One for All, page 11
“But you must,” Henri said. “My aunt told me how far away you were from home. So, we must bring your home to you. Like I said, Sanson doesn’t even want it.”
Through my tears, his eager face blurred. A moment later a handkerchief was pressed in my direction. Was I cursed to cry in front of every boy I’d ever meet? “I’m fine, thank you, I don’t need it.”
“We all need a cry sometimes.” His eyes lingered on my palms, my hair-fine scars, before bouncing back to my face. The scars were faint, unraised, unnoticeable to anyone but me. At least, I’d thought they were. I’d hoped they were. “I think, well”—another breath, squaring his shoulders—“please take the handkerchief.” My chest warmed. I took the handkerchief. “Oh, wonderful!”
I blinked. “What’s wonderful?”
Henri rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. Finally, he said: “You smiled. A real smile—at least, I think a real one. You’ve smiled very little since you arrived here. And I got the sense they weren’t real ones.”
That night, I fell asleep with the map propped on the pillow next to me.
* * *
Tears were harder to hide in the afternoon lessons. You couldn’t explain away watery eyes when you were learning the steps to the bourrée or how often to make eye contact with a man. Too much was off-putting; too little was immature … the best amount—something I had yet to master—was in the middle: a coquettish dance between interest and indifference. We needed to create the illusion for our targets that our attentions could shift at any moment, that they needed to work to sustain our regard.
“Oh, Mademoiselle”—Théa deepened her voice to comic proportions, her arms akimbo—“I haven’t seen you around before. Your eyes, they are the color of the trees—Oh no,” she added, breaking character, “trees are green and brown, aren’t they. Can I start over?”
“Monsieur,” I laughed, more a titter than anything else, “you are so magnanimous with your compliments!”
“No! No! It’s all wrong!” Madame de Treville cried. The parlor was bathed in afternoon light. Outside, children spun circles around one another, kicking up the pools of last night’s rain, squealing as carriage drivers narrowly avoided them, cursing. Two weeks into living in Paris and I was beginning to understand the city’s sounds, even if they were still unfamiliar.
Cheeks hot, I gripped the chair as Madame de Treville outlined my mistakes: too high pitched, too silly, too much. “I don’t need another Théa—or Portia or Aria, for that matter. I’d rather have your innocence and nervousness peek through, rather than you come off as forced. We’re honing you into a more alluring version of yourself. Not into someone else. Does that make sense?”
I tried to respond, but with the pounding in my head, the heat rising in my cheeks, I had to sit down. Madame de Treville looked like she might sigh, but then thought better of it. “How about an example? Portia, Aria…” She flicked her wrist.
Théa sat beside me as the other girls replaced us: Portia, clothed in a pink gown embroidered with a delicate pattern of leaves and flowers, and Aria, striking in simple pale blue. The latter was the quietest of the entire house. Not out of nerves, but an active choice: I got the sense that she was always watching, always waiting. I knew why Portia and Théa were dedicated to the Order; Aria was still a mystery.
“Mademoiselle,” Aria said. She advanced so she was only a foot away from Portia. Took Portia’s delicately placed hand and bowed, lips hovering inches above the back of her hand. Aria stared up at her. “Mademoiselle,” she repeated, “your eyes are the most beautiful shade of brown I’ve ever beheld. More than beautiful. Exquisite.”
Portia’s pinkie finger shook, settled. “I—I—”
Aria waited, never looked away.
“D-Do you see, Tania?” Portia stuttered out her words. “That is how you make someone feel like they are the only person in the room.”
“Yes, but unfortunately,” Madame de Treville cut in, “we can’t have Tania stumbling over her words! Slight blushing: yes! Coquettish batting of lashes: yes! Stuttering: no!”
Sufficiently chastised, I returned to Théa.
Portia glanced back to Aria. “You have a little…”
“Hmm?”
“Your rouge. It’s smudged.”
“What?”
Portia took her thumb to wipe away the rogue smudge of rouge. Under Portia’s touch, Aria stiffened.
