The Moon and the Sun

22

The gardens of the chateau blazed with light. Visitors filled the paths, seeking the best vantage point from which to observe the fireworks over the Grand Canal. In the state apartments, a crowd of His Majesty’s courtiers and royal guests devoured a light collation.

The Queen’s side of the chateau was deserted.

Marie-Josèphe and Yves followed Count Lucien up the Queen’s Staircase. Marie-Josèphe dreaded what was to come.

I’m estranged from Count Lucien’s affections, she thought. No, not from his affections—I never possessed his affections—but I hoped I had earned his regard. I cannot blame him, but, oh, how I regret it.

She and Yves had taken advantage of him. Time and again he had taken their part, and they had returned his courtesy by endangering his position with the King.

Marie-Josèphe felt more alone than she ever had in her life. Count Lucien was angry at her. Sherzad hardly trusted her. And her brother… Yves strode along beside her, grim and silent, guilty and distressed. By proving to him the humanity of the sea monster, she put him in danger of losing his vocation and his passion.

When he sent me to the convent, Marie-Josèphe thought, I could believe that if he knew what he had sent me to, he would relent. I had the company of my memory of him. Now I have nothing. Count Lucien is right. Suffering only makes one miserable.

And if that is true, Marie-Josèphe thought, is he right about pleasure, as well?

She should feel guilty, she should regret her lack of faith, but she only felt betrayed and unhappy.

Marie-Josèphe trudged along the corridors, between lavish tapestries, orange trees, a profusion of flowers and candles, on a pilgrimage to beg forgiveness.

I could ride Zachi through these halls, Marie-Josèphe thought wildly. She could gallop across the parquet, she could clatter down the Staircase of the Ambassadors, or leap over the balcony like Pegasus; we could flee into the gardens, into the forest, and disappear.

Then she thought, I wonder if I’ll ever ride Zachi again.

The sentry allowed them to pass into the apartment of Mme de Maintenon.

His Majesty and His Holiness sat together near the open window. Mme de Maintenon, in her curtained chair, bent over an embroidery of gold thread on scarlet satin. Marie-Josèphe glanced toward her, hoping for her sympathy, for the kindness the marquise had shown her at Saint-Cyr. Mme de Maintenon never looked up. Marie-Josèphe shivered.

It’s only the cold, she thought. Poor Mme de Maintenon, with her rheumatism.

Count Lucien bowed. “Your Majesty.”

“M. de Chrétien.”

Marie-Josèphe curtsied to the King; she knelt to kiss Innocent’s ring. His hand was cool, the ring cold against her lips. His Holiness extended his hand toward Count Lucien, who regarded him in stony silence. Marie-Josèphe curtsied to Mme de Maintenon, but the marquise neglected to acknowledge her greeting.

“Mlle de la Croix,” His Majesty said. “What has possessed you?”

“I’m sorry, Your Majesty. I never meant to offend you.”

“You asked me to determine the truth,” His Majesty said. “I have condescended to try—and now I find you’ve disposed of the evidence. How can I know you haven’t made everything up?”

“I’d be a fool to do so, Sire! I’m not a fool. I felt such pity for Sherzad, I never thought—”

“Pity—for a beast!” Innocent exclaimed. He turned his attention to Yves, his expression concerned. “Your association with the creature troubles me. You’re being led into serious error.”

“I’m searching for God’s truth,” Yves said.

“Do you think you know God’s truth better than I do?” His Holiness asked, affronted.

“No, Your Holiness, of course not—I only seek knowledge of His will through His material creations.”

“You shall study His Word,” His Holiness said. “Not the utterances of demons.”

“Demons lie!” Marie-Josèphe cried. “Sherzad’s said nothing but the truth.”

“The truth isn’t for you to determine, Mlle de la Croix,” His Holiness said.

“What has she said, that’s false? She’s told us ugly truths. But they are truths.”

“You would have done better to follow my predecessor’s order. Women should remain silent and obedient.”

“Even women have souls. Sherzad is a woman. Killing her would be a mortal sin.”

“Do not lecture me on sin.”

Silence fell, and deepened; the only sound was the faint shussh of Mme de Maintenon’s silk passing through the tapestry.

