While Beauty Slept (23 page)

In telling me she had done just that, but I would not argue the point.

“I am only telling you this because I’ve seen you and Flora chattering away in the garden. I know she has taken to you. She may appear harmless, but she can call upon the same dangerous powers as Millicent. Never forget what she is capable of.”

Lady Wintermale’s warning stayed with me as I proceeded on to Flora’s room in the North Tower. As I passed by the silent statues, over floor panels inlaid with exotic marble, I envisioned the empty spaces as they were meant to be: a home for two royal sisters, their husbands and families, echoing with children’s laughter and scurrying servants’ footsteps. All that remained of the old king’s hopes were the rooms themselves, beautiful but mournful, heavy with the weight of unrealized expectations. How could Flora bear living here, alone?

I had been sent to Flora’s room on occasion to deliver messages but had never been admitted into her shadowy chamber. On that night, however, as soon as I told her the news of Millicent, she pulled her door open a touch wider than usual.

“Come in. We must talk.”

The bedroom was larger than it appeared from the entrance, for it extended a good twenty paces inward, with alcoves on either side that held additional chairs and storage trunks. The furnishings glinted with luxury, from the marble tabletops to the golden candlesticks positioned over the massive fireplace. But what struck me most was the smell: a pungent mix of spices and more earthy scents completely at odds with the opulent surroundings. As I moved farther inside, I saw that one wall was covered with wooden shelves, where dozens of glass bottles and vials were arranged in neat rows by size. Directly in front was a worktable covered with the tools of an apothecary’s trade: mortars and pestles, mixing bowls, and racks where leaves and flowers had been laid out to dry. More than two years had passed since she spoke of training me as her successor, yet I had heard nothing on the matter since. Had I been assessed and found wanting? The thought had caused me some distress, but with Lady Wintermale’s suspicions fresh in my mind I was no longer sure if I should crave such a heavy responsibility. Flora might teach me skills I would be better off not knowing.

“How did Lenore take the news?”

“She is upset. She believes that Millicent is still plotting against us.” I gazed directly at Flora, my eyes begging for reassurance.
And you?
I silently asked.
What do you know of your sister’s plans?

“And Ranolf?” Flora asked.

“He will not move against her. He believes that her age makes her less of a threat.”

Flora shook her head slowly. “Millicent may be weakened, but she is nowhere near death.”

So Lady Wintermale was right: Flora had known where her sister was all along. I was shocked that she was capable of such deception.

Seeing my stricken face, Flora rushed to explain herself. “She has not contacted me, I swear to it. But I do not need a letter to know her state of mind. Millicent and I, we have always shared more than the usual family bond, almost as if we could read each other’s thoughts. If she were hurt or her health were failing, I would feel it.”

She spoke with such conviction that I believed her immediately. Lady Wintermale might sneer at the sisters’ unnatural closeness, but I knew how easily Millicent’s thoughts had been able to insinuate themselves among my own. If she were able to provoke such intense feelings in me, a comparative stranger, how much stronger her influence must have been on her own sister!

“So what can be done?” I asked.

“I do not know,” Flora said, and there was no mistaking the anguish in her voice.

Why?
I nearly cried out in frustration. Flora was surrounded by concoctions that could conquer illness and pain; she was gifted with the power to fight off death itself. Yet she professed herself helpless against her own sister. What a girl of my age could not know was that salvation does not always come through grand public gestures. Flora was standing watch over us all, eternally vigilant to any sign of her sister’s return. But I did not see a heroine before me, only a timid old woman.

“I must return to the queen,” I said abruptly. “She will be retiring shortly.”

Flora gave me a mournful look but said nothing. By the time I returned to the royal apartments, my anger had weakened into pity. For decades Flora had mourned her lost love in that deserted tower; now she mourned the sister who had been her closest companion. I wondered again, as I would so many times, at the nature of the bond between them. Could Flora feel both love and hate for Millicent?

Queen Lenore was singing softly to herself when I entered her bedchamber. Glad to see my mistress’s mood improved, I laid out her best nightdress, hoping King Ranolf would return after dark to whisper reassurances beneath the covers.

I still remember how it felt to hold that nightdress, made of a lace so delicate it might have been crafted from butterfly wings. I used to imagine myself enveloped in that fabric, seeing Marcus’s eyes light up at the sight of me in such a garment. The man in my daydreams moved with self-assured ease as he nudged the gown off my shoulders, confessing his passion with flowery words of devotion. Such grand gestures went against everything I knew of plainspoken Marcus, who would most likely stammer in mortification if asked to recite a love poem. But that did nothing to impede the wild imaginings that left my body flushed with longing.

At seventeen I would have been betrothed or even married had I remained on the farm. The women at court said their vows later than country folk, but any not spoken for by twenty-one were called old maids. Petra, who would be reaching that milestone within a year, had already received two offers of marriage, but she was the only daughter in a large family, with a father who was not particularly anxious to marry her off, so she was granted the luxury of choosiness. A maid not blessed with her looks would have been long since wed to the first man who asked for her hand.

In many ways the castle was an ideal hunting ground for marriage-minded young women. Had I the inclination, I could have set my cap for any of the highest-ranking servants: one of the king’s valets, perhaps, or the castle’s master carpenter, an amiable fellow who winked when he saw me in the courtyard. But Marcus was the object of my daytime thoughts and nighttime desires, for I recognized a quality in him that I shared. Even at our first meeting in his father’s shop, when we were little more than children, I had understood that we both preferred to observe the world from a certain distance, keeping our emotions in check. Yet he had granted me brief, tantalizing glimpses of the self he kept hidden from others, a gift all the more precious for being so rarely bestowed. Surrounded by courtiers who struggled to be noticed and admired, I could not help being drawn to someone who presented himself without artifice.

