, “you might as well have pelted me with roses.”

“Leave us, sir.”

“You tempted me, mademoiselle, and now you wrong me.” Chartres gathered up his plumed hat, his gold-laced coat, his high-heeled shoe.

The door slammed.

“Oh, my dear, are you all right? Did he hurt you? I swear I never gave him reason to think I—or you—”

Odelette sobbed and pushed her away, more violently than Marie-Josèphe had pushed Chartres.

“Why did you interfere? Why did you stop him?”

“What?” Marie-Josèphe asked, baffled.

“He might have got a bastard on me, he’d acknowledge me, he’d buy me and free me and take me home—my royal husband!” She cried out in anger and grief and drew her knees to her chest and buried her face and wrapped her arms over her head.

Marie-Josèphe stroked her hair until her sobs eased.

“He can never marry you. He’s already married.”

“That only matters in your world—not in mine!”

Marie-Josèphe bit her lip. She knew only what Odelette’s mother had told them both, about Turkey. Odelette saw it as a paradise, but Marie-Josèphe did not.

“He’d never acknowledge you. Or any child you bore him.”

“He would! He must! He has other bastards!”

“But he thinks of you as a servant. He’d command me to turn you away—turn you out—you and your baby!”

Odelette raised her head, glaring with such fury that Marie-Josèphe drew back in astonishment.

“I am a princess!” Odelette cried. “Slave or no, I am a princess. My family is a thousand years older than Bourbons—or any Frenchman. My family ruled when the Romans skewered these barbarians on their spears!”

“I know.” Marie-Josèphe dared to hold her.

Odelette huddled against her, shivering with despair, crying with rage.

“I know,” Marie-Josèphe said again. “But he wouldn’t acknowledge you. He wouldn’t take you to Constantinople. I’d never turn you out, but if he applied to the King and the King banished you, I could never stop him.”

She stroked Odelette’s long hair. It tumbled down her back and pooled on the bed behind her.

“I’ll free you,” Marie-Josèphe said.

Odelette drew away and looked into her face. “She said you never would.”

“Who?”

“The nun. The mother superior. Whenever I did her hair, when her lovers would come—”

“Her lovers!”

“She did have lovers, I don’t care if no one believes it.”

“I believe you,” Marie-Josèphe said. “I’m astonished, but I believe you.”

“—she said you would never give me my freedom. She said you refused to give me up.”

“The sisters persuaded me it was a dreadful sin to own a slave—”

“It is,” Odelette said severely.

“Yes. But they never wanted me to free you. They wanted me to sell you, to give the money to the convent.” She held Odelette’s hands and kissed them. “I feared to do that, dear Odelette. They never let me speak to you, I never knew what you wanted, and I thought—though sometimes I wondered—no matter how dreadful it is here, it could be so much worse…”

“It was never dreadful at the convent,” Odelette said. “I dressed their hair. I would rather embroider the linen of nuns than wash your brother’s stockings…”

Tears ran down Marie-Josèphe’s cheeks, tears of shock at Chartres’ actions, relief at Odelette’s revelation, and, if she admitted it, of self-pity, because for Marie-Josèphe the convent had been terrible.

“No wonder Mademoiselle and Queen Mary steal you away from me,” she said, trying to smile. “But that doesn’t matter now. I refused to sell you—”

“I’m glad of that,” Odelette said. “I shouldn’t be a slave. I’ll never be a slave except to you.”

“You’ll never be a slave to anyone,” Marie-Josèphe declared. “You are free. We shall be as sisters.”

Odelette said nothing.

“I’ll ask—” Marie-Josèphe hesitated. She doubted her own judgment, for she had trusted Chartres. “I’ll ask Count Lucien.” Count Lucien, though a dangerous freethinker, at least was honest. “He’ll know how to go about it—what papers you want—but from this moment you are free. You are my sister.”

“Yes,” Odelette said.

“I promise you.”

“Why have you waited so long?”