“Will none of you take this seriously?” Madame de Treville exclaimed. “We do not have time to waste fixing each other’s makeup!” She huffed all the way to the door. “I’m getting a cup of tea. By the time I return, you will all be ready to work!” She shut the door behind her; not as loud as a slam, but enough to creak the hinges.
For a moment, everything was hushed.
Théa giggled, clutched her mouth. But it wasn’t enough, she couldn’t contain it, and then we were all laughing. Me, the last to join in, but once I did I laughed so hard my sides ached. A sore, unused muscle. One I’d forgotten to train for too long.
* * *
Sometimes, like that day in the kitchen, Henri would pop in to wave bonjour before Madame de Treville pushed him from the room, muttering all the while how he wasn’t setting a good example; if we thought all our targets, all these boys and men, were like Henri with his earnest, easy-to-read expression, we’d assume them easier to trample over than a carpet runner.
“He’s a kind boy, don’t mistake me,” Madame de Treville told us, “but he isn’t capable of the subtlety and subterfuge necessary to mimic these men.” Portia snorted, but didn’t say anything.
“And we are? Capable?” I asked.
I’d done my best to keep from talking back. Not with what was on the line. But even as I spoke, Madame de Treville shook her head, simple and stark among our fanciful curls that had begun to deflate in the sway of afternoon. She set down the stack of cards with names of la noblesse written on the front, their personal details on the back. It was essential we knew every noble, and all their secrets, before we even spoke to them.
“You aren’t; not yet. But you will be. And when you are able to predict what they’ll say to you—that’s when you control the game. Even if they don’t know it.”
So I steeled my shoulders. Thought of my father. How he called me Mademoiselle la Mousquetaire with all the confidence in the world. He thought I could do this.
* * *
Late in my third week in Paris, when Madame de Treville said I’d proved capable of basic dances and manners, I was thrilled. But then we moved on to the next stage, one that made me want to curl up in a ball and vanish into the garish rug below my feet … how to ensnare men. With our words, with brief touches of hands, with whispers in ears and dangerous leans over tabletops—nothing that could be deemed untoward by Parisian society, of course. We had to maintain our reputations, keep men lusting after us, we untouchable girls.
Now I had to be the one flirting, the one ready with innuendo and intrigue—everything, as Portia remarked, that involved me hypothetically talking to or touching a man. “Tania, whatever are we going to do with you?” she asked.
And it didn’t matter how she meant it as I readied myself for the fall. For the bump of Marguerite’s elbow, the sear of stone against my palms. For the look you gave pauvre Tania. For the way friendship dissolved as quickly as my legs buckled.
But then Aria glanced at Portia. And Théa nudged me, asked if I could help her tomorrow with her attaque composée. A few minutes later, when it came time to switch lessons, Portia drifted by me with a little squeeze of my arm.
They were only being nice because they thought they had to be. It was their job. An order of Musketeers who didn’t get along would surely fall apart during a dangerous mission. This is what I told myself as I replayed the day’s events in my head. Friendly gestures, friendly words; it was important I didn’t morph them into something they weren’t. I was here for Papa.
The next day, business as usual. I instructed Théa, who, after a few hours, received a round of applause from everyone as she demonstrated her improved attack. She dropped her hands behind her hips, blushed and bashful, then shrieked as her forgotten sword, still in her hands, nicked her breeches.
In the afternoon, Henri brought us leftovers from Sanson’s morning meeting with Mazarin: preserves sharp and sweet, the color of sunset, and a dark drink so bitter Portia railed at him: “Is this retribution? For me pinning you? Did you seriously think you could waltz in here with this foul liquid and trick me into drinking it?”
Henri took a step away from her scowl. “I—”
“Portia, leave him alone! You’re going to scare him, and he won’t bring us any more of this!” Théa gestured to her cup. “It’s wonderful! I’ve never tasted anything like it!” She continued to sip at it, bouncing in her chair, chattering and laughing and laughing and chattering before Aria grabbed the cup away and poured the remaining black-brown dregs into the nearest chamber pot.