“I believe my sister is right, Your Majesty. Your Holiness.”

“Do you?” His Holiness said. “Have you discussed souls with this creature? Have you discussed Christian faith? Have you converted it?”

“No, Your Holiness.”

“Then on what evidence do you believe your sister correct and the Church in error?”

“Not in error!” Yves exclaimed. “I believe God put me in the position of witnessing a miracle. I believe He has raised the sea monsters toward humanity.”

“The creature is grotesque,” His Holiness said. “There’s nothing of humanity about it.”

“Sherzad is less grotesque than I,” Count Lucien said, his voice like a rose: perfect, beautiful, hiding thorns. “And I am human… Of course, I am very rich.”

Marie-Josèphe wanted to run to Lucien, to embrace him, to deny his description of himself, for he was splendid.

Innocent rose from his chair and turned on Lucien in a fury.

“You deny the existence of God! Perhaps the Grand Inquisitor was right after all. Perhaps you and the monsters are the spawn of demonic fornication.”

“My father and my mother would be offended to hear it,” Lucien said calmly.

“Chrétien, enough of your atheistic wit,” His Majesty said.

“Chrétien!” His Holiness spat out a word he would ordinarily speak with reverence. “Even your name is a mockery!”

“Then it mocks Charlemagne, who gave it to my family for our service to him.”

“Cousin,” Louis said to Innocent, “M. de Chrétien enjoys my protection for his beliefs—even for his lack of beliefs.”

“Your Majesty,” Marie-Josèphe said, “you’re the Most Christian King. Champion the sea folk—their conversion would add to your glory!”

“This is only a tactic, to save your pet,” Louis said.

“It’s true I can’t bear to think of her being killed,” Marie-Josèphe said. “But I truly believe she’s a woman. Sire, if you eat her flesh, you’ll endanger your immortal soul.”

Louis leaned back in his chair, weary and old beneath his bright chestnut perruke.

“Marie-Josèphe, dear child,” he said, “I’ve ruled for fifty years. Compared to what I’ve done for the glory of France, cannibalism’s a small sin.”

Marie-Josèphe was too shocked to reply.

“Give me the sea monster, cousin,” Innocent said. “You must.”

“Must I?”

“It must be studied. It’s dangerous. If Father de la Croix is in error, then the creature is a demon, and it must be exorcised. But perhaps Father de la Croix is correct, and we’ve witnessed a miracle of creation. If that is true, the creature must be brought to God. Converted from its pagan wildness, for the glory of God.”

“I’ll give you my baboon,” His Majesty said. “You have as much chance of converting it.”

Affronted, His Holiness rose. “You will forgive me,” he said, “if I take my leave. I’m an old man. Your opposition exhausts me. Father de la Croix, attend me.”

He swept out of the apartment.

“Please excuse me, Your Majesty,” Yves said. “Please forgive me—”

“Go,” His Majesty said. “Leave me in peace.”

Yves bowed to His Majesty and hurried after Innocent.

Marie-Josèphe’s nails cut into her palms. Tears stung her eyes. The faint melody of Sherzad’s song crept through the open window, her grief carried by the cold breeze.

“You shouldn’t provoke our holy cousin, M. de Chrétien,” His Majesty said.

“Pardon my bad manners, Your Majesty. Your holy man surprises me, with his revulsion.”

“What do you care for holy men?”

“Nothing, Sire. Yet I’m always surprised when they turn out to be hypocrites.”

“I require him as an ally. France requires His Holiness, his armies—and his treasury.”

“If you allowed it, you would get more loyalty from the Protestants—”

Mme de Maintenon jerked her head up, glaring at Lucien; His Majesty replied with cold fury.

“Don’t provoke me, Chrétien. How fortunate that you’re only an atheist—and not a Protestant.”

Lucien did not reply. Marie-Josèphe ached for him. She wondered if the King’s basilisk glare might turn them both to stone.

“Your Majesty,” she asked timidly, “is the treasury in great need?”

“The kingdom faces many challenges,” His Majesty said. “It will survive—without the help of heretics.” His glare softened, with sadness. “Challenges would be easier to face if the people I favor, the people I love, didn’t oppose me, task me, and destroy my peace. You may withdraw. I do not wish to see you again tonight.”