“You never asked it of me before.” Marie-Josèphe dashed the tears from her eyes with the back of her hand. She took Odelette by the shoulders. “What was the difference in our station? We lived in the same house, we ate the same food, if you washed my brother’s stockings, I washed his shirt! I never thought of you as slave or free.”

“You cannot understand,” Odelette said.

“No, I cannot. Until the sisters plagued me about my sin, I never thought of it, and for that I beg your forgiveness. But, dear Odelette, afterwards I did think, and I thought, if I free you, the convent will put you out in the street with nothing. No resources, no protector, no family. I had nothing to give you!”

“I can make my own way,” Odelette said angrily.

“And you shall, if you wish. But, think, sister, our fortunes are improving. If you wait, only a while, I’m convinced, if you stay with me, you’ll share in them. You’ll go into the world better than a lady’s maid. You might go to Turkey—if you truly wish to go to Turkey, which you have never seen—”

“As you had never seen France,” Odelette said, “but here you are.”

“That’s entirely different,” Marie-Josèphe said.

“How, Mlle Marie?”

“Perhaps it isn’t different after all, Mlle Odelette. But if you do go home to Turkey, would it not be better to return rich and well-attended, as suits your true station, rather than as a maidservant, or a gypsy?”

“That would be better,” Odelette said. “But… I cannot wait too long.”

“I hope you won’t have to,” Marie-Josèphe said. “Now, come, go back to sleep if you can. I’ll lock the door.”

“Let me help you undress.”

“Only help me with my gown, I have a little work to do still.”

First Odelette must have something to wear, for Chartres had rent her threadbare shift beyond repair. In the wardrobe, Marie-Josèphe’s shift with the turned hems lay on top of a new one, of heavy warm flannel with three lace ruffles.

“Where did this come from?”

“Queen Mary. You may wear it. I shall take your old one.”

“It’s yours, you shall wear it.”

Marie-Josèphe helped Odelette into the new nightshirt, gratefully accepted her sister’s help in getting out of her gown and shoes and stays, and tucked her sister back into bed. She used the chaise percée and splashed cold water on her face and hands.

When she washed away the dried blood between her legs, she realized her bleeding had stopped, days early. Worried, she tried to gather her courage, to overcome her terror of submitting to the medical arts. For a moment she resolved to speak to a physician.

But she had so many other, more important things to worry about, so many things to do. The physicians here were so grand, she should not waste their time with female complaints. And, in truth, she could only feel grateful for being spared more mess, more inconvenience. To be safe, she put on a clean towel, and soaked the bloody one in a basin of cold water.

I wonder if the sea monster bleeds? she wondered. She answered her own question: That’s ridiculous. Animals don’t bleed. They’re free of the sin of Eve. Besides, if the sea monster bled like a woman, she would be in terrible danger from sharks.

She fetched Lorraine’s cloak. His musky perfume tickled her nose, as the curl of his perruke tickled her cheek when he bent down to whisper to her. She curled in the chair by Odelette’s bed, her music score in her lap, her bare feet tucked under the warm cloak. Candlelight flickered across the pages.

I thought the score was perfect, she said to herself, but the sea monster is so sad, so frightened in her captivity…

Odelette slipped her hand from beneath the covers, reaching for Marie-Josèphe, holding her fingers tight. Marie-Josèphe left her hand in Odelette’s even after her sister had fallen asleep. She revised the score, turning the pages awkwardly, one-handed. She dozed.

She gasped awake, frightened by the pleasure that invaded her body. The sheaf of music paper spilled to the floor.

The burnt-out candle, its smoke pungent, left her room without a breath of light. A song crept around her, as cold as night air. The sea monster swam through the window, as if the glass were transparent to material flesh. She hovered above Marie-Josèphe, upside-down, her hair streaming around her and toward the ceiling.

Shivering, entranced, Marie-Josèphe thought, This is a dream. I can do as I like. Nothing, no one, can stop me.

She stood, and raised up her hands to the sea monster.

