Mat­hil­de was wa­iting im­pa­ti­ently. "You ha­ve but a half ho­ur be­fo­re the vis­co­unt co­mes to es­cort you to din­ner," she scol­ded. "He sent a mes­sen­ger an ho­ur ago, sa­ying that you we­re to be re­ady by eight o'clock, and he­re it is al­re­ady half past se­ven."

  Cor­de­lia's he­art did an in­vo­lun­tary lit­tle skip at the tho­ught that she wo­uld so­on be in Leo's com­pany aga­in. "Her Hig­h­ness ne­eded me." She drew off her glo­ves, tos­sing them on­to a cha­ir. "Oh, I don't wish to we­ar that gown, Mat­hil­de, it ma­kes me lo­ok sal­low." She ges­tu­red dis­da­in­ful­ly to the gown of dull yel­low taf­fe­ta lying re­ady on the bed.

  "What non­sen­se. You've ne­ver lo­oked sal­low in yo­ur li­fe," Mat­hil­de dec­la­red. "The gown is well su­ited for di­ning in a mo­nas­tery. It shows less of yo­ur bo­som than so­me ot­hers."

  "But I don't wish to show less of my bo­som," Cor­de­lia sa­id, flin­ging open the do­or to the ar­mo­ire. "It may be a mo­nas­tery, Mat­hil­de, but ever­yo­ne will be we­aring the­ir fi­nest ra­iment and I shall lo­ok a po­si­ti­ve dowd in that."

  Mat­hil­de tut­ted. She was a very de­vo­ut wo­man, and half-na­ked wo­men gam­bo­ling aro­und a mo­nas­tery de­eply of­fen­ded her. But whi­le her in­f­lu­en­ce on Cor­de­lia was both ma­ter­nal and ex­ten­si­ve, it didn't en­com­pass cho­ice of dress. Cor­de­lia al­ways had her own idea of what was right for her and for the oc­ca­si­on.

  "Well, hurry up, then," Mat­hil­de sa­id, gat­he­ring up the des­pi­sed dress. "I'll not be bla­med by the vis­co­unt for yo­ur be­ing la­te."

  "Of co­ur­se he wo­uldn't bla­me you." Cor­de­lia se­lec­ted a scar­let silk gown and pran­ced over to the che­val glass, hol­ding it up aga­inst her. "He al­re­ady knows that tar­di­ness is my be­set­ting sin." She til­ted her he­ad, exa­mi­ning her ref­lec­ti­on. "I think I will we­ar this to­night."

  "Scar­let in a mo­nas­tery!" ex­c­la­imed Mat­hil­de, scan­da­li­zed, un­ho­oking Cor­de­lia's tra­ve­ling dress.

  "Oh, you are a pru­de." Cor­de­lia swi­ve­led to kiss her on both che­eks. "Be­si­des, car­di­nals we­ar red, don't they? It's a very su­itab­le co­lor." She step­ped out of the un­ho­oked dress as it rus­t­led to her fe­et. "Ha­ve I ti­me to wash? I fe­el so dusty from the jo­ur­ney." She dar­ted ac­ross to the was­h­s­tand, dip­ped a was­h­c­loth in the ewer, and scrub­bed her fa­ce vi­go­ro­usly, be­fo­re spon­ging her bo­som and ra­ising her arms to wash be­ne­ath them.

  "May­be they do. But it's not de­cent to go abo­ut a mo­nas­tery with yo­ur bo­som un­co­ve­red." Mat­hil­de, still grum­b­ling, dam­pe­ned a han­d­ker­c­hi­ef with la­ven­der wa­ter. "Such a ha­rum-sca­rum cre­atu­re you are. Sit down and let me do yo­ur ha­ir." She pus­hed her down on­to the dres­ser sto­ol, gi­ving her the la­ven­der han­d­ker­c­hi­ef.

  Cor­de­lia dab­bed the la­ven­der bet­we­en her bre­asts, un­der her arms, be­hind her ears. "That's bet­ter. I swe­ar I was re­eking li­ke a stab­le hand."

  "Ke­ep still, will you!" Mat­hil­de pul­led the brush thro­ugh tan­g­led rin­g­lets be­fo­re deftly twis­ting the gle­aming mass in­to a chig­non at the na­pe of Cor­de­lia's neck. She lo­ose­ned the si­de rin­g­lets so that they fra­med her fa­ce, and fi­xed a pe­arl comb in the chig­non. She exa­mi­ned her han­di­work in the mir­ror, frow­ning. Then she nod­ded in si­len­ce and went to fetch the scar­let gown.