“Monsieur,” I called as he made to leave. Théa was as furious as she could possibly be, which was to say mildly angry, talking at Aria as the latter watched Portia search for the powder we rubbed on our teeth with our fingers.
He halted so suddenly I almost knocked into him, and then he was apologizing, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have turned so quickly, it’s just I heard you call my name and I didn’t want you to think I wasn’t paying attention to you, because that’s not it at all—”
“Monsieur,” I cut him off, surprised by my own daring. “The others are … preoccupied, but I know they’d wish me to pass along their thanks. For your thoughtfulness.”
Nearby, Théa wailed: “But it’s not fair! I was still drinking! And I feel so energized, like I could do anything—Aria, duel me! Duel me now!”
Aria sniffed as she fanned herself. “No.”
Meanwhile, the tension melted from Henri. “It was no trouble.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“But you already—”
“I made it sound like I thanked you only on behalf of the other girls. And I wanted you to know I was thankful, too. So. Thank you.”
When Henri smiled, it was impossible not to smile, too.
And so it went, this string of days, weeks. Fencing, flirting, primping, preening, the one I loved and the rest I’d learned long ago to hate all muddled up together. Aria, her nature blurry, so skilled it seemed like she’d been training for this her whole life, whether she flicked a blade or a fan. Théa with her indefatigable speech, her ceaseless kindness. Portia, ferocious and hungry.
And me. Sick Tania, dizzy Tania. Tania who didn’t truly belong here, not in the way they did. But all the while, my mother’s voice at my back, my father’s voice ahead, the girls’ voices around me, as I attempted to mold my own ice swan self into solid steel.
* * *
“Here!” Théa exclaimed, thrusting a pile of ruffles into my arms. Well into the fifth week, I was settling into the rhythm of our routine. There was a relief in the consistency, in waking up and, despite the dizziness and the exhaustion, knowing precisely how the day would unfold hour by hour, drill by drill, lesson by lesson. “Madame de Treville asked me to whip this skirt up for you to practice dancing in—it’s light enough to tuck back for fencing but a good bit heavier than the skirts of our day dresses.”
“But she’s had me dancing for the past week!”
“Well, you had to learn the steps first. Now you’re ready to take it to the next level!”
I ran a finger along the side of the skirt. The stitches were tight, uniform, no puckering around the seams. “You made this today?”
“I had time before fencing practice, and I finished during the break. It’s quite plain, but then it’s for practice, so all those extra embellishments aren’t necessary,” she explained.
“This is incredible. You should be the one making our dresses.”
“Don’t be silly: I can work with cheaper materials, but the embroidery skills needed to create a piece of couture? No, I’ll stick to scrap fabrics!”
“Maybe this could be what you do”—she looked at me quizzically as I continued—“you know, after all this.”
Her entire face glowed pink. “You really think so? There aren’t many girls who design gowns, you know, and I think if women made them, they’d be so much more comfortable. And prettier, too. Not in the way men think is pretty, I suppose, but the way we think is pretty—I’m babbling nonsense, aren’t I?”
“No, of course not—”
But Théa was already talking again: “Hurry up, please, and try it on, or else I’ll be late for my afternoon session.”
“You said I’m supposed to wear this for my lesson? Won’t you need one as well?” I asked.
“It’s just you today. The rest of us are rehearsing a newer court dance—apparently it’s all the rage in Italy.”
As I slipped into a narrow room off the main hallway, Théa called through the door, “Pull the skirt on over your gown!” The skirt was heavier than normal, but the enclosures were simple enough. Well, simple enough before I tried to return through the door.
“How am I supposed to get anywhere?” I heaved as the sides of the skirt hit the door frame, unable to pass over the threshold.
“Turn sideways. No, not like that … more of a shuffle!”
I wrenched myself through and would’ve landed in a heap if I hadn’t been caught. “Thank you!” I looked up, expecting to see Théa.