It was a quality evident during our first outing together. Where another man might have labored to impress me, Marcus simply greeted me with a broad smile and said he was mine to command for the afternoon. I suggested a walk through the north end of town, where I had never been. Polite questions gave way to easy conversation as Marcus guided me through the winding streets, pointing out the best-known shops and the fine homes of the town’s leading citizens. We bought meat pies from a woman who called Marcus a handsome boy while he cringed with embarrassment, then walked with our food to the curved stone bridge topped with statues of the king’s forefathers.

Marcus’s learning was beyond that of most cobblers—like me, he could read and write with ease—and he showed endless curiosity about the world. I shared stories the queen had told me of her country, and he listened with interest, asking questions until I laughed and said there was no more to tell. Had he been born into a different family, he might have escaped to sea, for he watched the ships in the harbor with an expression of wistful longing. I could picture him on the deck of a great sailing vessel, his steady confidence giving men heart in times of danger.

Walking together in public, we found it impossible to recapture the intimacy of our encounter in the garden. Yet every smile and nod of understanding further solidified the connection between us, reminding me that one day we would do more than converse. When we bade each other farewell at the castle gates, he kissed my hand with unexpected tenderness, then murmured, in a voice meant only for me, “To future kisses.”

How I wish I could recapture every detail of that afternoon, for to relive those exchanges with Marcus would bring solace during the nights I am pierced with loneliness. But memories can resist all attempts to tame them, flitting away at the moment we think them ours to control. At times I can still feel the press of his lips against my skin; at others I can only gaze at the image of us from a distance, my sight shadowed by what was to come.

As I arranged Queen Lenore’s hair for dinner shortly afterward, she held up her hand mirror and frowned.

“Did we not say the red?” she asked.

I looked at the green ribbon entwined in her hair, then at the red ribbon that lay on the dressing table.

“Beg your pardon, my lady,” I said, threading my fingers through her hair to pull the locks apart. “It will take but a minute to set right.”

“You are not yourself today, Elise. Pray tell, what occupies your mind so thoroughly? Or should I say
who
?”

My hands froze, and I could see the reflection of Lenore’s smile in the mirror.

“Elise, do you think me blind? You go off on a mysterious outing and return dreamy and fumbling. There can be only one reason.”

Her tone was light and teasing, and I tried to smile as if I shared in the joke. The force of my effort must have shown, for she put down her mirror and turned around to face me.

“It’s true, then? You went to see a young man?”

I nodded, and the queen’s face brightened with delight. This reaction was the very reason I had been so evasive about my plans earlier. Queen Lenore, a woman who had given up all she knew for love, savored tales of romance, and I feared her questions when I was not yet sure how matters stood between me and Marcus.

“From your manner I take it the meeting proved satisfactory?” she asked.

My flushed cheeks gave her my answer.

“Oh, you must tell me,” she urged. “Who is it?”

“Marcus Yelling, the son of the shoemaker who visited the castle a few weeks ago.”

“Oh.”

Queen Lenore was considerate enough of my feelings to try hiding her surprise, but I knew she was mystified that such a seemingly unremarkable young man should have caught my eye.

“You’re a sensible girl, Elise,” she said firmly. “If you think him worthy of your attention, then I am sure he is. You are hardly the kind to lose your head over someone like Dorian!”

Dorian? Ever since Petra had spoken of her admiration for the handsome page, I could not help letting my gaze linger upon him whenever we passed in the halls. I was far from the only woman at court to do so, but I was mortified that the queen had noticed. She might think me as infatuated as some of her ladies, but in truth I thought of Dorian as a mystery to be solved rather than a prize to be won. Would he become an acclaimed leader of men? Or would vanity—and those admiring female gazes—be his downfall?

Queen Lenore turned her head back and held up the red ribbon for me to re-dress her hair. I slid it through my hands, feeling the velvet caress my skin. To be in the presence of such lovely things calmed my mind, reminding me of my great fortune. In the distance the trumpets sounded for the start of supper. I gently pulled her hair into a twist and wrapped the ribbon around it, securing the roll with diamond-encrusted pins. The queen stood up and smoothed her skirts, then turned to me, reaching out her hands and placing them gently against my cheeks.

“Do not forget that I was young once and very much in love with a young man from a kingdom far away,” she said. “Courtship rarely runs smooth, and you may always turn to me if you have need.”

Her manner was so tender, so kind, that I felt an almost painful pang of adoration. She should have been blessed with more than one child, I thought, for she had a gift for divining the exact words and gestures that would best soothe a troubled mind. Would my own mother have looked at me with the same compassion, urging me to confide in her? Would she have been happy for me?

After the queen left for the Great Hall, I could not stop smiling. Never before had my future held such promise. My confession had bonded me closer than ever to my mistress, and Marcus’s affection seemed assured. But happiness, fleeting by nature, is often savored only after it has flown. For me, thinking on that day will always be tempered by memories of the sadness that followed. Much as I try to relive the hours spent at Marcus’s side, I cannot fully summon the pleasure that coursed through my body when he looked at me and smiled. I want to weep for that innocent girl, who believed so fervently that love conquered all. For the queen was right. Love’s progress is rarely smooth, and my way was to become rocky indeed.

Nine