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“Can Marianne be my lady’s maid?”She’s the only person around here who’s been friendly.
He begins to say no, but then catches himself. “Naturally, you will be able to choose your maid from among the staff or bring in someone new, if you prefer.”
He bows and strides away.
I go inside my room. Still impressed by the size and the luxury of it, I sink down onto the edge of the enormous bed. It bugs me that my gaffe got Marianne in trouble. It’s one thing to refuse to follow rigid conventions and social norms and to make a point of delivering only the strictest minimum required by my contract. But it won’t do if others get punished for my rebellious ways! I must be more careful going forward.
Distractedly, I gaze at the fire that someone’s unacknowledged hands started and kept going in the fireplace while I was exploring the château’s underbelly with Marianne. A log snaps and flares, making the fire blaze. I watch its shadows dance over the ceiling.
There’s no denying it; the grandeur of this place overwhelms me. My forays into the smaller and less opulent spaces have something to do with that. I guess I’ve been drawn to what’s familiar and informal. To what’s normal.
Indeed, on the material level, the de Valois household is the opposite of my latest home. Nor does it have much in common with the middle-class foster homes I grew up in. But in terms of human relations, there’s been quite a bit of déjà vu from the days before the trailer. The days when I was a kid in foster care…
“Hi, I’m the new girl! Can I join your tribe?”
“Er… not really, no. You don’t belong with us. You’re an outsider we took in for a while because we get paid. We don’t like you or your sister. Our kids don’t want you around. This was a mistake.”
I know there are plenty of foster homes that make their charges feel welcome, loved, and cherished. Unfortunately, I wasn’t lucky enough to end up in such a home. But at least Jeannette—my rock, my stand-in mom—was with me until she turned eighteen. We were alone together in those homes.
Being in Falcon’s Nest makes me miss her more acutely than I did living in the trailer. By extension, I even miss our foster homes. Except for one, that is. The one that became my hell on earth.
But I’ve forbidden myself to think about it.
I could watch some TV… or read… or go over the list of people I’d like to talk to about the palace fire. All those things are perfectly valid ways to spend the rest of my afternoon. Come evening, I put on my white shirt and black sweater—washed and ironed by other invisible hands—and go down to the dining hall.
Shall I try to find Louis?
I’ll cross him at dinnertime. But we won’t talk. Greetings and banalities will be the only words we’ll exchange. Louis is friendly enough but distant. But then, that’s how I act around him, too.
Outside of the formal mealtimes, he’s too busy and, no doubt, reluctant to keep me company. He’s been spending time around various professionals, including foremen and groundskeepers who make sure that the domain and the château are well managed. Whenever I spotted him, be it inside or outside the walls of the château, Angie was with him. When he wasn’t inspecting something or other, he was in his office down the hall, poring over the ledgers. An accountant, Angie, and Serafina were usually there, too. Angie would shut the door when I passed by.
Outside the window, snow begins to fall. In Pombrio it would be raining now. But we’re higher up here.
Next week, Louis and I will travel back to the capital city to sign the marriage contract. Given that a few days later, Louis becomes the Duke of Arrago, it’ll be the prime minister himself who pronounces us husband and wife. Representatives of the royal family may be present. The public will be told to expect a lavish church wedding and celebration in summer. When the date draws nearer, we’ll find a plausible pretext to postpone the wedding to next year, in spring. By then, we’ll be divorced.
As soon as Louis becomes the Duke of Arrago, I will immediately become, absurd as it sounds, a duchess. On the PM’s recommendation, the Reigning Prince Richard will appoint him Mount Evor’s emissary to France and the de facto boss of MINDFUCH. I will be Madame Emissary.
Isn’t that freaking hilarious?
All that windfall will be provisional, pending our ability to stay married for a year. The duke’s abdication papers stipulate that if we divorce before the year is out or if Louis cheats on me during that time, then the dukedom and the assets will be merged in the Crown. If I leave Louis before the contract expires or cheat on him, not only will I never see my 300,000 euros, but I’ll owe the de Valois family a third of that amount.
When I saw that condition, I almost changed my mind. There’s no way I can come up with that kind of money in this lifetime. But then I reminded myself of something. I’m so close to my goal now! This is my chance to ask questions of the previously inaccessible people, to investigate, connect the dots, and hopefully establish the truth of what happened in the royal palace on that fateful night six years ago.
And I can totally stick around Louis for a year. He doesn’t find me attractive, so I don’t have to worry about him hitting on me. It’s a shame he isn’t allowed to see other women. Well, he can always watch porn and use his hand.
As for me cheating on him… Let’s just say there’s a bigger chance of me winning 100 million euros while being struck by lightning. It has nothing to do with Louis’s sex appeal. It has everything to do with my vow that no man will ever see me unclothed. A freaking apocalypse won’t make me remove my clothes and show my naked body, or any part thereof, to a human equipped with a penis.
Never again. Never, ever again.
Someone knocks on the door.
“Come in!” I call.
Louis enters my room. Dressed in a pair of jeans and a sweater, he must be trying to look more ordinary, more like me. That’s the theory. In practice, his faux-casual clothes are too well finished to have been sewn in a third-world sweatshop, under the watchful eye of a slave driver who won’t let you go pee unless you threaten to burst. My betrothed is as handsome as ever. The way he holds himself makes it clear to anyone that there’s nothing ordinary about him.
“Hello, Camille,” he says. “I’ve come to apologize.”
I gesture to the armchair by the bed. “Apologize for what?”
