With her fingers interlocked and clasped tightly, Blanche said, “I only know they are used in a game called taroc, my lady, though some say there are arcane uses for such as well.”
On other tables sat games of dames, twelve red and twelve black pieces on alternating squares of the damiers, the boards like those of the ones for échecs, though the playing pieces were round disks all.
Camille looked up from the games and found hanging above a broad fireplace the portrait of a slender young man dressed all in blue and standing on a grassy hill, the wind blowing his cloak about and ruffling his dark hair. He was quite handsome, with a long, straight nose and regular features; across his body he held a walking stick in his two hands, almost as one would hold a quarterstaff low. He seemed to be looking out of the portrait and straight across the room. Camille turned, and on the opposite wall above a white marble table was a second portrait, this one of a striking woman in green, standing on another windy hilltop, her black hair loose and blowing, her cloak and gown billowing in the wind; she was dressed as if for riding horse-back, a crop in her hand. She faced the image opposite. It was as if they stood on adjacent hills in the same gusty blow, looking at one another across a vale between.
“Who are they?” asked Camille.
“Prince Alain’s sire and dam,” replied Blanche, her face quite pale. “They say this is how they met—him out for a walk, she out for a ride.”
“Does Alain look like his père . . . or mère?”
“Oh, my lady, please don’t ask. I am pledged not to say aught of the prince. It is his wish, for he would tell you himself.”
Camille took a deep breath, and then asked, “Where are they now, père and mère, that is?”
“No one knows, my lady. They vanished sometime back, and all the hunters and trackers in Faery couldn’t seem to find them. ’Tis a sad thing for his brother and sisters and himself, their parents gone missing.”
“Prince Borel, and Ladies Celeste and Liaze?”
Blanche nodded, and in a pleading voice said, “Oh, let us go from this room, for tragedy is like to overwhelm me.” And so they went onward.
Through hallways they trod, and here and there in the walls were panels, and when asked, Blanche opened one and pulled on a rope in the space behind, pulleys squeaking somewhere above; a wooden box, open on the front, came into view. “It is used to convey food or other goods from one floor to another,” said Blanche, smiling. “It is called a sourd-muet serveur.”
“Oh, but how clever,” said Camille. “It must save many a footstep bearing loads up and down stairs.”
“Indeed, my lady,” replied Blanche, closing the panel and then moving on.
They came to a chamber with a hardwood floor; at the far end there was nought but a great oaken desk and chair facing toward the door, with other chairs ranged about the walls. Blanche had no knowledge as to the use of this room, though Camille deemed it was for conducting the landowner’s business; meetings with smallholders, mayhap.
Still in another room sat a huge table of many shallow drawers running from board to floor, and therein lay maps and charts of lands both within Faery and without, some sections marked with warnings of dire creatures therein, other whole sections completely blank.
And thus did go the day, Blanche leading Camille thither and yon as they explored the whole of the house, all, that is, but for one floor of one wing, there where the prince did dwell. Camille was quite astonished at the size of it all, as well as o’erwhelmed by its opulence.
That evening, again she dined alone at the foot of a very long mahogany table, servants hovering in the candlelight and watching her every move like owls ready to pounce on a vole, even though they stood quite motionless with their backs to the wall and their eyes seeming elsewhere . . . more or less.
The next day Blanche took her out on a tour of the grounds, and they followed along white-stone pathways wending among the many gardens, with their chrysanthemums and roses and violets and tulips and entire spectrums of flowers that Camille could not name, their blossoms all nodding in a gentle summer breeze. They strolled past ornamental grasses alongside ponds of still water with flowering lily pads afloat. In some, golden-scaled fish swam lazily; in others, the fish seemed bedecked in many-colored calico. Streams burbled across the estate, lucid in their clearness, singing their songs as they tumbled over rocks. One stream was quite broad and fairly deep, and here did Camille see the black swans aswimming. She and Blanche passed by deliberate arrangements of large and small boulders sitting here and there, with vines growing between and spiralling up and ’round the rocks. And now and again to Camille’s wonder, they came across stone sculptings and metal castings and various other imaginative placements: small figures of toads and frogs sat on the banks of ponds; stone mice and voles peeked out from ’neath the bases of boulders; here and there were scattered burbling fountains and slow-flowing basins in which birds bathed and mayhap other diminutive beings as well; small footbridges crossed over rills, stanchions for lanterns along the rail, and in places only large, flat stones spanned the running streams.