“You’re welcome. It was an honorable attempt for your first try!” I blushed as Henri withdrew from my elbow, as if he’d only just remembered his hand was there. The dizziness was right on the periphery. “Are you all right?” he asked. For a moment, his face was no longer his. Golden brown eyes transformed into unforgiving blue. A sharp gasp, a stumble step. “You’re not all right,” he said. “Something’s wrong.”
“Yes, but that doesn’t mean she needs help,” Théa said. My chest warmed.
“But if she’s not feeling well…”
“Henri, you know how much I hate arguing!” Théa stamped her foot. “Especially when I am clearly right and you are not!” Her voice softened when she turned to me. “You’ll tell us, though, if you need it? If you need our help?”
I hesitated, then nodded. Pausing, I clenched my toes, closed my eyes for a few seconds before opening them. The hallway was blissfully still. “I think I’ll be fine. As long as someone else is around—”
“Perfect, then, that Henri’s here! See you at supper!” Théa bounded away, with a smile I didn’t understand. I wanted to inquire more, but she was gone in seconds. But not before she threw me a wink.
“She’s something else, isn’t she?” Henri said with a grin.
My heart twinged at the tenor in his voice, even though it had no cause to. I just nodded my head, unable to find the words.
She’d called him Henri. And he’d let her. Like he’d heard his name from her lips a hundred times before.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
WE WALKED IN silence; Henri’s words repeated in my head. When this was all over, when our duties were complete, perhaps he would court Théa. And that would make me happy. The kindest of our quartet, with the most thoughtful boy. Could there be a more perfect pair?
Henri came to a sudden halt. “I’m sorry if I caused any offense. I didn’t mean to imply you needed my help; I—”
“Monsieur,” I rushed. “You were worried about me, I understand. I appreciate it, truly.” I searched the planes of his face.
He flushed and murmured in assent. “I believe ma tante is waiting.” He opened the door to the makeshift ballroom. It must’ve been a parlor in the past, but now all that was left were a few sparse furnishings and a large, unobstructed expanse of parquet wooden floor. A harpsichord sat in the corner.
“How did you know…?”
But Madame de Treville was urging us through the door. “I don’t recall instructing you to idle,” she said. “How is the skirt?”
“Un grand plaisir. A delight. I feel like a princess.”
Henri snorted, tried to cover it with a cough.
“Now is not the time for your effervescent wit,” Madame de Treville said. “Come now, get going.”
Shoes scraped against the floorboards, an awkward shamble from side to side. “Tante, I hate to interrupt, but you requested me? Something about today’s lesson?” Henri asked.
Her eyes lit with understanding. “Don’t hide in the door frame!” He wrung his ink-stained hands as he approached her—after a pointed glare from her, he immediately let his arms rest at his sides. Madame de Treville nodded in my direction. “Tania’s progressed quickly, but I’m not convinced she can actually maintain her composure around anyone besides the girls and myself. You’ll have to do.”
“Me?” Henri went stone-still. “But … but…”
Madame de Treville let out a great, odious sigh. “Do you question Sanson every time he asks something of you, too? Does he not find that aggravating?” The tips of Henri’s ears burned through his hair.
Madame de Treville flipped through sheet music with harsh, unrestrained fervor. She’d snapped at Aria earlier today over a missed parry, had Portia grinding her teeth so hard I could hear the clench of her jaw. Théa escaped unscathed, probably because she was off sewing my skirt. Something had happened … would happen. I wasn’t sure how I’d avoided her ire up until this afternoon. With a sudden lurch, I wondered if I could make it to the window before I lost the contents of my stomach.
“We’ll run through a few basics,” Madame de Treville snapped. “Ignore the parts requiring more than two people; I want to see how Tania can manage one-on-one interaction.” After retreating to the harpsichord’s accompanying bench, Madame de Treville played the first notes of a minuet. The instrument was angled for her to see us over the top of the sheet music.