The song hesitated; the sea monster vanished. Marie-Josèphe hurried to the window. The tent loomed at the bottom of the garden, the white silk glowing eerily. Gardeners’ torches flickered in the North Quincunx and the Star and reflected from the Mirror Fountain. The creak of the gears of the orange-tree carts pierced the soft murmuring quiet of the gardens of Versailles.

Singing again, the sea monster appeared, bright as sunlight. Other sea monsters followed, swimming in the air, circling, caressing each other, creating a whirlwind, a whirlpool.

Marie-Josèphe stepped toward the window, expecting to pass through the panes, like the sea monsters. She bumped her nose painfully.

How strange, she thought. In a dream I must be able to pass through the window and swim in the air like the sea monsters. I cannot; my imagination fails me. If I open the window and step out, I would fall. Everyone says that a dreamer who falls instead of flying must die.

She ran down the stairs, hugging the cloak tight against the surprised glances of the servants. They were not used to seeing members of court an hour before dawn. For some courtiers, the hour before dawn was the only time they ever slept.

Beyond the terrace, the gravel cut her feet. She dreamed herself on Zachi’s back. She dreamed herself a pair of stout shoes. Nothing happened. The gravel felt sharper. She ran down the stairs and stepped onto the Green Carpet. The grass was cold and wet, but it did not cut her. The candles verging the Carpet had burned to puddles of wax and smoking wicks.

The radiant sea monsters led her to the tent. The guard slept, lulled by the sea monster’s song.

Inside the tent, inside the cage, inside the fountain, the sea monster splashed furiously with both her tails. A waterfall of luminescence erupted around her.

She sang.

Marie-Josèphe sat on the rim of the Fountain.

“If this were my dream,” she said, “if this were your dream, you wouldn’t be imprisoned.”

The sea monster cried. A male sea monster—the sea monster whose body Yves was dissecting, brought back to life by the song—swam around the ceiling of the tent. Marie-Josèphe closed her eyes, but the image remained, fashioned in her mind by the singing, swimming in front of her as plain as anything real.

“I see your songs,” Marie-Josèphe said. “And you understand what I say. Don’t you? Do you speak? Do you speak in words?”

“Fishhh,” the sea monster said, and then she sang.

A tiny fish, its edges made harsh by the rasp of the sea monster’s voice, flitted across her vision. The song described the fish itself, and its surroundings, the sound of its swimming, the taste of its flesh. The sea monsters spoke not in words, but in images, interconnections, associations.

Marie-Josèphe hummed the fish’s melody. An indistinct image wavered before her and vanished. “Oh, sea monster, my song must be only a blur in your ears. I’ll do better, I promise. Sea monster, what’s your name?”

The sea monster sang a complicated melody. The song described the sea monster, and it hinted, as well, at joy, and brashness, and youthful wisdom.

“How beautiful! It’s perfect.”

The sea monster swam to her. She trailed a glowing wake. The luminescence flowed down her shoulders and along her hair. The sea monster rested her elbows on the lowest step and gazed at Marie-Josèphe. Her whispered song formed shapes and scenes.

Marie-Josèphe ran to the laboratory, snatched scraps of paper and charcoal, and hurried back to the sea monster. She sketched the songs, not in words or notes but rough scribbled pictures. Her eyes filled with tears; sometimes her tears smudged the paper. But the scenes remained clear, for she heard them.

In her song, the sea monster swam alone. Filth and algae dimmed the fountain’s clarity. Litter and coins covered the bottom of the fountain.

The sea monster’s song turned the water sapphire. The trash and the coins transmuted to white sand and living shells. Bright iridescent fish flitted past, changing color all together from blue to silver as they turned.

A strange sea monster swam through the tropical sea. She was older than the captured creature, her skin a darker mahogany, her hair a lighter green, her tails dappled with silver. She was pregnant.

She swam through swiftly shoaling water to a white beach, an isolated island in the expanse of the ocean. The sea monster struggled onto the sand, rolling in the warmth of it, nesting in it, pillowing her belly.