Marie-Josèphe expected Count Lucien to bid her goodnight—or farewell—outside Mme de Maintenon’s apartment, but instead, he walked with her to the narrow attic staircase.

“You needn’t come any farther, Count Lucien,” Marie-Josèphe said. “Thank you for your courtesy.”

“I’ll show you to your room.” He accompanied her up the stairs, to the dark, dingy attic. He did not belong in such dim places, but in the sun, magnificent in blue and gold, riding his grey Zelis, at the side of his King.

“Why won’t he listen?” Marie-Josèphe cried.

“He does listen,” Lucien said. “He listens, but he keeps his own counsel.”

“Your love for him blinds you.”

“My love for him helps me understand him,” Lucien said. “You Christians—your claim to love everyone means you love no one.”

“That isn’t fair!”

“Of course not—as your holy father proclaims, I’m far from fair.”

“Count Lucien—” Marie-Josèphe’s voice faltered. “You’re fair to me.” She meant it in all senses of the word. But she could not continue, for she was not strong enough to resist what might come of her declaration.

She opened her door. Her room was empty; she wondered, worried, where Haleeda might be. Dressing Lotte’s hair, carrying Mademoiselle’s handkerchief, standing with the Queen of England, waiting for the fireworks.

Will Lotte wonder where I am? Marie-Josèphe thought. Will Haleeda? It doesn’t matter. I don’t care about the entertainments.

“I lived in this attic, when I was a youth,” Lucien said. “I hated it—so much I almost welcomed being sent away from court.”

He slipped past her, hoisted himself onto the window seat—Hercules leaped from curled sleep, hissing—and climbed out the window.

“Count Lucien!” Marie-Josèphe ran to the window.

He stood between a pair of sculpted musicians, gazing down the length of the garden, past the fountains, past Sherzad’s prison, to the forest.

“Come back in, you’ll fall—”

“The attic was hot, it was stuffy—when I couldn’t bear it any longer, I came out here.”

“I wish it were hot.”

“The evening is balmy, and the sky is beautiful.”

The view was neither spectacular nor severe, but it was beautiful: crowded garden paths bordered with candles that flickered behind oiled paper, the Grand Canal leading away from Sherzad’s glowing tent, geometric perfection arrayed against the green expanse of the distant forest. The highest, westernmost clouds reflected the last sliver of the setting sun.

Count Lucien sought out depressions in the stone side of the chateau: handholds, toeholds.

“I haven’t climbed to the roof since I was a youth. Will you come with me?”

“In those clothes? In these clothes?”

He shrugged out of his coat and his gold-embroidered waistcoat and tossed them onto the window seat. He kicked off his shoes and removed his perruke. His fair hair, an astonishing white gold, gleamed in the faint light.

Count Lucien and Hercules eyed each other; Hercules kneaded the cushion, careless of his claws. Count Lucien placed his new perruke safely on the head of the musician who graced Marie-Josèphe’s window.

Marie-Josèphe laughed. “He could attend His Majesty’s entertainment, if he wished.” She sighed. “I can’t climb to the roof.”

“Why not?”

“Stays. Slippery shoes. What will you think of me, if I climb to the roof in my shift?”

“I’ll think you want to climb to the roof. Decide, quickly, if you please—when everyone gathers on the terrace for the fireworks, I won’t be standing here bareheaded for His Majesty to see.”

She collected her breath, and her nerve. “If you will unlace me.”

She took off the coat of her riding habit; she took off her shoes and stockings. She turned her back to the window; Count Lucien untied her laces with a touch both gentle and sure.

Barefoot and in her shift, she faced the window and the twilight.

“Come out,” Count Lucien said. “It isn’t so dangerous.”

She took his hand and crept onto the ledge beside him. She clutched the statue of a lutenist, her hand on the musician’s bare breast. No one would mistake her for one of the statues, for she had on too many clothes.

Count Lucien scrambled up the wall, showing her old and well-used hand and foot-holds. From the roof, he reached down to help her.

Voices drifted upward. Guests streamed out of the chateau, onto the terrace. Marie-Josèphe shrank behind the musician.

“Hurry!”

