The Moon and the Sun

27

Lucien and Yves rode the cart-horses, bareback, their hands unbound by the King’s command. Spent from her struggles and restrained by the net, Sherzad droned an eerie hum of grief that spooked riders and horses alike. Marie-Josèphe rode in the hunting chariot. Cheetahs shouldered and snarled, rubbing against her bedraggled petticoat. One sat on its haunches and watched her, its gaze on her bloodstained bodice.

The trip to Versailles took forever; it took no time at all. Marie-Josèphe pushed away exhaustion and despair, seeking escape. She matched her stance to Lucien’s: proud, shoulders straight, head up. Schemes occurred to her, each a more fanciful fairy tale than the next. If she could release the cheetahs from their collars—they might confuse the cavalry, they might frighten all the horses… but they might equally tear out her throat, or pounce on Sherzad when the riders dropped her carry-poles. If she could overpower the driver—she could gallop away in the chariot… but Chartres and Lorraine would make short work of catching her, their powerful war-horses against the stolid zebras. No matter how she escaped, in her fantasies, only Apollo dropping from the sky in his dawn chariot might free Sherzad. No matter how she escaped, the Carrousel riders surrounded Lucien and Yves.

We failed, she thought. Sherzad’s life is forfeit. I drew Lucien into a scheme he never meant to support, with what consequences to him?

She wiped her face indelicately on her sleeve, hoping her captors would think she had dust in her eyes.

Fire burst along Lucien’s spine.

He gasped and clutched the cart-horse’s mane. His sword nearly slipped from his fingers. All his senses turned toward the pain, shutting out the world. If he remained very still, he might not fall, he might not drop his sword, he might not lose consciousness.

“M. de Chrétien,” Yves whispered, “what’s wrong?”

“Don’t touch me, if you please.”

“You’re very pale…”

“It’s fashionable,” Lucien said.

Yves fell silent, for which Lucien was also grateful. Fire burned in his back, remorseless, worse than torture. If he were being tortured, he could recant or confess or convert and the torture would stop. When his body betrayed him this way, nothing, neither wine nor spirits nor loving caress, would stop the pain.

The procession plodded toward Versailles, past the Grand Canal, past the Fountain of Apollo; it continued up the Green Carpet, bearing the sea woman to the chateau.

Lucien reclaimed himself from his affliction long enough to understand the significance of their path. He could not see Marie-Josèphe’s face, but he had no doubt she understood too.

His Majesty has decided, Lucien thought, to end the sea woman’s life.

The procession stopped beneath the chateau’s north wing. Yves dismounted and walked stiffly around his horse. Lucien clutched the mane of his cart-horse and lowered himself to the ground before Yves could reach him. He leaned heavily on his cane, catching his breath.

He could not even claim an honorable injury. The careening crash of the wagon, the lurching gait of the cart-horse had not affected him. When the ache he suffered constantly rose to agony, the change struck after no particular action and no particular insult.

The only pattern Lucien had ever detected was inconvenience.

And that, he thought, is because any moment would be inconvenient. I must admit this moment is worse than most.

The King dismounted and entered the chateau. His companions closed in around him. They left no place for Lucien to stand; they had already obliterated his position. When the guards came, the rest of the courtiers rode away with the horses, never casting a backward glance. Lucien could not blame them. Anyone who defended him risked sharing his fate.

The guards surrounded the captives and marched them to the guard room of the State Apartments. Lucien leaned heavily on his sword-cane and managed to keep up, but only because the musketeers had to carry Sherzad. The sea woman lay limp in the net, keening an uncanny dirge. In the guard room, the musketeers dropped their burden and moved away, unnerved.

“She needs water, sirs,” Marie-Josèphe said, “or she’ll grow ill. Please be so kind as to give her a drink.”

“Be so kind as to give us all a drink,” Yves said. “And allow us to sit. We’ve been travelling all night.”

Yves’ plea irritated Lucien.

Do you embrace your suffering, priest, Lucien thought, but he resisted the temptation of speaking the irony aloud.

Scrupulously polite, the musketeer captain sent for wine and water. His men brought chairs. Yves sagged into his, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and his head down. Marie-Josèphe sat so gingerly that Lucien wondered if she had been hurt in the wagon crash. He wanted to go to her. He wanted to comfort her; he wanted her comfort. But the guards would stop him; he had all he could do now to maintain his demeanor.

