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Secrets for dreams. It is a fair trade, Genevieve thinks. More than fair. Once, perhaps, when she first stepped on English soil, she had believed in her ability to heal from the wounds of her past without a miracle. Perhaps sometimes she still believes, on the most peaceful of mornings, when she reads to her grandfather in the garden with the flowers blooming around her and the sparrows trilling in the trees, his pipe smoke swirling about them like clouds. But that belief is doomed to disappointment. Even five years after the tragedy, Genevieve struggles more frequently than she does not. On bad days, she can hardly eat for grief, can hardly step out of bed. She fears those days more than anything this Company could ever do to her.

Sterne mutters something inaudible. Genevieve glances sideways at him; their eyes meet. He wears irritation like other men might wear a rapier at their hip, the lines of his frown and clenched jaw sharp as blades. She would cut herself, she thinks, if she were to press her fingers against his cheekbones.

The Auctioneer says, ‘I shall be available throughout the auction should you have further questions, although I cannot promise all shall be answered. Regardless—now that my explanation is over, it is time for luncheon.’ He claps, pleased, and the clap echoes throughout the courtyard like a stone skipped over water. ‘The servants have set up a marvellous pique-nique in the rose garden. If you would follow me, mesdames and messieurs, the Château beckons.’

He hops forward, hands laced behind his back, and the guests have no choice but to trail behind him. As they walk, Genevieve realises that Sterne is still speaking lowly.

‘No other home, no other care intends,’ he mumbles, apparently unaware that she can hear him. ‘He leaves his house, his country, and his friends.’

Five

There had been a rose garden at Versailles, also, near the queen’s residence at Trianon. In the spring, when each flower’s bright face looked up to the sun, when their scent perfumed the air and carried on the wind all the way back to the palace—then there was nowhere lovelier on all the Earth. The ladies would match their gowns to their favourite rose, and their maids would wear green to affect the appearance of their stems. Genevieve always wore pale yellow silk, and Claire beside her, in linen of deep emerald, would link her arm in hers and call her a rose without a thorn. Sometimes, her hand would slip down to her wrist and run a thumb across her palm. And there, in the full light of the morning sun, she would shiver as if she was cold.

But in Versailles, the flowers were flowers still. As time passed, their petals would fade and fall; sometimes they were crawling with insects or pockmarked with brown spots. The grounds of the palace had been full of such things—cracked stones, crushed bushes, or carvings in tree trunks—that spoke of centuries of habitation, centuries of cruelty and pleasure and all in between.

Château Reverie does not speak of history in the way Versailles once did. In this rose garden, there are rows upon rows of blooms, in colours ranging from deepest black to palest white. They are geometrically placed like the pattern on an ancient Greek vase, without a fallen leaf or wilting flower in sight. The scent of them, so sweet as to sting, hangs in the air insipidly—there is little breeze here, as if the wind itself is frightened to disturb the flowers and ruin their perfection.

As they walk deeper into the garden, Genevieve glances at Monsieur Sterne, who has fallen in step alongside her. His nose is wrinkled; perhaps he dislikes the scent of the flowers. He pauses by one bush, allowing the remaining guests to overtake him. Geneveive remains with him. The rose he is observing is a lovely shade of ivory, the petals bearing a vaguely metallic sheen, as if embroidered with threads of gold. The sign beside the blooms reads Rosa oculae.

‘Rose of eyes,’ Genevieve says.

‘Do you think they’re watching us, mademoiselle?’ Sterne asks, his mouth twisting wryly.

‘I should hope not.’

‘Why?’

‘I suppose. . . it seems a cruel life, to be a rose,’ she replies. ‘To be trapped in one place forever. If they have the faculty to watch us, I am certain they must be very unhappy.’

Sterne chuckles. ‘How remarkable you are,’ he says, although she isn’t certain he means it as a compliment. ‘To pity a flower for growing—it’s admirable, in a way. If ill-advised.’

He reaches forward and wraps his hand around the stem of the largest bloom. Genevieve starts in alarm. She says, ‘The thorns—’

‘They’re only small. Besides, I’m wearing gloves.’ His arm strains, sleeve tightening around his bicep, and the stem snaps: a cruel break that leaves a ragged edge like torn flesh. Genevieve wonders if he will offer the flower to her—even as she bemoans the astonishing rudeness of stealing a rose from the Château’s garden—but he does not. He merely stares at it.

Genevieve withholds a groan and glances forward to the guests ahead of them. ‘Someone will notice,’ she says sharply.

‘What does it matter? We’re the guests, aren’t we? The customers? What do we owe them?’

‘We owe them our obedience—that is what the Auctioneer said.’

‘Obedience,’ he says derisively, ‘is worth about as much to me as a patch of nettles, and at least that you can turn into soup.’

He drops the rose to the ground, crushes it beneath his boot. Genevieve folds her arms and says, ‘At least the soup repays the pain. You seem to sting just as much, sir, and yet the result is entirely worthless.’

He laughs, clearly delighted by this. ‘Bravo, mademoiselle. A fine barb indeed. You’re quite lovely when you’re being cruel.’

Genevieve wants to bite back at this, to continue the argument, but the compliment unmoors her. Again, there is that feeling of vertigo, as if the world is spinning faster than before. She flushes.

He watches her with curiosity, eyes bright. After a moment, Sterne takes a step closer, pitching his voice lower. ‘Genevieve,’ he says.

‘Do not call me that,’ she replies reflexively. ‘We-I-you distract me. I must dine.’

She brushes past him, towards the banquet tables that have been set up at the back of the garden. She can hear him pause before he follows, the gravel churning beneath his feet.

Genevieve de Vienne clearly knows something is wrong with this place, even if she pretends otherwise. Leander would like to flatter himself by believing her disquiet is entirely due to him, but he can see the uncertainty in her eyes as she considers her meal; there is an instinctual suspicion there, a fear, even if buried. She prods at her mille-feuille with a golden fork and worries at her bottom lip with her teeth.

The Château has made a decent attempt at approximating real food this time, Leander must admit. The tea at least smells authentic despite its vibrant scarlet colour. But the mademoiselle takes only small nibbles of pastry before she puts the plate down. Guests consuming any part of the Château strengthens his mother’s grip on them, makes it easier for them to forget themselves and submit to the whims of the Company. The magic of this place is parasitic, a tapeworm waiting to find its way into one’s belly. It’s too late for Leander, and it will be too late for Genevieve, eventually. But—at least for now—he might at least pretend she isn’t doomed.