She stole after him, partly hidden by the statue as she climbed. In an exhilarating moment she was over the edge and sitting on the low-pitched roof.

“You’re right, Count Lucien,” she said. “The view is much better from here. But if His Majesty found out—!” She drew her knees up under her shift and hugged her arms around them. The roof tiles gathered the day’s warmth.

“His Majesty spent a good deal of time on these roofs, when he was a youth.”

“Why?”

“To visit his paramours—and the parlourmaids.”

Marie-Josèphe gave him a startled glance.

“You’re in no danger of seduction, Mlle de la Croix. The roof is an adequate seat, but an uncomfortable bed. I’ve told you—”

“That I’m in no danger from you. I trust you, sir.”

“—I’ve told you, I require all the comfort I can find.”

“Do you have any calvados?”

“I left my flask in my coat.”

“Too bad,” Marie-Josèphe said.

“I do recommend sobriety on some occasions.”

“Such as?”

“Climbing to the roof of a chateau.”

She laughed. In the midst of the laughter she felt like bursting into tears.

“And perhaps sobriety’s best when you lose your temper. I’m sorry my brother and I caused you such annoyance today,” she said. “But… you were very severe with Yves.”

“He spoke to me like a servant! How did he—how did you—expect me to reply? Mlle de la Croix, you have no idea how severe I can be. If you’re fortunate, you’ll never see me lose my temper—when I’m sober.”

“I’m so sorry we offended you—”

“He offended me. You only requested that I accomplish the impossible.”

“That doesn’t offend you?”

“To be thought a miracle worker?” Count Lucien smiled, and Marie-Josèphe considered herself forgiven.

“Will you forgive Sherzad for causing you pain?” As soon as she had spoken, she wished she had not, but she could not call back her words. She tried to soften them. “I know she never meant—”

Count Lucien turned to her abruptly, silencing her with a gesture. “Her story gave me understanding,” he said, “as I have no doubt she intended. You must believe that it makes no difference.”

“Only the King’s belief matters.”

“Yes.”

“It would cost him nothing to free her.”

“Nothing?” Lucien exclaimed. “Immortality?”

“She cannot bestow immortality, Count Lucien, I promise you. Only God can do that.”

Count Lucien gazed down across the gardens, somber.

“I’m sorry,” Marie-Josèphe said.

“I hoped…” Count Lucien shook his head. “What will happen, when he dies…”

“We all must die. He’d kill her for nothing.”

“No. He has public reasons to dominate the sea monsters. It adds to his glory and his power. It demonstrates the vitality of France.”

“What a great deal to ask of one small sea monster! Should she win the war, end the famine, and fill the treasury as well?”

“If she could do that by living instead of by dying,” Count Lucien said, “then His Majesty might free her.”

The moon, nearly full, blossomed over the roof of the chateau behind them. A ragged cloud passed across its face, fragmenting its silver light like falling petals. The shards of silver fell gleaming across Count Lucien’s head and shoulders, across his short hair, so blond, so fair, the color of white gold. The moonlight traced his profile, the arch of his eyebrow.

Lucien turned toward Marie-Josèphe, wondering why she had gasped.

“You aren’t His Majesty’s son!”

“So I’ve assured you,” Lucien replied.

“You’re the son of—”

“I am my father’s son.” Lucien spoke sharply, trying to distract her from her dangerous insight.

“—the queen!” she exclaimed. “Queen Marie Thérèse! You have her fair hair, her grey eyes—she loved you—”

Very few people had ever divined the truth of Lucien’s parentage, or, if they had, they had the sense to remain silent about it.

“The greater love she bore was to my father.” Lucien could not lie to Marie-Josèphe de la Croix. “And my father loved his Queen. He responded to her grave unhappiness. He loves his King. He gave the King his respect and his friendship. The queen is dead and beyond reproach, but my father is alive: if you shout your suspicion to the world, you accuse him of treason, and me of—”

“I’ll never speak of it again,” she said.

They sat together in silence. Below them, the gardens filled with people: His Majesty’s royal guests, the court, His Majesty’s subjects. Clouds gathered above the park, blocking out the moonlight.

“How was it possible?” Marie-Josèphe whispered.