  Her ex­p­res­si­on as she ho­oked Cor­de­lia in­to the gar­ment was so di­sap­pro­ving that Cor­de­lia al­most ga­ve in. But she knew the scar­let su­ited her com­p­le­xi­on as well as it su­ited her pre­sent mo­od. She was fe­eling dan­ge­ro­us, fiz­zing with an­ti­ci­pa­ti­on, her blo­od flo­wing swift and hot in her ve­ins. She told her­self it was the sen­se of fre­edom, of re­le­ase from the pri­son of ri­gi­dity that had be­en the Aus­t­ri­an co­urt. It was the sen­se of her li­fe ope­ning up be­fo­re her, of the gol­den glo­ri­es of Ver­sa­il­les that awa­ited her.

  The sharp rap at the do­or bro­ught her swin­ging to fa­ce it as Mat­hil­de hur­ri­ed to open it, and she knew as her bre­ath ca­ught in an­ti­ci­pa­ti­on that it was Leo Be­a­umont who did this to her. It was lo­ve-un­go­ver­nab­le, un­bid­den, in­com­p­re­hen­sib­le, in­vin­cib­le.

  Leo sto­od in the open do­or­way. He saw be­fo­re him a ra­di­ant cre­atu­re, all scar­let and black, with eyes as lus­t­ro­us as sap­phi­res, a warm red mo­uth slightly par­ted over even whi­te te­eth, the small, well-sha­ped he­ad atop a long slen­der neck. The rich swell of her bo­som ro­se in­vi­tingly abo­ve her de­col­le­ta­ge. Her wa­ist was so small he co­uld span it with his hands. He had se­en her so many ti­mes in the last days, but he felt now as if he we­re se­e­ing her for the first ti­me. She se­emed sur­ro­un­ded by an aura of dan­ger and tem­p­ta­ti­on. The air aro­und her was elec­t­ric, char­ged with pas­si­on; he co­uld al­most he­ar it crac­k­le. An­yo­ne to­uc­hed by that char­ge wo­uld su­rely burn, he tho­ught with a chill of fo­re­bo­ding.

  "I am re­ady on ti­me, you see, my lord." Cor­de­lia cur­t­si­ed, se­eking to mask the depth of her fe­elings in a light te­asing to­ne. "Mat­hil­de is very di­sap­pro­ving of my gown. She says scar­let is too bold a co­lor to be worn in a ho­use of God. But as I po­in­ted out, car­di­nals we­ar red hats. Do you ha­ve an opi­ni­on on the su­bj­ect, sir?" She ro­se slowly, with a co­qu­et­tish tilt of her he­ad.

  "I do­ubt yo­ur gown will draw un­due re­mark, sin­ce al­le­yes will be tur­ned upon the da­up­hi­ne and the em­pe­ror," he sa­id dam­pe­ningly. "If you're qu­ite re­ady, let us go down." He step­ped asi­de so that she co­uld pre­ce­de him in­to the cor­ri­dor.

  "How un­gal­lant of you," Cor­de­lia mur­mu­red as she gli­ded past. "I co­uld al­most be hurt at such a snub."

  "But of co­ur­se you aren't," he com­men­ted dryly.

  She lo­oked si­de­ways at him. "Not in the le­ast, my lord, sin­ce the only eyes I'm in­te­res­ted in are yo­urs. I co­uldn't ca­re less if I'm in­vi­sib­le to ever­yo­ne el­se."

  Leo drew a sharp whis­t­ling bre­ath thro­ugh his te­eth. "You will stop this non­sen­se, Cor­de­lia. I warn you that I be­gin to lo­se pa­ti­en­ce."

  "I won the wa­ger," she sa­id, gi­ving him a se­re­ne smi­le, ta­king his arm. "Now, don't lo­ok dag­gers at me or pe­op­le will won­der what's amiss bet­we­en such a newly mar­ri­ed co­up­le."

  He had no ti­me to res­pond as he wo­uld ha­ve li­ked be­ca­use they had re­ac­hed the gre­at hall of the mo­nas­tery, whe­re tho­se gu­ests of suf­fi­ci­ent im­por­tan­ce we­re al­re­ady as­sem­b­led to di­ne at the ab­bot's tab­le.