The captain offered Lucien a chair.

“Do you expect me to sit in the presence of His Majesty?” Lucien asked, his tone severe. He thrust his walking-stick toward a portrait of Louis. Pain stabbed up his back into both shoulders.

“I beg your pardon, M. de Chrétien,” the captain said. “But will you take wine?”

One of the musketeers poured the wine. Yves drank thirstily.

“I will drink to His Majesty.” Lucien lifted the goblet to Louis’ portrait in a pure arrogant salute and tossed the wine down in one gulp. The captain joined the toast.

“No, thank you,” Marie-Josèphe said, when one of the guards offered her the wine. “I mean no disrespect to the King, but… I cannot.”

Lucien realized why she was so uncomfortable, why she would not drink though her lips were dry and her refusal full of regret, and why she was so embarrassed.

“Allow Mlle de la Croix the use of the privy,” Lucien said quietly to the captain.

The captain hesitated, but he knew as well as everyone at court, the endurance of His Majesty’s bladder as well as His Majesty’s habit of travelling without thought for the comfort of ladies. He bowed to Lucien and ordered his men to escort all three captives to relieve themselves.

“Quickly, though, His Majesty will want them soon.”

Alone, Lucien leaned against the wall, letting the stone cool his face. He shivered.

The captain sent in water and towels. Lucien wiped away the worst of the mud, brushed the dirt from his gloves, and straightened his clothes. He wished for a change of linen. He was not fit to face the King, and he was soaked with cold sweat. He never grew used to the cold that accompanied hot pain. The flask of calvados in his pocket tempted him, but the fire of the liquor would do nothing to quench the fire in his back. He pulled a white ribbon from his Carrousel hat, now sadly bedraggled, and tied back his equally disheveled perruke.

“What about the sea monster, M. de Chrétien?” the captain asked when he returned. “Will it piddle on the carpet?”

“Mlle de la Croix is the expert.”

“I don’t know.” Marie-Josèphe drank deep from her goblet, and did not refuse when the captain refilled it. “Sherzad’s never been in a house, she’s never seen a carpet, she wouldn’t know what to do in a privy.”

“It won’t drink.” One of the musketeers stood over Sherzad with a water bottle; the sea woman had not piddled on the rug, but the bottle had dripped upon it.

“Let me sit with her,” Marie-Josèphe said.

The captain allowed Marie-Josèphe to kneel beside Sherzad. Lucien joined her. Yves hesitated, then followed. Lucien put his hand on Marie-Josèphe’s shoulder. She covered it with her fingers, warming and thrilling him. He imagined that the fire of her touch burned away a fragment of his pain.

“My dear friends,” Marie-Josèphe whispered.

Her voice failed her. She stroked Sherzad’s shoulder, her bruised hip. The web of Sherzad’s hand was torn. Clotted blood covered her ankle; bruises covered her neck. She lay with her eyes closed, her dirge nearly inaudible. Marie-Josèphe held the water bottle to Sherzad’s mouth. The sea woman did not respond.

“Sir, may I have the wine?”

The captain handed her the bottle. She poured a few drops on her fingers and wetted Sherzad’s parched lips. The sea woman dreamily, delicately, licked away the wine.

“His Majesty requires your presence.”

Marie-Josèphe walked beside Lucien into the Salon of Apollo. Yves walked alone, his head bowed, his hands folded in his sleeves. Guards flanked them, and carried Sherzad with them. The sea-woman’s moaning echoed in the chamber.

Lucien faced His Majesty. Seated on the throne, the King gazed down at his former favorites. Monseigneur and Maine, Lorraine and Chartres stood around him, stern and silent. Only Monsieur offered a sympathetic glance. Only he could dare to, but even he could not help.

Sweat covered Lucien’s face, and his hand clenched around his walking-stick; he had to push himself upright from his bow.

Marie-Josèphe offered His Majesty a deep curtsy, but her attention remained on Lucien. Is he injured? she thought. Was he hurt in the wagon crash? I’ve never before seen him succumb to his pain.

“I respect my opponents in war,” Louis said. “But I despise friends who betray me.”

“Sire, I’m the one at fault!” Marie-Josèphe exclaimed. “My brother, and Count Lucien—”

“Be quiet! Do you expect mercy because you’re a woman? I’m no fool, mademoiselle, no matter how you’ve played me.”

“I expect no mercy for myself, Your Majesty.” But she had hoped to beg mercy for Sherzad, for Lucien, for Yves.