Henri took a few steps toward me. I studied him, blinked. Mirrored his shaky steps. My pulse was racing; I could feel it in my wrists.
Through my tears, his eager face blurred. A moment later a handkerchief was pressed in my direction. Was I cursed to cry in front of every boy I’d ever meet? “I’m fine, thank you, I don’t need it.”
“We all need a cry sometimes.” His eyes lingered on my palms, my hair-fine scars, before bouncing back to my face. The scars were faint, unraised, unnoticeable to anyone but me. At least, I’d thought they were. I’d hoped they were. “I think, well”—another breath, squaring his shoulders—“please take the handkerchief.” My chest warmed. I took the handkerchief. “Oh, wonderful!”
I blinked. “What’s wonderful?”
Henri rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. Finally, he said: “You smiled. A real smile—at least, I think a real one. You’ve smiled very little since you arrived here. And I got the sense they weren’t real ones.”
That night, I fell asleep with the map propped on the pillow next to me.
* * *
Tears were harder to hide in the afternoon lessons. You couldn’t explain away watery eyes when you were learning the steps to the bourrée or how often to make eye contact with a man. Too much was off-putting; too little was immature … the best amount—something I had yet to master—was in the middle: a coquettish dance between interest and indifference. We needed to create the illusion for our targets that our attentions could shift at any moment, that they needed to work to sustain our regard.
“Oh, Mademoiselle”—Théa deepened her voice to comic proportions, her arms akimbo—“I haven’t seen you around before. Your eyes, they are the color of the trees—Oh no,” she added, breaking character, “trees are green and brown, aren’t they. Can I start over?”
“Monsieur,” I laughed, more a titter than anything else, “you are so magnanimous with your compliments!”
“No! No! It’s all wrong!” Madame de Treville cried. The parlor was bathed in afternoon light. Outside, children spun circles around one another, kicking up the pools of last night’s rain, squealing as carriage drivers narrowly avoided them, cursing. Two weeks into living in Paris and I was beginning to understand the city’s sounds, even if they were still unfamiliar.
Cheeks hot, I gripped the chair as Madame de Treville outlined my mistakes: too high pitched, too silly, too much. “I don’t need another Théa—or Portia or Aria, for that matter. I’d rather have your innocence and nervousness peek through, rather than you come off as forced. We’re honing you into a more alluring version of yourself. Not into someone else. Does that make sense?”
I tried to respond, but with the pounding in my head, the heat rising in my cheeks, I had to sit down. Madame de Treville looked like she might sigh, but then thought better of it. “How about an example? Portia, Aria…” She flicked her wrist.
Théa sat beside me as the other girls replaced us: Portia, clothed in a pink gown embroidered with a delicate pattern of leaves and flowers, and Aria, striking in simple pale blue. The latter was the quietest of the entire house. Not out of nerves, but an active choice: I got the sense that she was always watching, always waiting. I knew why Portia and Théa were dedicated to the Order; Aria was still a mystery.
“Mademoiselle,” Aria said. She advanced so she was only a foot away from Portia. Took Portia’s delicately placed hand and bowed, lips hovering inches above the back of her hand. Aria stared up at her. “Mademoiselle,” she repeated, “your eyes are the most beautiful shade of brown I’ve ever beheld. More than beautiful. Exquisite.”
Portia’s pinkie finger shook, settled. “I—I—”
Aria waited, never looked away.
“D-Do you see, Tania?” Portia stuttered out her words. “That is how you make someone feel like they are the only person in the room.”
“Yes, but unfortunately,” Madame de Treville cut in, “we can’t have Tania stumbling over her words! Slight blushing: yes! Coquettish batting of lashes: yes! Stuttering: no!”
Sufficiently chastised, I returned to Théa.
Portia glanced back to Aria. “You have a little…”
“Hmm?”
“Your rouge. It’s smudged.”
“What?”
Portia took her thumb to wipe away the rogue smudge of rouge. Under Portia’s touch, Aria stiffened.
