Hidden Huntress
Page 35
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The carriage stopped, and moments later, a guard looked in the window at us. My mother lifted a hand in greeting, and he waved us forward. I caught a quick flash of the walls as we passed through the gates. They were dull grey with a faint hint of green lichen in the mortar cracks, but the impression they gave me was of strength and practicality. The castle had been built with defense, not beauty, in mind, although to the best of my knowledge, it had never been attacked.
My eyes flicked over the outbuildings as we slowly passed by, all of them squat and sturdy. I wanted to get out and go look at them – to see what sort of activities went on within the confines of the walls. But the ground was wet and the delicate shoes my mother had insisted I wear were unsuited for traipsing through stables and smithies.
The carriage drew to a halt; and seconds later, a liveried footman opened the door, holding out an arm to help me descend. Lifting my skirts up with one hand, I slowly turned in a circle, trying to take in everything I could while Julian helped my mother out of the carriage. The castle itself was little more impressive than the outbuildings, ugly and low to the ground, with the exception of two towers rising up above the whole. Everything was a dull grey, the only flashes of color the two flags flapping in the cold breeze coming off the sea.
“Come along, Cécile.” My mother caught Julian’s arm before he could walk away, and they started up the steps to the entrance. I followed, my heels clicking against steps worn smooth by years of traffic and weather. Two uniformed guards swung open the doors, which were thick oak banded with pieces of steel. I noticed steel-bracketed holes in the stone, and looking up, I saw the pointed spikes of a portcullis that could be lowered to further protect the entrance.
The inside of the castle seemed as barren and grey as the exterior, the narrow hallway we walked down dark despite the multitude of lamps. There were no windows that I could see, making the place seem tight and close as a coffin. Impenetrable. It should’ve felt safe, but all I felt was cold.
After walking for what seemed like an eternity through a maze of passages, the servant leading us stopped at a closed door, knocked, then stepped inside to announce us. A wall of warmth and light hit me as I stepped into the room, making me blink. A massive fireplace burned against one wall, but the light came from two ornate candelabras hanging from the ceiling. Thick carpets covered the floors, and tapestries concealed the ugly grey walls.
The room had the same narrow windows I’d seen from outside, but these had panes of beautiful stained glass that spilled a rainbow of color across the two dozen women filling the room. Not that any of them needed it – every one of them was dressed in a different hue, their gowns elaborate contraptions of silk, satin, and velvet. My eyes passed over them swiftly, but none had red hair or bore the haughty chiseled features of Anushka.
Though I had never seen her before, I immediately picked out the Regent’s wife, the Lady Marie du Chastelier. Her aubergine gown was no more elaborate than many of the others, but if my time with the trolls had taught me nothing else, it had taught me to recognize the gravitas that so often came with rank. Young or old, every woman in the room was keenly aware of her, all of them waiting for her to recognize us before acting themselves.
Lady Marie rose and came toward us. I kept my face lowered, watching her through my eyelashes. She was somewhat older than my own mother, her brown hair silver at the temples, and while not beautiful, she was attractive in a stately sort of way. She wore a strange necklace made of wood, and a sprig of crimson berries pinned in her hair. They looked real rather than wax, but I couldn’t imagine where they had come from at this time of year.
My mother dropped into a deep curtsey at her approach. “My lady.”
“Genevieve.” There was no inflection in her voice, but I sensed immediately that Lady Marie did not much like my mother as she walked by her without stopping. A flicker of annoyance passed over my mother’s face as she straightened.
Julian bowed and I dropped into a smooth curtsey as the most powerful woman in Trianon approached us. She went to him first, raising a hand to cup his cheek. “You must be Julian.”
He nodded. “Yes, my lady.”
“You have a great many admirers here,” Lady Marie said, a warm smile crossing her face. “Try not to break too many hearts.”
Julian ducked his head. “I think it is my heart that will be at risk, my lady.” The words were too smooth, making them sound disingenuous. Rehearsed.
“How charming,” Lady Marie said, but there was the faintest hint of sarcasm in her voice. Then she turned to me.
My knees ached from holding a curtsey, but I did not rise until I felt her fingers catch the bottom of my chin. “Cécile de Troyes,” she murmured, her voice thoughtful. “I’ve seen you perform before, and I confess, you seem much taller onstage.” Her smile was gone. “But you’re only a little doll, aren’t you?”
She wasn’t the first to say so, but it was still difficult to keep my dislike of the comparison off my face. Dolls had no minds – they were pretty things to be played with, and I’d had quite enough of that in my life. “Appearances can be deceiving, my lady,” I replied, meeting her gaze. “The heels I wear onstage are quite high.”
One of her eyebrows rose, and for a moment, I feared I had overstepped. But then she chuckled. “Indeed they can be.”
