Rebel Rose, page 20
Until she saw LeFou, and all of those feelings came rushing back, threatening to fill her heart once more. The people of Plesance had been spurred to action by one man. Gaston was dead—Belle had watched his body fall from the tower and disappear into darkness. But LeFou could very well be his successor, and she feared what he would say next far more than she feared for her own safety.
“It is up to us to spread the message of revolution further. Our king thinks he knows what’s best for us, but since when does he care for his people? If he gave a damn about us, he wouldn’t be holed up in his noblemen’s estates, hiding from the truth: Aveyon hasn’t had a king in centuries, and Aveyon doesn’t need one now!”
The crowd roared once more, angrier than before, and Belle knew it was time to leave. Nothing would be gained from staying. She had confirmed Marguerite’s innocence. That was what she had come here to do. This was not listening to petitioners, or even sneaking into taverns to hear what her people really have to say. This was a glimpse into something darker, something that wouldn’t help her, something she couldn’t fix. She needed to leave before she was noticed.
She pulled her hood tighter around her head and made for the door. She was almost free of the room when a man stepped into her path and her hood fell before she could stop it. The man looked at her, ready to apologize, but then recognition lit in his eyes.
It was the baker she had gone to for bread and rolls all her life. The one she had greeted every morning as she passed him in the square.
“Jean,” she choked out before she could gather enough sense to flee.
He looked at her as if he couldn’t believe she was real. “Belle,” he exclaimed, much like he used to when she would step into his shop for a baguette. But then he seemed to remember all that separated them. She wasn’t a villager any longer. She was married to the king. His face darkened. “You shouldn’t be here.”
His eyes darted past her and she sensed he was caught between wanting to let her go unnoticed and wanting to reveal her to the crowd, to whatever end. She watched the discord play out in the line of his mouth. She was frozen, waiting for him to decide her fate. Just as he opened his mouth to speak once more or shout her presence, she couldn’t tell which, he was hit on the side of the head with a piece of wood, knocking him unconscious instantly. The wall broke his fall and before he could slip to the ground and make a great deal of noise, Marguerite stepped out of the shadows and braced the baker against her body, letting him come to the ground gently.
She looked up to an astonished Belle. “What are you doing here, mon amie?”
“I could ask the same of you!” Belle gasped.
Marguerite let go of Jean and pulled her hood back up over her head. “Come on, someone is going to notice this lump soon enough.” She grabbed Belle’s hand and half dragged her from the workshop. They were across the river before Belle managed to wrest free of her grip.
She stopped at the edge of the bridge. “You need to tell me what you were doing there. Now.”
“Pardon?” Marguerite rounded on her. “That’s an interesting way of thanking me for saving you from having to explain to a roomful of your own people why the queen of Aveyon was there spying on them in just about the sorriest excuse for a disguise I’ve ever seen.” She laughed darkly. “You know, I may not be well versed in the finer aspects of ruling a kingdom, but I cannot imagine your infiltration would have been joyously received.”
But Belle was firm. “You haven’t answered my question.”
Marguerite made an incredulous noise. “I was minding my own business when I heard there was someone making revolutionary speeches in the atelier d’ébénisterie. With all we are planning, I knew I had to go investigate the situation. I was going to make a full report of my findings to you tomorrow morning, or perhaps tonight had I thought the man worth the attention. I didn’t expect to find you there in the middle of a tussle with the baker.”
“You weren’t going simply to hear what the revolutionary had to say?”
Marguerite glared at her. “If I wished to hear what every brainless sans-culottes had to say about the bloody revolution, I would have stayed in Paris. Look, do I think they have a point from time to time? Of course. But the moment they beheaded the marquis de Launay, I knew their methods would be far too radical.”
Belle could tell the veiled accusation had wounded Marguerite, but she wasn’t done with her questions yet. “Why did you lie to me earlier when you said I couldn’t join you?”
For the first time, Marguerite was at a loss for words. “It’s…complicated.”
“I can handle complicated.”
Voices broke out from the atelier, and Marguerite looked past her, concern lining her features. “Come, this is not the place for this discussion.” She took Belle’s hand and began to lead her away. “We need to leave before everyone realizes the queen of Aveyon is among them.”
Belle didn’t bother correcting her. She knew that her lack of a title wouldn’t matter much to an angry mob.
Belle let Marguerite bring her to a quiet, dark alley in the marchand-mercier district. It was deserted, but Marguerite still looked around for anyone who might overhear them. She was on edge, and Belle felt at least partially responsible.
Marguerite took a deep breath. “There’s something about me I haven’t told you. I suppose I was ashamed, or at least afraid that if I did, you would look at me differently.”
“Is this about your quarrel with the comtesse d’Armagnac?”
“What? No.” She scoffed. “Well, I suppose in a way it is, but that’s beside the point. Who told you about our quarrel?” She paused and then laughed unkindly. “Never mind, I see what has happened. This whole thing has Bastien written all over it. Was he attempting to warn you about me?” She didn’t wait long enough for Belle to reply. “Listen, Bastien is a snake for going behind my back with a story he only knows a fraction of. Yes, I had a quarrel with the comtesse, but it had nothing to do with some petty nonsense or whatever Bastien claimed. Did he tell you I threw tantrums all over Paris?”
