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CAMILLE
Inside the castle’s chapel, it’s just Louis, his parents, his grandfather, me, the bishop of Arrago and four Knights of the Brassiere.
On the bishop’s command, Louis and I kneel, our red mantles fanned out on the stone floor. The old duke is seated, facing us. Everybody else is on their feet. The knights are bearing a richly embroidered silk canopy over Louis and me. The bishop begins his recitation. The light shining through the chapel’s stained-glass windows gives everything a lofty, spiritual quality akin to Our Lady of Pombrio Cathedral.
A large, well-disciplined crowd has gathered within the castle’s walls, waiting for the bishop to finish his prayers for the next duke’s reign over Arrago. They can hear us, but they can’t see us. The anointment part of the ceremony is considered so sacred that even the Reigning Prince Richard, our sovereign, has to wait outside!
Personally, I find the whole thing overdramatic if not comical. As for the notion that I’m one of the main protagonists of this archaic circus, it simply boggles the mind.
With the prayers out of the way, the archbishop smears Louis’s forehead with oil. “Dear God, bless and sanctify your servant Louis-Philibert de Valois as the next Duke of Arrago as you blessed his progenitor and founder of Mount Evor, Isidore Pox-Face!”
Louis’s parents, Hubert and Greta, look like they’re attending a funeral. But his usually surly grandfather, who’s wrapped in a royal blue velvet cloak, is smiling—truly smiling, dentures and all. His weathered face radiates happiness. This is the first time I’ve seen him like this.
When the bishop is done anointing Louis, he rubs my forehead with oil and asks God to bless Arrago’s new Duchess Camille de Valois, née Mussey. At his mention of my name, a murmur ripples through the previously quiet crowd outside. I brace myself for a chorus of “Burn the Witch!” and assorted insults. But they never come. The murmur dies down without so much as a growl.
The knights carry the canopy to the wall behind the altar and return with two velvet cushions. On top of each rests a ducal coronet. They’re smaller than a prince’s crown, and the crosses that run along their base don’t alternate with fleurs-de-lys.
The bishop picks up the bigger coronet and holds it over Louis’s head. “Do you accept your grandfather’s crown, a symbol of your new position as the ruler of Arrago and of your responsibility to your family and to the people who rely on you?”
“I do,” Louis says.
With great care, the bishop places the coronet on Louis’s head.
Damn, it looks good on him!But then, everything does, even a silly Santa hat.
The bishop asks me the same question. I’m itching to say, “Fine, whatever, let’s just get this over with!” Instead, I mutter, “I do.” He puts the second coronet on my head. That head feels like it’s somebody else’s without all the wild hair. I got the garçonne cut this morning.
Freshly anointed and crowned, Louis and I walk out the chapel’s door. The royals who arrived around noon and the local dignitaries are lined up outside, waiting to congratulate us.
Prince Richard is the first one to offer us his congratulations. He also wishes us a long and prosperous reign. It’s like I fell through a crack in time to the Middle Ages. Richard’s words, this entire day, are too anachronistic for my soundness of mind! I take stock of my surroundings for some high-tech thing to remind me this is the twenty-first century. All I find is Prince Maximilian’s vintage car. That’s all right; the twentieth century will do.
Louis is a natural, as he shakes hands and accepts well-wishes from everyone in the lengthy line that runs from Prince Richard to local commoners. I take my cues from him.
We make our way to the end of the line where small children present us with flowers. The crowd cheers. No one hurls eggs or tomatoes at me. Over the past week, I’ve been slowly getting used to the shield offered by my new position in society. But every time I’m in a crowd, I still struggle to draw a breath. I want to tear off my mantle, hike up my ridiculous dress, and get the hell out of here, as far away as I can.
Will it ever pass? Should it ever pass?
Once Louis and I are divorced, things will go back to normal for me. I’m actually better off holding on to my reflexes that have served me well for the past six years. They might come in handy again.
Slowly—way too slowly if you ask me—we advance to the château. After minutes that seem like hours, we reach the foot of the grand staircase and climb it. Louis halts at the top and pivots both of us toward the crowd. He smiles and waves graciously. I ape him, feeling like a total impostor.
At last, the entrance!
Marianne who’s forgiven my earlier gaffe and agreed to be my lady’s maid takes the bouquets from us. Other servants remove our heavy mantles and take away the coronets, to be kept in a glass museum-grade showcase. While everyone is fussing around us, I can’t help but gawk at Louis. He’s positively smashing in his dress shirt and black tuxedo.
His expression, when he takes in my attire, teeters between puzzled and amused.
The top of my bespoke gown is a cube covered in gorgeous, crushed velvet the color of burgundy. The sleeves and collar are gauze ruffles upon ruffles upon ruffles. My long skirt is a rectangular box made of crinoline and wrapped in deep-blue silk. As the surrealist painter Magritte would say, “This is not a pipe.” Or a dress, as the case may be. This is haute couture.
“Your idea or the designer’s?” Louis asks.
“It was a compromise.” I give him a fake smile and bat my eyelashes. “Do you like it, Your Grace?”
“I expected something more… close-fitting.”
I point at my head. “This haircut fulfills my close-fitting quota, and then some.”
“And I love it! You have no idea how much it suits you.”