“And you, Lucien. Will you explain yourself?”

“No, Your Majesty,” Lucien said.

Lucien’s curtness to the King shocked Marie-Josèphe.

“Will you not ask me for the favor I promised?”

So furious, so affronted, that he took a moment to reply, Lucien said, “I asked it of you already, Sire.”

“Stop that noise!” the King cried to Marie-Josèphe.

“I cannot. Sherzad is singing her death song.”

“M. Boursin!”

M. Boursin hurried forward in his shambling bony way.

“Take the creature. Butcher it. Now.”

“But, Your Majesty, the banquet is almost about to start, Your Majesty, there’s no time to prepare it, Your Majesty, if it didn’t please you I should kill myself—”

“Do as you like,” Louis said. “Spare me your protestations. We’ll eat the monster raw and bloody.”

“Your Majesty, I, I will think of something, Your Majesty—”

Marie-Josèphe began to cry, silently, with grief.

Lucien took her hand. Marie-Josèphe could not stop crying, but she had never been so grateful for the comfort of another human being.

“You cannot come in! You must not come in!” The usher’s voice penetrated from the next Salon. “Guards!”

A pigeon fluttered wildly into the Salon. It dashed back and forth, it saw the sky through the window, it flung itself headlong toward the glass, it swerved at the last moment. It fluttered to the royal pigeon-keeper, who held it and cradled it against his chest. Other birds rested in his shirt and on his shoulders.

Without anyone’s leave, Lucien approached the pigeon-keeper. Leaning heavily on his stick, he held out his hand.

The pigeon-keeper dug in his pocket. He tipped a fistful of silver message capsules into Lucien’s palm.

Lucien did not condescend to open one. He returned to his place before the King. The tears in Marie-Josèphe eyes created a halo around the gleaming silver. She dug her fingernails into her palms, trying to stop crying, trying not to shout, Open one, read the message—

His Majesty plucked a single capsule from Lucien’s hand. He opened it. He tipped it, but nothing came out. He shook it.

An emerald hit the polished parquet with a bright sharp tap. The ember of green sparks skittered across the floor and came to rest in the fringe of the Persian rug. A guard scooped it up, knelt at the King’s feet, and returned it.

His Majesty read the scrap of paper from the message capsule. He dropped it.

Each message capsule contained a jewel more beautiful than the last, or a perfect jade bead, or an exquisite gold bangle. His Majesty littered the floor with the messages. Marie-Josèphe pieced together the words:

“Aztec gemstones. Spanish gold. Glorious prize.”

His Majesty closed his hand around the treasure.

“The sea monster wins its life.” His bleak voice unnerved Marie-Josèphe.

“Your Majesty—” M. Boursin whispered.

“M. de Chrétien, give him—” Louis caught himself. “M. Boursin, I’ll reward you as I promised. You may retire.”

M. Boursin bowed his way from the throne room.

Louis gazed down at Lucien, and for a moment his impassivity failed him.

“Lucien, my valued adviser… Who will replace you?”

“No one, Your Majesty.”

Lucien’s pride and sorrow moved Marie-Josèphe so deeply that she nearly burst into tears again.

His Majesty called Lorraine to his side. “Take the sea monster to its cage.”

“Your Majesty!” Marie-Josèphe cried. “Sherzad gave you a treasure ship.”

“And I give the monster its life.”

“You promised to release her.”

“Do you dare to argue with me?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“I promised not to serve the creature’s meat at my banquet. If I cannot grow immortal on its flesh, it must make France immortal with its treasure.”

Sherzad tumbled down the wooden steps and plunged into the Fountain of Apollo. The shock of the fetid water roused her from the daze of her grief song. She thrashed and twisted in the net. As it unwound, as she gained some freedom, she slashed at the cables with her claws. The mesh fell away into the inadequate current and drifted toward the drain, spreading and creeping like an octopus.

Aching, ravenous, bruised, scraped, she kicked through the surface. She landed, splashing hard. The door of the cage clanged shut and the lock snapped fast. The wings of the tent hung closed. She was alone. Frantic, she scraped at the sides of the pool with her broken claws; she wrenched at the grating over the drain until her hands bled.

She found no escape.

Musketeers took Lucien and Yves away, forbidding Marie-Josèphe to exchange a word with either of them. Two guards marched with Marie-Josèphe to Madame’s apartments.