“Will none of you take this seriously?” Madame de Treville exclaimed. “We do not have time to waste fixing each other’s makeup!” She huffed all the way to the door. “I’m getting a cup of tea. By the time I return, you will all be ready to work!” She shut the door behind her; not as loud as a slam, but enough to creak the hinges.
For a moment, everything was hushed.
Théa giggled, clutched her mouth. But it wasn’t enough, she couldn’t contain it, and then we were all laughing. Me, the last to join in, but once I did I laughed so hard my sides ached. A sore, unused muscle. One I’d forgotten to train for too long.
* * *
Sometimes, like that day in the kitchen, Henri would pop in to wave bonjour before Madame de Treville pushed him from the room, muttering all the while how he wasn’t setting a good example; if we thought all our targets, all these boys and men, were like Henri with his earnest, easy-to-read expression, we’d assume them easier to trample over than a carpet runner.
“He’s a kind boy, don’t mistake me,” Madame de Treville told us, “but he isn’t capable of the subtlety and subterfuge necessary to mimic these men.” Portia snorted, but didn’t say anything.
“And we are? Capable?” I asked.
I’d done my best to keep from talking back. Not with what was on the line. But even as I spoke, Madame de Treville shook her head, simple and stark among our fanciful curls that had begun to deflate in the sway of afternoon. She set down the stack of cards with names of la noblesse written on the front, their personal details on the back. It was essential we knew every noble, and all their secrets, before we even spoke to them.
“You aren’t; not yet. But you will be. And when you are able to predict what they’ll say to you—that’s when you control the game. Even if they don’t know it.”
So I steeled my shoulders. Thought of my father. How he called me Mademoiselle la Mousquetaire with all the confidence in the world. He thought I could do this.
* * *
Late in my third week in Paris, when Madame de Treville said I’d proved capable of basic dances and manners, I was thrilled. But then we moved on to the next stage, one that made me want to curl up in a ball and vanish into the garish rug below my feet … how to ensnare men. With our words, with brief touches of hands, with whispers in ears and dangerous leans over tabletops—nothing that could be deemed untoward by Parisian society, of course. We had to maintain our reputations, keep men lusting after us, we untouchable girls.
Now I had to be the one flirting, the one ready with innuendo and intrigue—everything, as Portia remarked, that involved me hypothetically talking to or touching a man. “Tania, whatever are we going to do with you?” she asked.
And it didn’t matter how she meant it as I readied myself for the fall. For the bump of Marguerite’s elbow, the sear of stone against my palms. For the look you gave pauvre Tania. For the way friendship dissolved as quickly as my legs buckled.
But then Aria glanced at Portia. And Théa nudged me, asked if I could help her tomorrow with her attaque composée. A few minutes later, when it came time to switch lessons, Portia drifted by me with a little squeeze of my arm.
They were only being nice because they thought they had to be. It was their job. An order of Musketeers who didn’t get along would surely fall apart during a dangerous mission. This is what I told myself as I replayed the day’s events in my head. Friendly gestures, friendly words; it was important I didn’t morph them into something they weren’t. I was here for Papa.
The next day, business as usual. I instructed Théa, who, after a few hours, received a round of applause from everyone as she demonstrated her improved attack. She dropped her hands behind her hips, blushed and bashful, then shrieked as her forgotten sword, still in her hands, nicked her breeches.
In the afternoon, Henri brought us leftovers from Sanson’s morning meeting with Mazarin: preserves sharp and sweet, the color of sunset, and a dark drink so bitter Portia railed at him: “Is this retribution? For me pinning you? Did you seriously think you could waltz in here with this foul liquid and trick me into drinking it?”
Henri took a step away from her scowl. “I—”
“Portia, leave him alone! You’re going to scare him, and he won’t bring us any more of this!” Théa gestured to her cup. “It’s wonderful! I’ve never tasted anything like it!” She continued to sip at it, bouncing in her chair, chattering and laughing and laughing and chattering before Aria grabbed the cup away and poured the remaining black-brown dregs into the nearest chamber pot.