Belle was beginning to feel like she was intruding on something her friend didn’t want to divulge. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me—”
“No, I need to now that the duc de Vincennes has besmirched my already-tarnished name.” Marguerite twisted her hands together and swallowed thickly. “Sophie—the comtesse—and I were in love, or at least, I believed our feelings to be mutual. We talked and dreamed and made grand plans the way lovers do, but then she betrayed me, and even worse, lied to others about the source of our enmity when she could have said nothing, as I had chosen to do. She started making up outlandish claims about me, and I became an outcast, which, as you can imagine, was inconvenient in Paris. It’s a part of the reason I left.”
Belle’s heart hurt for her friend. “Marguerite, I’m so sorry—”
But Marguerite continued. “The reason I didn’t invite you to join me tonight was because I was meeting with a woman, one I like very much, and I wasn’t ready to show you that part of myself.”
“I’m sorry I forced you into telling me. I had no right—”
“No, you didn’t.”
Belle let the silence between them stretch, unsure of how to mend things. She had betrayed her closest friend and forced her hand for nothing. “I hope you know that this doesn’t change anything about our friendship, at least on my end. I understand why you feared telling me, but all I want is for you to be happy.”
Marguerite sighed. “Honestly, Belle, I should have told you sooner, but that doesn’t mean I’m happy to have been forced into telling you now.” Belle opened her mouth to speak, perhaps to defend herself or beg for forgiveness, she wasn’t even sure, but Marguerite interrupted her. “I think we should leave the village before that man wakes up and tells everyone who he saw prior to my rendering him unconscious.”
She set off in the direction of the castle before Belle could say anything. Marguerite was silent all the way back, and guilt weighed heavy on Belle’s shoulders.
She was a fool for thinking even for a moment that her friend was a secret revolutionary who had tricked her way into Belle’s confidence, but she was an even bigger fool for allowing Bastien’s vague warning to sway her in the first place. If there was anyone in Aveyon she shouldn’t trust, it was the duc de Vincennes, who had already lied to her on more than one occasion.
She half expected her friend to retire to her chambers without speaking on the matter further, but Marguerite led them both to the library, which had long since emptied for the night. Chip’s mess from earlier was still strewn about the room.
Her friend turned, hands placed firmly on her hips. “What exactly did Bastien say to you?”
Belle swallowed thickly, ashamed of her behavior. “He told me he’s seen you in the village, boasting about your access to me. He told me revolutionary agitators come in many forms. He offered to have you removed from the castle.” Marguerite reddened with anger. “I refused, of course. My first instinct was to dismiss everything he said. And then, when you didn’t invite me to accompany you, it served as proof of what he had told me. I should have trusted my gut.” As she said it, the face of the woman from the mirror shop filled her mind. You must not wait for others to save Aveyon. You need to trust your instincts and become the queen you’re capable of being. It was the best advice she’d received since they came back to Aveyon, and it had come from a ghost. “I’m so sorry I let his trickery come between us.”
“He’s an absolute weasel of a man, Belle. Versailles runs deep in that pautonier’s blood.” Belle had to agree with that particular insult—Bastien was proving to be something of a practiced liar. Marguerite let out all the air in her lungs and continued. “But his biggest sin would be driving a wedge between us, and I’m not going to let that happen.”
Relief flooded through Belle. She reached for Marguerite’s hand, and her friend allowed herself to be pulled into an embrace. “I’ll never listen to the weasel ever again,” Belle muttered into her hair.
Marguerite pulled away and smiled. “You owe me, though. I can’t believe I hit the baker over the head.”
“He’s known to be a bit of a drinker,” Belle admitted. “There’s a decent chance he won’t remember a thing.”
“Are you going to confront him?”
“Jean? Certainly not. I’d rather not know if the man I’ve been buying pastries from for over a decade was about to sell me out to the crowd.”
“No, I mean Bastien.”
“And risk having him shut me out of the advisory altogether? I wouldn’t put it past him to start hosting the meetings exclusively on hunts just to keep me from them.” She rubbed her temples. “I have to be smart about it and wait until Lio returns. The advisers are looking for a reason to discredit me or ignore me, and I can’t let that happen until after the salon.” Belle had done a good job of compartmentalizing the events of the night, but all at once, the memory of LeFou working the crowd into a frenzy came rushing back. “Though after what we witnessed tonight, can I even pretend that hosting a salon will fix Aveyon’s ills?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Aveyon needs the salon now more than ever.”
Belle squinted. “Wouldn’t it be a bit like wrapping a bandage over a gushing wound and hoping it will heal itself?”
“How do you mean?”
“Back there at the atelier, the crowd was frothing at the prospect of revolution. Is it even possible to stop it now?”
Marguerite frowned. “That room was filled with suggestible drunks pulled from the taverns and alleys of Plesance. They would have crowned a goat king if someone shouted about it on a pile of crates.” She sat down beside Belle. “Who was that connard, anyway?”
Belle choked at Marguerite’s fitting choice of words. “That was LeFou. He has been my enemy for some time.”