Lucien smiled. Despite the risks of knowledge, he appreciated the recomplications. “My birth was worthy of a Molière farce. And indeed M. Molière considered a play on the subject: A noblewoman—he did not quite dare to make her the Queen—bears the child of her noble dwarf lover, who—in the midst of a dozen court observers!—exchanges his infant son for the newborn daughter of the queen’s jester’s mistress, and spirits the boy away to his gracious wife, so they may claim him as their own, while a convent fosters the changeling, and the true child returns to his true mother as her page, like any noble youth—”

“What a remarkable tangle,” Marie-Josèphe said.

“Yes.”

“Molière never wrote his play.”

“Too dangerous.”

“That never stopped M. Molière.”

“He was fearless when confronted by censors and prisons, it’s true,” Lucien said. “It isn’t so easy to be fearless when confronted by my father.”

“Your father challenged him?”

“Challenge a commoner? Certainly not. He offered to have lackeys beat him senseless for insulting the Queen. M. Molière rather lost his sense of humor about the situation.”

“Poor M. Molière.”

“Poor M. Molière indeed, he could have been the downfall of my family. And of His Majesty’s family, if Monseigneur’s birth were also called into question.”

“It’s true that Monseigneur doesn’t quite resemble—”

“Please do not insult the late Queen in my presence.”

“I beg your pardon. But why such complexity? Why not simply spirit you away?”

Amazed that she could be so intelligent and yet so naive, Lucien said, “Because the daughter of a queen and a commoner is not much threat. The son of a queen and a companion of Charlemagne might challenge the throne of France as well as Spain.”

She nodded her understanding. “What of your sister?”

“I have no sister. Do you mean the changeling?”

“Yes.”

“She’s content, she says, in her convent; she possesses all the piety my family lacks. Her true parents were Spanish, of course, members of Her Majesty’s retinue.”

“Doesn’t she want to live in the world?”

“Perhaps not,” Lucien said, “for she too is a dwarf. And a Moor, with a Christian vocation. She’s respected where she is. France is her home. Where would she go? To the Spanish court as her true father’s successor? She could speak truths to their pathetic king, but he’d never hear her.”

“Is this why you’ve decided not to have children?”

“Because they might be snatched away and put on the throne of Spain?” Lucien laughed. “A horrible fate. No, I told you why I’ll never father a child. Why do you think there’s any other reason?”

“What of the future of your house? And your ancient title?”

“My younger brother will carry it on.”

“Your brother! Does he—”

“Resemble me? Not in any way.”

“—come to court?”

“Not if I can keep him from it.”

“Why not?”

Lucien sighed. “My brother’s a fool.”

“I cannot believe it!”

“Don’t misunderstand me. Guy is perfectly amiable. He’s good-hearted. But as for wit, or intelligence—he has neither. He allows himself to be drawn into mischief, thinking only that it will be good fun.”

“And yet you give him the future of your family.”

“I found him a good wife,” Lucien said. “She’s of excellent origin and no little fortune. She isn’t her own first cousin. Even better, she isn’t Guy’s first cousin. She’s fond of Guy and she manages the family well. Her children are a joy. When my nephew comes of age, I’ll grant him the title comte de Chrétien. He won’t disgrace it.”

“Will your nephew have your spirit?”

“He’ll have my mother’s spirit—and my brother’s strong back.”

“What of—” Marie-Josèphe said hesitantly. “What of the woman you call mother? Your father’s wife? Did she hate you terribly?”

“I honor and love her. She’s my mother, as her husband is my brother’s father.”

“In the eyes of the law, but—?”

“In the line of inheritance, which is the important thing. We’re both acknowledged, and legitimate, and cherished. She treats me graciously, as my father treats her son. She and my father are dearest lovers. Unlike most husbands and wives, they aren’t unfaithful to each other for their pleasure or their love. Only for their children.”

“Who is your brother’s father?”

“That isn’t my secret to tell,” Lucien replied. “You must ask me some other question.”

She thought for a moment. “How did you come to leave court? I can hardly imagine you anywhere else.”

“I didn’t leave willingly. I left in disgrace.”

“I cannot believe it!”

“Do you see in me no potential for disobedience?”