Everywhere they went, gardeners and groundskeepers and other such bowed or tipped their hats to the Lady Camille. As she had been instructed by Blanche, Camille responded with a nod, though she also added a smile.
They passed by a long queue of empty stables to come to a smithy, where a fairly young and portly man with grey eyes peering out through a hanging-down shock of dark hair stepped forth and bowed low. “This is Renaud, my lady,” said Blanche, “blacksmith and farrier.”
“Smith I may be, Blanche, or at least I think so, for in these last several years, I have learned much about the blending and heating and hammering and shaping and molding and quenching of metals, bronze and brass in particular.”
“Bronze and brass and not iron?” said Camille.
“Oh, no, my lady, not iron,” answered Renaud. “There are those in Faery who cannot abide iron, and so we keep it out.”
“No iron whatsoever? Not even for nails or horseshoes?”
“Wooden pegs make splendid nails . . . likewise brass. Brass for shoeing horses, too—shoes and nails alike—not that I am much of a farrier these days, for there are no horses at all in the stables.”
Camille laughed and said, “Horses or no, it matters not, for I know not how to ride.”
Renaud grinned and thrust out a hand of negation, saying, “Not true, my lady, for did I not see you riding to the great house yon on the back of the”—Renaud frowned—“on the back of the—”
“The Bear,” supplied Blanche.
“Yes, the Bear,” agreed Renaud, nodding at Blanche.
“Ah, but, Master Farrier,” said Camille, “I would think that quite different from riding a horse.”
Renaud smiled and said, “And so would I, my lady. And so would I. Still, I think you’ll not get a chance to learn, for, ever since the Bear came, the horses are all gone away.”
“Bear? My Bear? Why would that ever make a difference? He’s quite gentle, you know.”
“Aye. We know—you and I and Blanche and all folk here at Summerwood Manor—however, try telling that to a horse.” Renaud sighed. “We simply had to send them away.” He glanced over his shoulder to the red coals in the forge. “But now if you will excuse me, I have fittings in the fire.”
Camille nodded, and Renaud rushed back into the smithy, leaving the ladies to go on.
At the noontide, in one of the many gazebos, servants provided Camille with a lunch of peeled cucumber slices served on a white, crusty bread. Too, there was golden honey and pale yellow butter, if my lady did so prefer; and all was enhanced by a sweet, tangy drink made of a yellow fruit from across the seas, or so did the handmaid believe. Camille did manage to have Blanche join her in this fine midday repast, though the black-haired girl barely ate a bite, belying her hale manner and her ample size.
After lunch, they came to the entrance of the tall hedge maze, and, in spite of Camille’s importuning, here did Blanche balk. “Oh, my lady, I dare not enter. ’Tis a puzzle I must not essay, else I would be lost forever.”
“Pish, tush,” responded Camille. “The maze is here for the fun of it. Besides, in Fra Galanni’s library I read about such labyrinths, and I’ve always wanted to experience one.” Laughing, she took Blanche’s hand and tugged, yet Blanche burst into tears and pulled loose and fled away.
Puzzled, Camille followed, coming upon Blanche sitting on the grass beside one of the many ponds.
Camille sat on the sward at her lady’s maid’s side. Calico-fish lazily gathered in the water nigh, as if waiting to be fed. “What is it, Blanche, that frightens you so?”
“I don’t know,” replied Blanche. “It’s just that I can never go in there.”
“Well, then, we shan’t,” said Camille.
Timidly, Blanche smiled at her mistress.
“Come,” said Camille, standing and holding out her hand, “there is much more to see.”
Blanche reached up and took the offered grip and stood and brushed herself off, brushing off Camille’s white dress as well.
Through shaded arbors they strolled, the summer air mild within. In one of the arbors they came across an elderly gardener upon his knees in a freshly tilled plot, where he carefully worked seeds into the dark soil.