  To­inet­te was pa­le but com­po­sed as she sat bet­we­en her brot­her and the ab­bot. Prin­cess von Sac­h­sen and her es­cort we­re se­ated im­me­di­ately be­low the ro­yal co­up­le, and Leo was ob­li­ged to grit his te­eth and dwell si­lently on ways to put an end to his char­ge's in­cor­ri­gib­le flir­ta­ti­on. Thro­ug­ho­ut the in­ter­mi­nab­le me­al, Cor­de­lia's sunny smi­le ne­ver wa­ve­red, her con­ver­sa­ti­on was ne­ver less than en­ter­ta­ining, and it was cle­ar to the exas­pe­ra­ted Leo that she was daz­zling ever­yo­ne by the she­er for­ce of her per­so­na­lity. Even the ab­bot suc­cum­bed and was pat­ting her hand to­ward the end of the me­al and la­ug­hing he­ar­tily at her sal­li­es.

  Cor­de­lia was exer­ting her­self for To­inet­te, who she knew wo­uld be unab­le to hold her own in the con­ver­sa­ti­on. The da­up­hi­ne's pal­lor and si­len­ce went un­no­ti­ced un­der her fri­end's scin­til­la­ting chat­ter.

  "Now we shall ha­ve mu­sic," the ab­bot an­no­un­ced ge­ni­al­ly, as the se­cond co­ur­se was re­mo­ved. "It aids the di­ges­ti­on, I find."

  Cor­de­lia cra­ned her neck to lo­ok from the da­is whe­re the ro­yal party di­ned down in­to the ma­in body of the hall. She hadn't se­en Chris­ti­an when they'd first ta­ken the­ir se­ats, but now she fo­und him sit­ting at one of the far tab­les. He lo­oked up im­me­di­ately as if he felt her ga­ze, and ra­ised his glass in a sa­lu­te. He lo­oked a lit­tle lost, she tho­ught. He'd be­en ap­pren­ti­ced to Po­ligny at the age of ten and had spent all the in­ter­ve­ning ye­ars at Ma­ria The­re­sa's co­urt. Now, li­ke her­self and To­inet­te, he was ven­tu­ring in­to an un­k­nown fu­tu­re in a fo­re­ign land. But un­li­ke the girls, he had no path map­ped out for him.

  She glan­ced si­de­ways at Leo. If she didn't ha­ve a path map­ped out for her, how much sim­p­ler this tan­g­le of fe­elings wo­uld be to un­ra­vel.

  A Gre­go­ri­an chant ro­se from the re­ar of the hall, and the tab­le fell in­to ap­pre­ci­ati­ve si­len­ce as the ex­qu­isi­te pla­in­song fil­led the vast spa­ce, ri­sing to the high raf­ters. The mu­sic con­ti­nu­ed un­til the ab­bot in­vi­ted his gu­ests to at­tend cha­pel for be­ne­dic­ti­on.

  "I tho­ught you didn't prac­ti­ce our re­li­gi­on," Cor­de­lia ob­ser­ved, kne­eling on the hard sto­ne, her skirts bil­lo­wing out aro­und her. Her kne­es we­re ac­cus­to­med to the dis­com­fort, cus­hi­ons be­ing re­ser­ved at co­urt only for the em­p­ress and the aged of the hig­hest aris­toc­racy.

  "When in Ro­me," he res­pon­ded calmly, kne­eling at his pew.

  "I lo­ve you," she whis­pe­red. She hadn't me­ant to say any such thing, but he was so clo­se to her that she co­uld smell the fa­int lin­ge­ring per­fu­me of dri­ed la­ven­der and ro­se­mary that had be­en sto­red with his li­nen. The air aro­und her was im­bu­ed with his pre­sen­ce, so po­wer­ful that for a mo­ment she lost all sen­se of her sur­ro­un­dings.

  Leo pra­yed for in­s­pi­ra­ti­on. How was he ever go­ing to re­sist her? He was awa­re of the blue fi­re in her eyes as she ga­zed at him from be­hind a hand that shi­el­ded her fa­ce, hi­ding her un­p­ra­yer­ful co­un­te­nan­ce from the rest of the con­g­re­ga­ti­on. He was awa­re of the cur­ve of her whi­te neck, the lit­tle ear pe­eking bet­we­en glossy rin­g­lets, the swift ri­se and fall of her bre­asts. He re­min­ded him­self that she was anot­her man's wi­fe, but that fact hardly se­emed re­al in the pre­sent cir­cum­s­tan­ces.

  When the ser­vi­ce was over, the we­ary tra­ve­lers we­re free to se­ek the­ir beds.

  To­inet­te sum­mo­ned Cor­de­lia to ac­com­pany her. "I know you're ti­red, Cor­de­lia, but will you sit with me un­til I'm in bed? I fe­el so mi­se­rab­le still."

  It was a ro­yal com­mand co­uc­hed as a fri­end's plea for com­fort. So­met­hing el­se Cor­de­lia had grown ac­cus­to­med to over the ye­ars.