“Monsieur,” I called as he made to leave. Théa was as furious as she could possibly be, which was to say mildly angry, talking at Aria as the latter watched Portia search for the powder we rubbed on our teeth with our fingers.
He halted so suddenly I almost knocked into him, and then he was apologizing, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have turned so quickly, it’s just I heard you call my name and I didn’t want you to think I wasn’t paying attention to you, because that’s not it at all—”
“Monsieur,” I cut him off, surprised by my own daring. “The others are … preoccupied, but I know they’d wish me to pass along their thanks. For your thoughtfulness.”
Nearby, Théa wailed: “But it’s not fair! I was still drinking! And I feel so energized, like I could do anything—Aria, duel me! Duel me now!”
Aria sniffed as she fanned herself. “No.”
Meanwhile, the tension melted from Henri. “It was no trouble.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“But you already—”
“I made it sound like I thanked you only on behalf of the other girls. And I wanted you to know I was thankful, too. So. Thank you.”
When Henri smiled, it was impossible not to smile, too.
And so it went, this string of days, weeks. Fencing, flirting, primping, preening, the one I loved and the rest I’d learned long ago to hate all muddled up together. Aria, her nature blurry, so skilled it seemed like she’d been training for this her whole life, whether she flicked a blade or a fan. Théa with her indefatigable speech, her ceaseless kindness. Portia, ferocious and hungry.
And me. Sick Tania, dizzy Tania. Tania who didn’t truly belong here, not in the way they did. But all the while, my mother’s voice at my back, my father’s voice ahead, the girls’ voices around me, as I attempted to mold my own ice swan self into solid steel.
* * *
“Here!” Théa exclaimed, thrusting a pile of ruffles into my arms. Well into the fifth week, I was settling into the rhythm of our routine. There was a relief in the consistency, in waking up and, despite the dizziness and the exhaustion, knowing precisely how the day would unfold hour by hour, drill by drill, lesson by lesson. “Madame de Treville asked me to whip this skirt up for you to practice dancing in—it’s light enough to tuck back for fencing but a good bit heavier than the skirts of our day dresses.”
“But she’s had me dancing for the past week!”
“Well, you had to learn the steps first. Now you’re ready to take it to the next level!”
I ran a finger along the side of the skirt. The stitches were tight, uniform, no puckering around the seams. “You made this today?”
“I had time before fencing practice, and I finished during the break. It’s quite plain, but then it’s for practice, so all those extra embellishments aren’t necessary,” she explained.
“This is incredible. You should be the one making our dresses.”
“Don’t be silly: I can work with cheaper materials, but the embroidery skills needed to create a piece of couture? No, I’ll stick to scrap fabrics!”
“Maybe this could be what you do”—she looked at me quizzically as I continued—“you know, after all this.”
Her entire face glowed pink. “You really think so? There aren’t many girls who design gowns, you know, and I think if women made them, they’d be so much more comfortable. And prettier, too. Not in the way men think is pretty, I suppose, but the way we think is pretty—I’m babbling nonsense, aren’t I?”
“No, of course not—”
But Théa was already talking again: “Hurry up, please, and try it on, or else I’ll be late for my afternoon session.”
“You said I’m supposed to wear this for my lesson? Won’t you need one as well?” I asked.
“It’s just you today. The rest of us are rehearsing a newer court dance—apparently it’s all the rage in Italy.”
As I slipped into a narrow room off the main hallway, Théa called through the door, “Pull the skirt on over your gown!” The skirt was heavier than normal, but the enclosures were simple enough. Well, simple enough before I tried to return through the door.
“How am I supposed to get anywhere?” I heaved as the sides of the skirt hit the door frame, unable to pass over the threshold.
“Turn sideways. No, not like that … more of a shuffle!”
I wrenched myself through and would’ve landed in a heap if I hadn’t been caught. “Thank you!” I looked up, expecting to see Théa.