In the dressing room, Madame stood with her arms outstretched. Her ladies in waiting tightened her corset-strings. Mademoiselle had already dressed, in magnificent ecru satin studded with topazes. Haleeda put the finishing touches on her tall ruffled beribboned fontanges.

Haleeda dropped the ribbons and ran to Marie-Josèphe and embraced her wordlessly. Lotte followed. Marie-Josèphe clung to her sister and her friend. Elderflower trotted toward her, snuffling; Youngerflower followed, yapping. They sniffed at the hem of her petticoat. Scenting Sherzad, they barked hysterically.

“Stop it!” Lotte toed the dogs away.

Madame ignored the musketeers while her ladies dressed her in a cloth-of-gold grand habit.

“You may retire,” she said to them.

“But, Madame—”

“Do as I say.”

They glanced at each other; they backed out of the dressing room. No doubt they waited in the vestibule, for even Madame’s robust presence could not counter His Majesty’s orders.

Madame pressed her cheek against Marie-Josèphe’s.

“Oh, my dear,” she said. “This is worthy of a tragic ballad. The King is furious, and he commands you to attend his banquet.”

“Madame, what am I to do?”

“Obey the King. Sweet child, that’s all any of us can do.”

Marie-Josèphe helped Haleeda dress Madame’s hair, holding hairpins and the few jewels and bits of lace that Madame would allow. She could take no comfort in the ordinary actions. Her hands trembled. The other ladies in waiting whispered about her disobedience and about her bedraggled appearance.

Sherzad is alive, Marie-Josèphe thought. As long as she is alive…

But she knew her friend would not long survive in the prison of the fountain.

Madame held out her arm. Marie-Josèphe fastened the King’s diamond bracelet around her wrist. The tears in her eyes redoubled the brightness of the facets.

“And now,” Madame said, “what are we to do with you?” She looked Marie-Josèphe up and down, sternly. “You cannot dine in the King’s presence, wearing a muddy dress.”

“Don’t tease her, mama,” Lotte said. She led Marie-Josèphe to a wardrobe and flung open the doors.

The gown inside was the most beautiful Marie-Josèphe had ever seen, gleaming silver satin and silver lace, a bodice paved with moonstones.

“Mademoiselle, I cannot—”

“M. de Chrétien sends it, with his compliments.”

I have destroyed him, Marie-Josèphe thought, and still he treats me with kindness.

Lotte hugged her and kissed her and gave her hands a hopeful squeeze, then left her alone with Haleeda. Lotte and Madame and their retinue departed, leaving behind the rustle of petticoats, the fragrance of rare perfumes, the echoes of their whispers.

Haleeda pressed a scrap of paper into Marie-Josèphe’s hand. Marie-Josèphe unfolded it. She caught her breath when she recognized Lucien’s writing.

We will see each other soon. I love you. L.

“Do not cry, Mlle Marie,” Haleeda said. “Your eyes are red enough already. Sit down, I must comb the rats nests from your hair.”

“Mlle Haleeda, I must send a reply. Do I dare—is it possible?”

“It might be managed,” Haleeda said. “Count Lucien has many agents.”

I love you, Marie-Josèphe wrote. I love you without boundaries, without limits.

Haleeda whispered to a page boy and sent the note away, then turned her attention to helping Marie-Josèphe into the moonstone gown. The mirror reflected her image, engulfed in silver-grey light.

“It’s no more than you deserve,” Haleeda said with satisfaction.

Marie-Josèphe tucked Lucien’s note into her bodice.

“Sister,” Haleeda said, “will you let me dress your hair properly?”

She picked up one of Mademoiselle’s several headdresses and held it out to Marie-Josèphe. Marie-Josèphe tried to restrain herself, but at the idea of balancing the tangle of wires and ribbons and lace all evening, she burst out laughing.

“Don’t you approve of my creations?” Haleeda asked sternly.

“I’m sorry!” She pressed her hands against her mouth, stifling her laughter. “Mlle Haleeda, I don’t mean—”

And then Haleeda was laughing, too, at the absurd edifices she had designed, at the fashionable ladies who wore them.

Haleeda put down the fontanges. She arranged Marie-Josèphe’s hair in a simple style.

“You must wear these.”

Haleeda looped a long string of jewels into Marie-Josèphe’s hair.

“Your pearls—!”

“I must have them back,” Haleeda said, “for they will buy my passage home.”

