Crimson Bound (14 page)

“No,” said Amélie. “I don’t want anyone else. Just walk into that salon and defy them. Promise?”

“All right,” said Rachelle after a moment. The words
I don’t want anyone else
drummed through her head, desperately comforting. Amélie didn’t know everything Rachelle had done, so it should be no comfort at all to be wanted by her, but it was.

“Good.” Amélie nodded sharply. Then she raised her voice and called, “Sévigné!”

The chambermaid—a short, plump woman with a few gray hairs peeking out from under her cap—appeared at Amélie’s side, and they had a short, swift discussion in low voices, Amélie frequently jabbing a brush at Rachelle’s face to make a point. Then
Amélie unbraided Rachelle’s hair and first piled it loosely on top of her head, next pulled it all back so tightly her scalp felt stretched. Sévigné clucked her tongue, took hold of Rachelle’s hair, and seemed to do exactly the same thing—but it set off another little flurry of discussion.

Rachelle didn’t listen to what they said; they were speaking in half sentences about things she didn’t understand anyway. She let the patter of their words wash over her. They were both talking as if she weren’t there, which was something that normally drove her to distraction. But they were talking about how to use her face and body for a canvas, and it made her feel oddly treasured.

When the consultation was over, Sévigné bustled off while Amélie went to work with the makeup. She gripped Rachelle’s face, tilted it, and started painting on the foundation with quick little strokes like a cat lapping up milk.

The tension unspooled from Rachelle’s shoulders and the weariness seeped out of her bones. The Forest and the Devourer stopped mattering. The world had narrowed down to just this: the warm pressure of Amélie’s fingers tilting her head. The tickle of the brush. The soft sound of Amélie’s lips opening—she was forever clicking her tongue and making faces while she worked, nose wrinkling or mouth scrunching to one side.

Then came the dusting of pearl powder. Then the rouge, which Amélie applied with her fingertips, rubbing it into Rachelle’s cheeks. Then the burned clove brushed into her eyebrows to darken them.

“Can you cover the mark?” Rachelle asked abruptly as Amélie finished with her eyebrows.

“No,” said Amélie. “If I cake on that much powder, it will just flake off. Besides, the mark matches your dress
and
the patch I’m going to put on your face.” She held up a tiny black velvet star. “Did you know there’s a language to patches?”

“No,” Rachelle said warily. “What does a star mean?”

“Assassin.”

“What?”

Amélie laughed. “Actually, it means ‘courage.’” She dabbed glue on the patch, set it on Rachelle’s right cheekbone, and then pressed it in with her thumb. “I wouldn’t put anything on your face that wasn’t true.”

“You just covered my face with nineteen kinds of paint,” said Rachelle. “I don’t think there’s anything true left on it.”

“Three kinds of paint. Look at me and open your mouth.” Rachelle obeyed, and
Amélie started to paint rouge on her lips. “And don’t ever talk about my art that way. I’m not painting you to hide you. I’m painting you because you’re beautiful.” She wiped her thumb under Rachelle’s lip to clear away a smudge. “There. All done.” She handed the mirror to Rachelle. “This is just the beginning.”

Once again, a lady stared back from the mirror. She still looked entirely false; but this time Rachelle looked at her and thought,
Amélie believes I deserve to look beautiful.

It was a strangely intoxicating feeling, and as the preparations went on, she only felt more drunk: the same dizzy exultation, the feeling that her body was lighter than air and no longer quite attached to her.

Sévigné descended upon her, and once she had molded Rachelle’s hair into suitable ringlets—muttering all the while about how there wasn’t enough time—she looped it up on top of her head with pink ribbons and pearl-ended pins.

The corset was very different from the simple stays Rachelle usually wore under her shirt: not as uncomfortable as she’d expected, but far stranger. It pressed into her ribs but also straightened her spine; though it was maddeningly confining, it felt like it added inches to her height and made her float off the ground.

And then came the dress itself: deep rose silk that fell about her body in luscious folds. The puffed sleeves were slashed to show white silk underneath, and strings of silk flowers tightened the sleeves around her elbows. With all the shifts and petticoats beneath, it was the heaviest garment that Rachelle had ever worn, wrapping her like a suit of armor; yet the neckline dipped wide and low, barely clinging to her shoulders. Not only did it expose more of her breasts than anyone had ever seen, but it showed off to all the world the bloodred star at the base of the throat.

Rachelle looked in the mirror at the star and its echo on her cheek, and she thought,
Amélie says it means courage.

“Here’s your fan,” said Amélie, putting it in her hand.

“Thank you,” said Rachelle, and went to get Armand. The little arched heels of her shoes gave her steps a strange, rocking rhythm that she’d never felt before.

Armand was waiting in his sitting room, standing with his back to the wall, arms loose at his sides, mouth bunched in a wry half smile.

Erec stood beside him.

“What do you want?” Rachelle demanded, trying desperately not to think of how low her dress was cut and completely failing.

“My lady,” he said, stepping forward and bowing. “I am here to escort you to the
salon.”

“You’re not invited,” said Rachelle.

“I think you’ll find I’m invited most places.” He took her hand and kissed it.

She wanted to protest, but he would only laugh. And Rachelle had decided long ago that she could bear the occasional mockery for the sake of his friendship.

“I think you turn up most places, and people can’t be bothered to chase you out,” she said. “But come along if you please.”

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O
f course Erec had to put her hand on his arm so they could make a grand entrance together. Rachelle didn’t fight him over it. Once they were inside la Fontaine’s sitting room, he would doubtless find five other girls—prettier than her and more elegant as well—and forget her, leaving her in peace.