Our conversation ended with the arrival of the masque composer, Monsieur Johnson, who amused the ladies with his foreign accent and dress as he herded them down the hall. Julian and I were left to trail after everyone as we went to where the stage was under construction. Other hangers-on swelled their ranks, and my eyes flicked over their faces, searching, searching for that sly gaze.
My eyes flicked over the outbuildings as we slowly passed by, all of them squat and sturdy. I wanted to get out and go look at them – to see what sort of activities went on within the confines of the walls. But the ground was wet and the delicate shoes my mother had insisted I wear were unsuited for traipsing through stables and smithies.
The carriage drew to a halt; and seconds later, a liveried footman opened the door, holding out an arm to help me descend. Lifting my skirts up with one hand, I slowly turned in a circle, trying to take in everything I could while Julian helped my mother out of the carriage. The castle itself was little more impressive than the outbuildings, ugly and low to the ground, with the exception of two towers rising up above the whole. Everything was a dull grey, the only flashes of color the two flags flapping in the cold breeze coming off the sea.
“Come along, Cécile.” My mother caught Julian’s arm before he could walk away, and they started up the steps to the entrance. I followed, my heels clicking against steps worn smooth by years of traffic and weather. Two uniformed guards swung open the doors, which were thick oak banded with pieces of steel. I noticed steel-bracketed holes in the stone, and looking up, I saw the pointed spikes of a portcullis that could be lowered to further protect the entrance.
The inside of the castle seemed as barren and grey as the exterior, the narrow hallway we walked down dark despite the multitude of lamps. There were no windows that I could see, making the place seem tight and close as a coffin. Impenetrable. It should’ve felt safe, but all I felt was cold.
After walking for what seemed like an eternity through a maze of passages, the servant leading us stopped at a closed door, knocked, then stepped inside to announce us. A wall of warmth and light hit me as I stepped into the room, making me blink. A massive fireplace burned against one wall, but the light came from two ornate candelabras hanging from the ceiling. Thick carpets covered the floors, and tapestries concealed the ugly grey walls.
The room had the same narrow windows I’d seen from outside, but these had panes of beautiful stained glass that spilled a rainbow of color across the two dozen women filling the room. Not that any of them needed it – every one of them was dressed in a different hue, their gowns elaborate contraptions of silk, satin, and velvet. My eyes passed over them swiftly, but none had red hair or bore the haughty chiseled features of Anushka.
Though I had never seen her before, I immediately picked out the Regent’s wife, the Lady Marie du Chastelier. Her aubergine gown was no more elaborate than many of the others, but if my time with the trolls had taught me nothing else, it had taught me to recognize the gravitas that so often came with rank. Young or old, every woman in the room was keenly aware of her, all of them waiting for her to recognize us before acting themselves.
Lady Marie rose and came toward us. I kept my face lowered, watching her through my eyelashes. She was somewhat older than my own mother, her brown hair silver at the temples, and while not beautiful, she was attractive in a stately sort of way. She wore a strange necklace made of wood, and a sprig of crimson berries pinned in her hair. They looked real rather than wax, but I couldn’t imagine where they had come from at this time of year.
My mother dropped into a deep curtsey at her approach. “My lady.”
“Genevieve.” There was no inflection in her voice, but I sensed immediately that Lady Marie did not much like my mother as she walked by her without stopping. A flicker of annoyance passed over my mother’s face as she straightened.
Julian bowed and I dropped into a smooth curtsey as the most powerful woman in Trianon approached us. She went to him first, raising a hand to cup his cheek. “You must be Julian.”
He nodded. “Yes, my lady.”
“You have a great many admirers here,” Lady Marie said, a warm smile crossing her face. “Try not to break too many hearts.”
Julian ducked his head. “I think it is my heart that will be at risk, my lady.” The words were too smooth, making them sound disingenuous. Rehearsed.
“How charming,” Lady Marie said, but there was the faintest hint of sarcasm in her voice. Then she turned to me.
My knees ached from holding a curtsey, but I did not rise until I felt her fingers catch the bottom of my chin. “Cécile de Troyes,” she murmured, her voice thoughtful. “I’ve seen you perform before, and I confess, you seem much taller onstage.” Her smile was gone. “But you’re only a little doll, aren’t you?”
She wasn’t the first to say so, but it was still difficult to keep my dislike of the comparison off my face. Dolls had no minds – they were pretty things to be played with, and I’d had quite enough of that in my life. “Appearances can be deceiving, my lady,” I replied, meeting her gaze. “The heels I wear onstage are quite high.”
One of her eyebrows rose, and for a moment, I feared I had overstepped. But then she chuckled. “Indeed they can be.”
Our conversation ended with the arrival of the masque composer, Monsieur Johnson, who amused the ladies with his foreign accent and dress as he herded them down the hall. Julian and I were left to trail after everyone as we went to where the stage was under construction. Other hangers-on swelled their ranks, and my eyes flicked over their faces, searching, searching for that sly gaze.