Marie-Josèphe laughed. “You’d disobey any order, you ignore all convention! But, displease the King? Never.”

“Youthful foolishness. I was barely fifteen.”

He had never told anyone the truth, that he took the blame for his brother’s foolishness. He was the eldest, after all; it was his responsibility to help Guy find his place in His Majesty’s court. At that he had failed. Guy bore the worst punishment; His Majesty never exiled him, but Lucien sent him home to Brittany and refused all his entreaties for a second invitation to Versailles.

“His Majesty’s punishment worked to my great advantage,” he said. “He sent me with his embassy to Morocco. To learn diplomacy, he said. We travelled through Arabia, Egypt, the Levant.”

“The greatest mathematicians in the world lived in Arabia,” Marie-Josèphe said. “Until M. Newton.”

“I didn’t have the honor of meeting Arabic mathematicians,” Lucien said. “But I met sheiks and warriors and holy men. I rode with the Bedouins. My sword was forged in Damascus. I lived in a hareem.”

“A hareem—but how?”

“On our journey, we all fell ill, with a dreadful flux—I’ll spare you the details.”

“I know the details.”

“I am sorry to hear it. The Sultan took us into his household. A less brave and ethical man would have put us out to die. Some of us did die, but his altruism saved most of us. His physicians watched over the grown men. The women of the household cared for the boys, the pages, for in the house of a devout Mahometan, the men live in one part of the house, the women and girls in another. Young boys live in the women’s quarters until they reach a certain age and develop a certain attention.

“As a youth,” Lucien said with dry directness, “I was rather small. In the chaos of illness and darkness and death, I was mistaken for a page of ten, rather than a young man of fifteen. No one in the embassy could say it was a mistake and call me back. We were too sick. I came to my senses all unaware, wondering if a god really did exist—”

“Of course He does!”

“Then He is Allah, and He brought me into His garden to mock my disbelief. I awoke in the women’s quarters.”

“They made short work of putting you out, I’m certain.”

“No—how could they? I’d be killed, or worse. The women—the Sultan’s wives, his daughters, his brothers’ wives, his sons’ wives—would be disgraced. They could be divorced. Or stoned to death.”

“How did you escape?”

“I did not. I stayed until the last day of the embassy, when I crept out over the rooftops and joined the caravan home. The women kept my secret. I became their secret. They were women of intelligence and kindness and passion, locked away from the world, kept at the mercy of men’s whims.”

“And you were a youth of a certain age and attention.”

“Indeed I was.”

“Tempted into sin. At the mercy of their whims.”

Lucien laughed. “I hadn’t thought of it that way. I honor their mercy and their whims. They awakened me. Before that time, I’d never lived for a moment when my body didn’t pain me.”

“You’re no better than their husbands, who imprisoned them!” Marie-Josèphe cried. “You took your pleasure from them and placed them in danger.”

“I took nothing. Ours was an exchange of gifts. My gifts were clumsy and ill-made to begin with, I admit, but they were sincere, and my beloved friends were patient. I learned nothing of diplomacy during those months. Instead, I learned the art of rapture. I learned how to give it and how to receive it. I learned how much more it’s worth when it’s both given and received.”

Lucien fell silent. Marie-Josèphe tried to make herself feel disgusted and offended, as she knew she should, but his story moved her.

How much I would have cherished a secret friend, in the convent, she thought. Not a man! Not for… Not for rapture. For affection, for conversation, for friendship, for all the things forbidden me because they would distract from the love of God. If a pagan, a heretic, had appeared in my cell and begged for asylum, I would have hidden her and protected her.

“If you lived in rapture, why are you sad?” she demanded, for Lucien stared across the water with a far-away and melancholy expression.

Lucien remained silent for so long, she thought he would not reply.

“The amiable Sultan’s eldest son, the crown prince… He took a young wife, that is, a new concubine… She was fourteen, homesick, but she could never go home—she’d been enslaved, and sold. She had been used to liberty… Her gaze was like a trapped bird. We became friends.”

He stopped to govern his voice.

“She had as little experience as I. Her sister wives could tell her what to do to please her husband, when he demanded her presence and compelled her first submission. They could have told him how to please her, even when he claimed her virginity. But he never listened to their wisdom. He took her. He forced her. He raped her.”