But when they stepped through the doorway, Rachelle was the one who briefly forgot him. The sitting room was impressive enough by itself: it was quite large, with a ceiling painted like the sky and walls covered in murals of rolling green hills and shepherds. (She thought they must be shepherds because of their crooks, though the lounging, silk-draped youths looked nothing like the actual shepherds she had known. But the other option was bishops, and that seemed even less likely.) La Fontaine, though, had transformed the room into a garden. There were potted trees of every kind: apple and oak, orange and palm. Roses grew among them—southern woodwives used roses in their charms, but Rachelle doubted that la Fontaine knew enough about actual country life for it to be a conscious allusion.

There were no sun or moons painted or sculpted anywhere. She was so used to
checking rooms, she hardly noticed she was doing it.

The guests, sitting on little cushioned stools, for a moment really did look like they were figures from the idyllic murals come to life. Then they all turned to stare and whisper behind their fans, and Rachelle remembered that she was an intruder in this perfect, pastoral world. She was a wolf among porcelain sheep, and Erec would probably tell her that ought to make her unafraid, but her skin crawled when she saw their eyes turning to her.

The room flurried to life as five or six of the guests converged on Armand. Rachelle noticed his shoulders tense as they bore down upon him, and for one instant her own body sparked with the readiness to fight—but then he was smiling and nodding to the flock gathered around him, and she realized he had only been preparing himself to charm and lie.

She turned away, feeling sick, and found that la Fontaine had descended upon them.

“My dear Fleur-du-Mal,” she said, kissing Erec’s cheek, “again you give the lie to your name. Your presence is an unexpected kindness.”

“I promised my lady I’d accompany her,” said Erec, somehow making it sound as if Rachelle had begged him to come because she could not stand to be parted from him for an hour.

La Fontaine raised pale eyebrows at Rachelle. “And you, my dear, what are we to call you?”

Rachelle had no idea what was the correct courtly thing to answer, but she wasn’t ready to admit defeat yet. “Isn’t ‘mademoiselle’ good enough?”

“But of course not,” said la Fontaine. “We are no longer in Château de Lune; we stand now in the gentle land of Tendre, where there is neither court nor title, but all dwell in harmony alike.” Her voice was such a perfect blend of honey and vinegar that Rachelle had no idea if she adored the idea or mocked it. “Even I, goddess of the realm, am addressed by my name only, and anyone may sit in my presence.”

“Goddess,” Rachelle said blankly.

“It was my mother, la Belle-Précieuse, who brought Tendre out of nothing,” said la Fontaine. “She peopled it with the most charming of this world and left it to me for my only inheritance. As daughter of the Supreme Creatrix, I believe I may lay claim to the word.”

“You can certainly claim it,” said Erec. “But you might face a challenge or two.”

“Gladly,” said la Fontaine. “I’ll rout them with my beauty for an army and my wits as
cavalry. But that does not solve our problem of our nameless darling. Whatever shall we call her?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” said Erec. “She wields a sword to protect our people. Surely ‘la Pucelle’ is the only possible name for such a brave maiden.” He said the words with a little ironic smile, as if the obvious difference between Rachelle and the legendary warrior saint was a very elegant joke.

La Fontaine’s eyebrows arched exquisitely. “A maiden, after all that time at your side? Truly, a miracle worthy of a saint.”

“And yet it would be a miracle if she favored me,” said Erec. “Pity me, for even in the land of Tendre I receive no tenderness.” He laid a mocking, elegant hand over his heart.

“Yes,” said la Fontaine. “I like it. And just think”—she turned back to Rachelle—“you would have your own holy day, without the tiresome work of sainthood.”

Rachelle looked at the colorless, glittering gems in la Fontaine’s earrings and silently gave up on making Amélie proud of her ability to act like a lady.

“I killed somebody and I’m not sorry,” she said, calmly and very distinctly. “I don’t think you want me on your altars unless blasphemy is the custom of your kingdom.”

There was a moment of grandly awkward silence in which Rachelle noticed that everyone in the room was looking at them, which meant that everybody had been listening. It gave her almost the same grim satisfaction as breaking her own arm while sparring with Justine.

Then Armand—who had apparently dismissed his flock of worshippers—said cheerfully, “Well, we needn’t worry about blaspheming heathen gods. So how about Zisette? Since you have also walked into the Forest and come out again.”

Rachelle snorted. Walking out of the Forest was not the most important way that she was like Zisa. But when she met Armand’s eyes, there didn’t seem to be any hidden mockery in his face. It felt like he wanted her to smile back at him.

“If you must,” she said.

“That’s as kind an answer as you’re likely to get from my lady,” said Erec.

“Then come with us, Zisette,” said la Fontaine, “and let the land of Tendre teach you kindness.”

Rachelle truly doubted that the land of Tendre had much to do with kindness, but she let herself be guided to a little stool with a red silk cushion. Armand sat down at her right. To her left was a tall woman with dark hair and a face like a marble statue’s. She turned languidly toward Rachelle and said, “Tell me, what
does
it feel like?”

Rachelle gave her a blank look.

“Oh, how could I be so rude?” said the woman. “Here in Tendre, I am l’Étoile-Polaire, and it is such a delight to meet you, Zisette. Now please, I am dying to know: what does it feel like to be a bloodbound?”

“I don’t know,” said Rachelle. “What does it feel like to be a lady?”

There was chatter in other parts of the room—la Fontaine was raising her eyebrows and speaking to an old man—but the people nearby were staring at her, and she knew that any moment they would all start laughing.

“Not as thrilling, I’m sure,” said l’Étoile-Polaire. “You have the Great Forest in your blood. Sometimes I think I envy you.”

“Darling, you don’t envy her,” said an older woman who wore an enormous powdered wig. “She has to fight the woodspawn all night.”

“Won’t she be sorry when Endless Night falls,” said a colorless young man with so much lace at his throat it looked like it might strangle him. “Nothing but work, work, work forever after.”