“What is it you are planting, Andre?” asked Blanche, stepping past the turned-over earth to stand in front of the man.
Concentrating upon getting the placement just right, Andre glanced up and then back to the soil, replying, “White camellias, Blanche, a tribute to the prince’s most beautiful young mademoiselle.”
“Oh, my,” said Camille.
Andre looked back to where Camille stood, then scrambled to his feet and touched the brim of his cap, saying, “Beg pardon, my lady, but I didn’t see—”
“Oh, Andre,” said Camille, “there’s no need to apologize. May I help with the planting?”
A look of doubt crossed Andre’s face. “Oh, I don’t know about that, my lady, for ’tis but common labor I do. Besides, the seeds must be put just so, and—”
“Trust me, Andre,” said Camille, “for common labor I do quite well, especially planting, for I am a crofter’s daughter.”
“I mean not to gainsay you, my lady, but a crofter’s daughter you no longer are. Instead, you are the mistress of this great estate and all the holdings beyond.”
At these words, Blanche nodded in affirmation, but Camille said, “Nevertheless, I would aid.”
“Oh, my lady,” said Blanche, “you would soil your dress and—”
“Then I shall change,” said Camille, “into one which has seen many a spring sowing.”
A short while later, dressed in the shift she had brought from the stone cottage—her very best dress back there, though she did not say such to Blanche—Camille grubbed in the soil next to Andre, planting camellias in those places where he did direct.
After a pleasing afternoon of work, and a bath and another solitary dinner, that night Camille fell asleep while reading a book of poetry and sitting in one of the soft leather chairs in her small library.
When she awoke she was in her bed. How she had gotten there she did not know, but ’twas in her bed she awoke.
Past the silk canopy, through the unshaded skylight Camille saw night fading to dawn. Sliding out from under her light cover, Camille padded to her closet and quickly dressed, donning her travelling clothes, for they were suitable for what she had in mind. She stepped from her chambers and quietly slipped down the stairs and out the main door and ran lightly across the dew-wet grass, morning mist swirling in her wake, the sun not yet risen.
To the hedge maze she went and ’round to the entry, then, taking a deep breath, she stepped within. Along the shadowed path she trod, keeping track of twists and turns, noting openings left and right, and using the trick of which Fra Galanni had spoken—that of keeping her right hand always brushing along the right-side hedge-wall. She knew that in some mazes this was the key to finding the center . . . but this maze was not one of those, for she found herself back at the entrance.
Ah, then, another strategy is needed.
Camille once again followed the right-hand way, but at the first opening into another row on the left, she stepped across and entered, and moments later came to a dead end.
Back to the first row she went, and to the second leftward opening.
Again and again she repeated her tactic, exploring more and more of the maze.
Now rightwards she tended from leftwards, and the layout became clearer to her, and then she was quite certain where the center must lie, and toward this end she went.
As she came nigh the last of her journey, she thought she heard what seemed to be the soft sound of weeping.
Oh, my, it would not do to come upon a saddened someone unawares.
“Allo!” she called. “Is anyone there?”
Abruptly, silence fell.
Hesitantly, as the sun beyond the hedges lipped the horizon and day came upon the land, Camille stepped forward and ’round the last turn, to see—
“Oh, Bear, I have missed you so!”
10
Masque
W
ith sudden tears springing to her eyes, Camille rushed forward and threw her arms about the neck of the Bear and hugged him fiercely, murmuring, “Oh, Bear, oh, Bear, where have you been?”
She stood a long while with her face buried in fur, the Bear sitting quite still as she did so. Finally she released him and glanced ’round, scarcely noticing the stone benches placed about the green sward and the statues of a man and woman on a low pedestal in the center. “Oh, Bear, are you lost? Is that why I heard you moaning?”
The Bear gave a low rumble somewhere between that of a
whuff
and a deep growl. At this Camille laughed gaily, saying, “Tell me, O Bear, is that
rrrumm
a yes or a no? Ah,
tchaa,
but never mind, for I shall set you free of this maze. You see, I know the way out. Come along.”