“You’re welcome. It was an honorable attempt for your first try!” I blushed as Henri withdrew from my elbow, as if he’d only just remembered his hand was there. The dizziness was right on the periphery. “Are you all right?” he asked. For a moment, his face was no longer his. Golden brown eyes transformed into unforgiving blue. A sharp gasp, a stumble step. “You’re not all right,” he said. “Something’s wrong.”
“Yes, but that doesn’t mean she needs help,” Théa said. My chest warmed.
“But if she’s not feeling well…”
“Henri, you know how much I hate arguing!” Théa stamped her foot. “Especially when I am clearly right and you are not!” Her voice softened when she turned to me. “You’ll tell us, though, if you need it? If you need our help?”
I hesitated, then nodded. Pausing, I clenched my toes, closed my eyes for a few seconds before opening them. The hallway was blissfully still. “I think I’ll be fine. As long as someone else is around—”
“Perfect, then, that Henri’s here! See you at supper!” Théa bounded away, with a smile I didn’t understand. I wanted to inquire more, but she was gone in seconds. But not before she threw me a wink.
“She’s something else, isn’t she?” Henri said with a grin.
My heart twinged at the tenor in his voice, even though it had no cause to. I just nodded my head, unable to find the words.
She’d called him Henri. And he’d let her. Like he’d heard his name from her lips a hundred times before.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
WE WALKED IN silence; Henri’s words repeated in my head. When this was all over, when our duties were complete, perhaps he would court Théa. And that would make me happy. The kindest of our quartet, with the most thoughtful boy. Could there be a more perfect pair?
Henri came to a sudden halt. “I’m sorry if I caused any offense. I didn’t mean to imply you needed my help; I—”
“Monsieur,” I rushed. “You were worried about me, I understand. I appreciate it, truly.” I searched the planes of his face.
He flushed and murmured in assent. “I believe ma tante is waiting.” He opened the door to the makeshift ballroom. It must’ve been a parlor in the past, but now all that was left were a few sparse furnishings and a large, unobstructed expanse of parquet wooden floor. A harpsichord sat in the corner.
“How did you know…?”
But Madame de Treville was urging us through the door. “I don’t recall instructing you to idle,” she said. “How is the skirt?”
“Un grand plaisir. A delight. I feel like a princess.”
Henri snorted, tried to cover it with a cough.
“Now is not the time for your effervescent wit,” Madame de Treville said. “Come now, get going.”
Shoes scraped against the floorboards, an awkward shamble from side to side. “Tante, I hate to interrupt, but you requested me? Something about today’s lesson?” Henri asked.
Her eyes lit with understanding. “Don’t hide in the door frame!” He wrung his ink-stained hands as he approached her—after a pointed glare from her, he immediately let his arms rest at his sides. Madame de Treville nodded in my direction. “Tania’s progressed quickly, but I’m not convinced she can actually maintain her composure around anyone besides the girls and myself. You’ll have to do.”
“Me?” Henri went stone-still. “But … but…”
Madame de Treville let out a great, odious sigh. “Do you question Sanson every time he asks something of you, too? Does he not find that aggravating?” The tips of Henri’s ears burned through his hair.
Madame de Treville flipped through sheet music with harsh, unrestrained fervor. She’d snapped at Aria earlier today over a missed parry, had Portia grinding her teeth so hard I could hear the clench of her jaw. Théa escaped unscathed, probably because she was off sewing my skirt. Something had happened … would happen. I wasn’t sure how I’d avoided her ire up until this afternoon. With a sudden lurch, I wondered if I could make it to the window before I lost the contents of my stomach.
“We’ll run through a few basics,” Madame de Treville snapped. “Ignore the parts requiring more than two people; I want to see how Tania can manage one-on-one interaction.” After retreating to the harpsichord’s accompanying bench, Madame de Treville played the first notes of a minuet. The instrument was angled for her to see us over the top of the sheet music.
Henri took a few steps toward me. I studied him, blinked. Mirrored his shaky steps. My pulse was racing; I could feel it in my wrists.