Marie-Josèphe’s sea monster writhed onto the beach beside the pregnant monster. The male sea monster followed, and another. They surrounded the mother sea monster, grooming her hair, rubbing her back, stroking her belly.

The mother sea monster moaned, and wailed, and her body tensed; the aunt and uncle sea monsters supported her so she lay reclining. Marie-Josèphe watched the birth with dread and fascination. It was difficult, painful for the mother, more like the birth of a baby than like the easy births of animals. But finally the wizened baby sea monster lay against its mother’s breast. She held it, crooned to it, and let it suckle while her family washed it with warm sea water and unfolded its wrinkled, webbed toes.

Days passed; it grew; in the shallows of the island, it splashed and played with its mother and its aunts and their friends. Its mother nursed it; Marie-Josèphe’s and Yves’ sea monsters fed the mother with fish and beche-de-mer, clams and whelks and bits of seaweed for garnish.

The sea monsters taught the baby to swim; they taught it to love the sea. The took it underwater, showing it when to breathe and how to hold its breath, showing it the wonders of the ocean, warning it of the dangers. A shark glided by, hungrily eying the baby, wary of the adults, and vanished into distant blue. Dolphins sped past, replying to the sea monsters’ songs with the percussion of their clicks and squeaks. The sea monsters swam between the tentacles of a huge tame octopus that lived within the skeleton of a Spanish galleon. The sea monsters played with gold pieces and jewelry fit for kings and emperors, dropped the riches unheeded on the sea bottom, and swam away.

At times of great danger, or during hurricanes too wild to play in, the sea monsters sank beneath the waves, exhaling great clouds of bubbles, and grew very still. They ceased rising to the surface. They lay with their eyes closed, their mouths open, and every little while their chests heaved as if they were breathing water.

After the baby sea monster had learned how to sleep safely at the bottom of the sea, the little family group swam away from the birth island. They took turns carrying the child, and disappeared into the depths.

The scenes shuddered. The captive sea monster’s voice failed, in a hoarse croak, and the visions with it.

Sunrise dimmed the glowing water.

Shivering with cold and understanding, Marie-Josèphe gripped the uneven stack of paper that documented what she had heard and envisioned. The last bit of charcoal fell onto the planks, hitting as quietly as a drift of ash.

“You’ve shown me your life,” Marie-Josèphe said. “Your life, your family…”

The sea monster sang again.

Yves appeared before Marie-Josèphe, as he had appeared in apparition, standing silent and cold, bleeding. In distress, Marie-Josèphe covered her eyes. The image still hovered before her, cupped in the palms of her hands. She covered her ears. The image of her wounded brother blurred, and disappeared.

The sea monster sang to her, in images unrelated to any words, I offered your brother the fate he visited upon my friend, but I could not frighten you by threatening to rip him open from pulse to balls.

The tiger burned bright in the dawn, and vanished.

The sea monster sang to her, I sang a warning against the predator, for I feared it would smell your blood, as sharks smell blood from a great distance. I sang until you must be safe, or dead, and until my throat hurt from crying. But you are fearless, and I could not make you my ally by warning you.

The whirlwind of sea monsters streamed around the peak of the cage, sleekly stroking mates and friends, sighing their pleasure.

I abandoned fear, the sea monster cried, and sang to you of love and passion, and finally, you heard me, and listened.

“Sea monster…” Marie-Josèphe whispered.

The sea monster groaned harshly and clambered up the steps. Marie-Josèphe held her, stopped her. The drawings spilled onto the ground.

“Don’t, please, stop.”

The sea monster cried. Her claws could have ripped Marie-Josèphe cruelly, but she remained quiet.

“I can’t free you,” Marie-Josèphe said. “Where would you go? The sea’s too far, even the river’s too far. You belong to His Majesty. My brother would be ruined if you escaped.”

The sea monster snarled, baring her teeth, before she flung herself into the fountain, sending up a great angry splash.

Marie-Josèphe began to cry. “Oh, sea monster, sea woman!”