Marguerite raised her brows. “His name speaks volumes. But you don’t need to worry about the crowd. They’ll all wake up tomorrow with barely a memory from their time in the atelier listening to a loud fool making a speech. And in a few days’ time, some of them will be in this very library, armed with their best ideas, and ready to exchange them with scientists and philosophers. Instead of being shouted at, they will be heard.” She paused, but the silence was companionable. When she spoke again, her voice had taken on a dreamlike quality. “It will be a magical thing, I think, to watch a kingdom come together to rebuild itself.”
• • •
Belle and Marguerite talked well into the night about the proposals they hoped to receive from Aveyon’s commoners. They needed a wealth of ideas from all corners of the kingdom and beyond to really ignite a healthy debate. Belle was beginning to wonder if one day would be enough. She made a mental note to discuss the logistics of extending the event with Cogsworth, but only when he was in a rare good mood. By the time they left the library, thoughts of LeFou were far behind her.
She stumbled into her bed and was asleep before she could decide to take off her dress.
She awoke in a room that was not her own.
Belle lay in the same bed she had fallen asleep in, but beyond that the room was featureless, a blank canvas. I am dreaming, she thought. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and stepped into white nothingness. As she stood, her bed disappeared like a wisp of smoke. She couldn’t feel the ground she stood upon, or see any walls or borders, like the space went on forever.
“Is anyone there?” she called out, unsure what she wished the answer to be. She thought she should feel more afraid, but there was a sense of calm in her she couldn’t quite account for. Her first thought was that the feeling was familiar—it was the same unnatural calm she had felt in the shop in Paris.
As if on cue, a figure emerged in the distance, blurry at first until she stepped into focus. Belle was not surprised to find it was the woman from the mirror shop, the one who had haunted her steps since Paris.
“This is a dream,” Belle assured herself aloud. “I will wake up and none of this will have been real.”
The woman stopped some distance away from her and tilted her head. “I suppose you could call this a dream, but in truth it is something else entirely.”
“Who are you?”
“A friend” was all the woman offered.
“Why should I believe you?”
The woman stepped closer, arms outstretched like a plea. “You are entitled to believe what you will, Belle. But I ask that you at least listen before you decide I am your enemy.”
In this strange dreamland, it didn’t seem like an unreasonable request. “Go on.”
The woman lowered her hands to her sides. “I am here to warn you of what’s coming. There is a fire burning through France, and if Aveyon succumbs to its flames, nothing will stop it from spreading across the world.”
The fire she spoke of was the revolution brewing in Paris and Versailles, that much was obvious. But Belle didn’t know why it should matter so desperately to this woman that Belle be informed of the inevitable. Belle didn’t want to reveal how afraid she really was, not even in this bizarre dream space. She shrugged as noncommittally as she could manage. “There are kingdoms and empires in the world that should be forced to change.”
The woman frowned. “Terror marches in the wake of this fire. Thousands will die, people will turn on one another, kingdoms will betray their allies. The instability will have far-reaching consequences. Aveyon will cease to exist as you know it. It is up to you to stop the fire from spreading.”
Belle thought that believing the woman meant believing the worst was coming for them, and there was nothing she could do to prevent it. She didn’t understand why the responsibility to ensure it didn’t ruin Aveyon fell on her shoulders, but she feared her own mistakes more than she feared the possibility that this mysterious, magical woman was lying to her. “What am I supposed to do?”
“I told you once before to trust your instincts. You’ve suppressed them for so long you no longer recognize them for what they are—a warning.”
The room began to shake; Belle tried to ignore it. “You speak in riddles. Can’t you just tell me plainly?”
“My foresight is limited, Belle; I only know what I have seen in vague visions—you wearing a crown, your kingdom burning, Europe crumbling under the weight of the violence this revolution brings. All I can do is wait and watch as each step you take on this path either obscures or enhances what I can make of the future. I cannot tell you what to do or whom to trust—those are decisions you must make for yourself,” she admitted. “But one thing has been clear from the start: Any vision I have of healing, of avoiding this fire, begins with you.”
The ground began to shake, and Belle lost her footing. “What’s happening?”
The woman was as composed as ever. “You’re waking up.”
In the distance, Belle could hear someone calling her name. She looked back to the woman. Belle wanted to demand answers of her, but her grip on the dream was failing. “Why can’t you come to me in Aveyon as you did in Paris?”
The woman cast her eyes downward, as if in sadness. “I should not think myself welcome there.”
The dream began to break down entirely. The whiteness of the space crumbled into blackness, and Belle lurched to her side, hanging on to an edge she couldn’t see.
“What if I need you again?” She had so much more she wanted to ask her, but one final earth-shattering crack sent Belle into the abyss. And then she was awake in her room, with a frantic Mrs. Potts standing over her.
“Sacré, Belle, you sleep like the dead.”
Belle sat up, knowing in her gut something wasn’t right. “What’s wrong? What’s happened?”
“You need to come quickly, madame. Bastien is banishing Marguerite from the castle, on your orders, he says. I knew you’d never do such a thing, so I came straight here.”
Belle was on her feet already, relieved to find she was still dressed from the day before. “Take me to them.”