  Leo ma­de his way to his own apar­t­ment. His ser­vant was wa­iting to un­d­ress him, but he sent him away to his bed af­ter the man had po­ured him a ge­ne­ro­us cog­nac and re­mo­ved his sho­es and co­at. A fi­re had be­en lit in the gra­te. The la­te Ap­ril eve­nings we­re still co­ol, and the sto­ne walls of the mo­nas­tery re­ta­ined a chill even in high sum­mer.

  Leo sat down be­si­de the fi­re in his stoc­kin­ged fe­et and shir­t­s­le­eves and drew a small tab­le with an in­la­id ches­sbo­ard to­ward him. Frow­ning, he be­gan to re­ar­ran­ge the pi­eces in a prob­lem that had elu­ded him for a we­ek. It wo­uld ta­ke his mind off his he­ated blo­od. He might not be ab­le to un­tan­g­le the con­fu­si­on in his bra­in, but the pu­re, sim­p­le cla­rity of the chess pi­eces and the cle­an li­nes of a chess prob­lem co­uld be ma­na­ged.

  Cor­de­lia sat with To­inet­te un­til the da­up­hi­ne fell as­le­ep, then, yaw­ning de­eply, she ma­de her way to her own cham­ber. Mat­hil­de was do­zing by the fi­re and ro­se sle­epily to her fe­et when Cor­de­lia ca­me in.

  "J­ust un­ho­ok and un­la­ce me, Mat­hil­de, and I'll ma­na­ge the rest myself," Cor­de­lia sa­id thro­ugh anot­her de­ep yawn. "You ne­ed yo­ur own bed." She rub­bed her eyes, then be­gan to un­pin her ha­ir whi­le Mat­hil­de un­ho­oked her gown. "I'm go­ing to ri­de on to­mor­row's jo­ur­ney. Is my ha­bit un­pac­ked?"

  "I'll see to it in the mor­ning." Mat­hil­de sho­ok out the scar­let dress and hung it up in the ar­mo­ire. "We'll be ma­king an early start, I gat­her." She un­la­ced Cor­de­lia's cor­set and un­ti­ed the ta­pes of her pan­ni­ers. Cor­de­lia kic­ked off her sho­es, rol­led down her gar­ters and stoc­kings, and plum­ped on­to the bed with a gro­an.

  "Go to bed, Mat­hil­de. I can ma­na­ge now."

  "Well, if you're su­re." Mat­hil­de didn't was­te ti­me in pro­test. "I'll wa­ke you in plenty of ti­me in the mor­ning." She bent to kiss her nur­s­ling and bus­t­led out to her own bed in the ser­vants' qu­ar­ters.

  Cor­de­lia fell back on the bed in her thin li­nen shift and ga­zed up at the em­b­ro­ide­red tes­ter over­he­ad, al­most too ti­red to get un­der the co­vers. The fi­re crac­k­led mer­rily in the he­arth, and her eye­lids dro­oped. She ca­me to with a jerk, her he­art po­un­ding. Sit­ting up, she lo­oked aro­und the can­d­le­lit cham­ber for what had star­t­led her.

  A mo­use scur­ri­ed ac­ross the flo­or, di­sap­pe­aring in­to a ho­le in the wa­in­s­cot.

  She got off the bed and went to the dres­ser to brush her ha­ir, kno­wing that if she slept on it un­b­rus­hed it wo­uld be a ho­pe­less tan­g­le in the mor­ning. The si­len­ce of the ro­om was bro­ken only by the hiss and spit of the fi­re and the gen­t­le tic­king of the clock on the man­tel. Cor­de­lia re­ali­zed that she was res­t­less, al­most too ti­red to sle­ep. Her mind was ra­cing, fil­led with qu­es­ti­ons and spe­cu­la­ti­on abo­ut the li­fe that awa­ited her. What kind of man was her hus­band? What of his chil­d­ren? We­re they lo­oking for­ward to her ar­ri­val? Or dre­ading it?

  She co­uldn't stop the tum­b­ling tho­ughts or con­t­rol her gro­wing ap­pre­hen­si­on. She told her­self it was be­ca­use it was la­te and she was ti­red. If she co­uld sle­ep, she wo­uld be her usu­al che­er­ful self in the mor­ning, re­ady and eager to fa­ce wha­te­ver the day might bring. But for so­me re­ason, all de­si­re to sle­ep had left her.