The source of any gift from Mary of Modena was in truth His Majesty. Marie-Josèphe took some comfort in knowing that if Louis would not free Sherzad, he would contribute to Haleeda’s liberty.

The afternoon sun poured through the windows of the Hall of Mirrors, reflecting from the expanse of mirrors with blinding brightness. Rainbow spectra sparkled from crystal chandeliers. The sigil of the King, the golden sunburst, gleamed from every wall. Gods and heroes frolicked and made war on the ceiling.

Long banquet tables crowded the floor; the aristocracy of France and all its allies crowded the tables. The clothes, the food, and particularly the seating at His Majesty’s banquet would occupy court gossips for months afterwards, as it no doubt had occupied the Introducer of Ambassadors and his assistants for months beforehand. Music filled the room; orange trees perfumed the air.

“Mlle Marie-Josèphe de la Croix.” The usher announced her. Unescorted, she entered the hall. She walked, alone, dazzled by the light, into a hum of speculation. When her guard appeared, the whispers ceased. She held up her head and glided forward.

They would whisper just as furiously, Marie-Josèphe thought, because my hair is dressed unfashionably or because I am unescorted, as because I am under guard.

She almost burst out laughing. Perhaps they were exclaiming over the simple arrangement of her hair. Haleeda’s grotesque and fantastical headdresses loomed over all the court’s most fashionable women, like a forest of lace towers.

Marie-Josèphe took her isolated place at the farthest end of the banquet table, grateful to be out of the gaze of so many people. She did not want to be here; she wanted to be with Sherzad, with Lucien. Lucien’s note rested inside the glowing moonstone bodice, against her breast.

“Father Yves de la Croix.” Yves had put aside the King’s medal. A severe sketch in black, he joined Marie-Josèphe. Guards accompanied him.

“Lucien de Barenton, count de Chrétien.”

Lucien entered, the equal of any guest in attire, in demeanor, in pride. He had put aside his blue coat; instead, he wore silver satin and diamonds. He might have been a foreign prince, with a bodyguard of the King’s musketeers. His place at the foot of the banquet table, as far from His Majesty as one could be seated, might have been the place of honor.

“You have neglected my footstool,” he said coolly to the lieutenant of his guards.

“I beg your pardon, M. de Chrétien.”

Lucien waited patiently, indifferent to the uneasiness of the musketeers, who must be wondering if they should take orders from their prisoner. His smile to Marie-Josèphe was so luminous, so full of love and humor, that she accepted it as real, not a facade created by his pride.

When the footstool arrived, when Lucien had climbed onto his chair, the guards retreated behind the orange trees. Their tobacco smoke drifted out. Marie-Josèphe envied them.

Yves sat at Lucien’s right hand, Marie-Josèphe at his left. Their nearest neighbors edged their chairs away, leaving a no-man’s-land. Marie-Josèphe wondered if they would build a wall of candelabra, knives, and salt-cellars.

Marie-Josèphe put her hand over Lucien’s.

“Thank you,” she said. “Thank you for everything. I’m so sorry. I wish—”

He raised her hand and brushed his lips against her fingers; he kissed her palm. Her thoughts tantalized her: What must it be like to kiss him, if his touch to my hand speeds my heart?

“It’s been too long since my last adventure,” he said.

“Is that the only reason?”

“The reason is, you let me see your spirit, and I love you. Without boundaries. Without limits.”

“I wish we could trade places with them,” Marie-Josèphe said softly, nodding toward the hidden musketeers.

Lucien smiled.

“Control yourself, sister,” Yves said.

Despite Yves’ glare, Marie-Josèphe rested her hand against Lucien’s cheek. He leaned into her touch, closing his eyes. He shivered.

“Lucien—?”

“Never mind,” he whispered. He straightened up; reluctantly, she dropped her hand.

“You must tell me.”

“You understand my ordinary situation. At times, my situation becomes extraordinary.”

“The cure—?”

“There’s no cure for this, but patience.”

The usher announced the visiting monarchs. One after another they entered the Hall of Mirrors and took their places at the high table. The jewels and gold on their costumes weighed them down.

Marie-Josèphe caught a glimpse of Queen Mary, moving stiff-necked beneath the weight of an enormous fontanges of gold lace and ribbons, diamonds and silver embroidery. Powder turned her skin dead white, while thin lines of blue paint meandered across her temples and across the curve of her breasts, following her veins, accentuating her paleness.