Lucien rubbed his hand across his forehead, hiding his eyes from the memory.

“But, he was her husband,” Marie-Josèphe said as gently as she could. “He couldn’t rape—”

“Don’t preach your ignorance to me.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“By their law—by your law—he couldn’t rape her. What she surrendered to was rape, all the worse because she couldn’t resist, she couldn’t object, she couldn’t refuse. Should we have comforted her by saying, Your husband acted within the law?”

“It’s God’s will, M. de Chrétien, for women to suffer.” Marie-Josèphe hoped that explaining properly might bring Count Lucien to belief. “If she were a Christian, she would have understood and submitted willingly.”

“I cannot fathom why you accept such arrant lunacy.” He spoke quietly. “If she were a Christian, you’d consign her to hell, for she killed herself.”

Recovering from her dismay, Marie-Josèphe whispered, “I am so sorry. I’m sorry for your friend’s pain, for your grief, and for my inexcusable condescension.” She took his hand. He turned away, hiding his bright tears, but he permitted her touch.

A rocket blazed across the sky.

Fireworks burst in a great floating carpet from the Grand Canal to the chateau. A hundred colors painted patterns in the sky. The roof tiles trembled with the noise. In the midst of the roar of rockets, the spectators cheered.

A burst of blue and gold formed a great expanding sphere. Small red rockets streaked over it. The low clouds reflected the light of the fireworks, an eerie, distorted mirror. The explosions formed a solid presence.

Gunpowder smoke hovered, pungent and gritty. Lucien lay back on the warm tiles and gazed into the sky.

“Is this what war is like?” Marie-Josèphe asked.

“Not in the least. It lacks the mud, the discomfort, the fear. It lacks the screams of dying men and disemboweled horses. It lacks severed limbs, and death. It lacks the exhilaration, and the glory.”

The fireworks continued, embroidering the sky with needles of color and light. A golden letter “L” and its mirror image, surrounded by flowers and starbursts, brightened the gardens to day.

Marie-Josèphe leaped up, climbed over the edge of the roof, and disappeared. Startled, Lucien followed her. In her room, she struggled into her clothes. Standing on the window seat, the cat glaring at him slit-eyed from the shadows, Lucien said, “May I help you?”

“I heard Sherzad,” Marie-Josèphe said.

Lucien buttoned her dress, distracted from her words by the touch of her hair falling over her shoulders.

“I didn’t think—she must be so frightened!” She pulled on her shoes and ran away before Lucien had retrieved his perruke from the lutenist. He put it on, thinking, You never should have revealed yourself to her without it.

Sherzad swam in the center of the fountain. She screamed a challenge. The explosions assaulted her. The roof of the tent lit up with the light of bombs and guns, Greek fire and mortars, all the weapons that had been arrayed against the people of the sea for so many generations.

She screamed again, shrieking with fury and grief.

Marie-Josèphe ran into the tent.

The Fountain gleamed with unearthly light. Apollo’s horses struck sparks from their hooves. Sherzad thrashed, sending up a fountain of luminescent water. With each blast of rockets, the shining intensified in waves.

In a moment Marie-Josèphe was on the platform, covering her ears against the explosions, against Sherzad’s screams. She called out softly, reaching to Sherzad through the sea woman’s fear and anger, through the dense fabric of sound.

Sherzad moaned and swam to her. Glowing ripples marked her path. Marie-Josèphe held her hands and gazed into her eyes. Sherzad touched her with her voice.

“I’m so sorry, dear Sherzad,” Marie-Josèphe said. “I’ve never seen fireworks, not like this, I had no idea—it’s all right, it isn’t war, it isn’t the guns and the mortars. You needn’t fight, you needn’t be afraid. The men of land do this for play.”

Laboring up onto the platform, Sherzad lay in Marie-Josèphe’s arms, reassured and comforted. Her body shone as if lit from within. Marie-Josèphe stroked her long coarse glowing hair, combing out all the tangles except the knotted lock of her dead friend’s hair.

She did not untangle the remembrance knot, but she stroked it thoughtfully. Light covered her hands.

“Sherzad,” Marie-Josèphe said, “where did your friend get the ruby ring?”