  She mo­ved res­t­les­sly aro­und the ro­om. One wall was li­ned with bo­ok­s­hel­ves. At first glan­ce they lo­oked to con­ta­in no vo­lu­mes that might so­ot­he a tro­ub­led so­ul. All very aca­de­mic tit­les, mostly La­tin and Gre­ek. Ob­vi­o­usly, the monks ex­pec­ted the­ir gu­ests to be of a scho­larly turn of mind. Her hand drif­ted along the spi­nes and alig­h­ted on a vo­lu­me of Ca­tul­lus's po­ems. Lig­h­ter fa­re than Livy or Pliny.

  Cor­de­lia pul­led the slen­der vo­lu­me from the shelf. She le­aned aga­inst the bo­ok­s­hel­ves, idly le­afing thro­ugh the pa­ges. And the wall be­gan to mo­ve at her back. As she le­aned aga­inst it, it cre­aked and gro­aned and swung in­ward. It was the stran­gest sen­sa­ti­on and it all hap­pe­ned so fast Cor­de­lia had no ti­me to re­act. The sec­ti­on of shel­ving tur­ned in­ward, and Cor­de­lia fo­und her­self on the ot­her si­de in a stran­ge cham­ber, sta­ring bac­k­ward at the ho­le in the wall.

  Leo lo­oked up from the ches­sbo­ard at the cre­aking gro­an from the wall of bo­ok­s­hel­ves at his back. He tur­ned and sta­red, his mo­uth drop­ping open. Cor­de­lia, ba­re­fo­ot, in a thin li­nen shift, sto­od in his ro­om, ga­zing up at the ga­ping shel­ves with as­to­nis­h­ment.

  "How… how… how did that hap­pen?" She spun ro­und, re­la­ti­vely un­sur­p­ri­sed at se­e­ing him. It wo­uld ta­ke a lot to be­at the as­to­nis­h­ment of the last mi­nu­tes. "Oh, Leo. I didn't re­ali­ze you we­re next do­or. Lo­ok!" She po­in­ted back at the wall aga­in. "It… it just ope­ned. I was le­aning aga­inst it and ab­ra­ca­dab­ra! I was only lo­oking for so­met­hing to re­ad." She bran­dis­hed the Ca­tul­lus as if she ne­eded pro­of of her sta­te­ment.

  Leo was re­co­ve­ring slowly from his own as­to­nis­h­ment. His first re­ac­ti­on was that Cor­de­lia had de­li­be­ra­tely en­gi­ne­ered this lit­tle trick, but her ama­ze­ment was cle­arly ge­nu­ine and he co­uldn't see how she co­uld ha­ve known in ad­van­ce abo­ut the mec­ha­nism. "Go back to yo­ur own cham­ber and I'll try to clo­se it from this si­de."

  "Oh, how ta­me!" She step­ped far­t­her in­to his ro­om, ful­fil­ling his every fe­ar. "Why do you think it's he­re? Isn't it in­t­ri­gu­ing?" Her ha­ir was cas­ca­ding aro­und her sho­ul­ders in a blue-black ri­ver, rin­g­lets fra­ming her fa­ce, her eyes gray now, glo­wing li­ke char­co­al bra­zi­ers in the fi­re­light. "What was it for, do you think?"

  "Pre­su­mably, it su­ited so­me­one to ha­ve sec­ret ac­cess to the next do­or cham­ber," he an­s­we­red, trying to so­und co­ol and in con­t­rol. "Now go back to bed."

  "Do you think it was for as­sig­na­ti­ons?" Her eyes gle­amed wic­kedly, but he didn't think she was pla­ying her usu­al flir­ta­ti­o­us ga­mes; she se­emed ge­nu­inely fas­ci­na­ted by the si­tu­ati­on. "In a mo­nas­tery. How shoc­king." She tur­ned to lo­ok back at the ho­le in the bo­ok­s­hel­ves aga­in. "But I sup­po­se the­se are the gu­est apar­t­ments. But what was so­me mon­kish ar­c­hi­tect do­ing de­sig­ning such a thing?" La­ug­h­ter bub­bled in her vo­ice. "May­be monks ha­ve the­ir sec­rets too."

  "I'm su­re they do. Now, will you go back the way you ca­me, ple­ase."

  "I can't sle­ep. I'm all ex­ci­ted and ap­pre­hen­si­ve and wro­ught up," she sa­id che­er­ful­ly. "And you're not sle­epy if you're pla­ying chess. Are you do­ing prob­lems? I li­ke do­ing them too. But sin­ce the­re are two of us awa­ke, shall we ha­ve a ga­me?" She bent over the ches­sbo­ard and wit­ho­ut fur­t­her ado swept asi­de the pi­eces of his prob­lem and be­gan to set the bo­ard up for a ga­me.

 

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