“His Holiness Pope Innocent, Prince of Rome.”

Innocent turned away from the high table. The usher, horrified, looked around frantically for assistance, found none, ran after Innocent and whispered, received a quiet answer, stopped and bowed and backed away. Slowly, proceeding through the silence of shock, Innocent approached Marie-Josèphe. She rose and curtsied; he allowed her to kiss his ring. Yves knelt before him. Lucien remained where he was.

“Bring another chair.”

“Your Holiness!” Yves exclaimed.

Innocent’s command jarred the stunned servants to obedience. Yves seated Pope Innocent in his own place and took the new chair in the no-man’s-land at Innocent’s right hand. While the guests marveled in horror at the Pope’s breach of etiquette, servants rearranged the high table, whisking away Innocent’s place and leaving the King’s gold setting in the center. The usher looked faint.

“His Majesty, Louis the Great, King of France and Navarre, the Most Christian King.”

Everyone rose; everyone bowed. His Majesty, in cloth-of-gold, rubies, and diamonds, took his place without acknowledging that something terrible had happened. He gazed down the Hall of Mirrors, impassive. One moment of his glance raked Marie-Josèphe, and her brother, and Lucien, and pierced His Holiness.

“Your Holiness…” Yves said. “Your place—”

“Our Savior ministered to lepers. Can I do less?” Innocent regarded Lucien. “Though Our Savior was not required to traffic with atheists.”

Marie-Josèphe blushed with anger at the insult.

“If He had,” Lucien said, “no doubt He would have been gracious about it.”

“You are gracious, Your Holiness,” Yves said quickly, “to share our dishonor.”

“My royal cousin is very angry,” Innocent replied.

“We deprived him of a meal,” Marie-Josèphe exclaimed. “To keep him from committing murder.”

“We feared for his soul, Your Holiness,” Yves said.

“Perhaps you’ve protected a demon,” Innocent said, addressing Yves. “Or perhaps you deprived my cousin of immortality.”

“Sherzad cannot give anyone immortality, Your Holiness,” Marie-Josèphe said. “Only God can do that.”

Innocent ignored her, ignored her impudence. “You claimed the sea monster’s flesh had the power—”

“I lied,” Yves said miserably. “God forgive me, I lied. I made no tests, Your Holiness. The truth doesn’t matter—”

“Yves, how can you say such a thing?” Marie-Josèphe exclaimed.

“All that matters is what the King believes.”

“And he believes in immortality, because you told him it was true. Now he’ll wonder, he’ll be tempted—he’ll break his word, and kill her.”

Lucien met her gaze, but he said nothing.

I hoped he would deny it, Marie-Josèphe thought. I hoped he would say, His Majesty never breaks his word. Even if he rebuked me, I’d know Sherzad would live.

“You could save Sherzad, Your Holiness,” Marie-Josèphe said. “You’re revered for correcting the Church’s errors, for stopping the corruption—”

“Be quiet!” Yves cried.

“Allow me a moment of praise, Father de la Croix,” Innocent said. “Allow me to indulge in a moment’s sin of pride. I did stop corruption.”

“I beg your pardon, Your Holiness.”

“God gave us beasts to use, the devil to oppose, and pagans to convert. Which is the monster?”

“She’s a woman.”

“I am not speaking to you, Mlle de la Croix. Father de la Croix, the monster claims death is everlasting.”

“Your Holiness,” Yves said carefully, “would a beast understand death?”

“If devils existed,” Lucien said, “surely they’d affirm life after death, Heaven and Hell. Otherwise, where would they live?”

Fighting her urge to giggle, Marie-Josèphe dared to speak to the Pope again. “Your Holiness, you could teach Sherzad about everlasting life.”

“Stop meddling, Signorina.” Impatience and anger tinged Innocent’s voice. “Women must be submissive, obedient—and quiet. It is God’s will.”

Lucien leaned toward Innocent, making a sharp, angry gesture. He froze; when he recovered himself, even his lips had paled. Marie-Josèphe feared he might faint.

“If you believe in your God,” Lucien said, his voice harsh, “then you must accept that He made Marie-Josèphe de la Croix both audacious and brave.”

“You—” Innocent said. “You and the creature both are unnatural!”

The disk of the sun touched the western horizon. The light turned scarlet, filling the Hall, blazing from the wall of mirrors like fire, streaming all over with blood.