The Queen's Necklace (40 page)

“Supposing that is,” Rodaric added with a sigh, “that five months from now when the child is born, I am in any position to reward anyone for anything.”

Tarnburgh, Winterscar—Nine Months Earlier

3 Messidor, 6537

I
t was high summer in Winterscar, the season of endless light. The cafés and coffee-houses never closed, the theaters staged operas and dramas beginning at midnight, and the streets of Tarnburgh were filled twenty-two hours a day with a rumble of carriages and a passing of sedan chairs, and with light-hearted, light-headed, light-footed parties of revelers in thin summer satins and tissues and muslins, going from dinners to the theater to balls on foot—for who could sleep when the air was so soft and bright?

Even when the sun dipped briefly below the horizon it was hard to rest, knowing the full light of day would return so soon. Better to nap in the hot afternoons, when heat and the physical toll of so much gaiety combined to make one deliciously drowsy. People stayed indoors during the brief twilight, but they left all the torches and the lamps burning.

The sunset hush was just settling over the city, the clamor of passing carriages outside had died away, when King Jarred walked through his candlelit palace, deep in thought.

In the anteroom to his bedchamber, he found his two pages sprawled on the floor, playing with a set of ivory spillikins. At the king's approach, the two boys abandoned the game and sprang to
their feet. Their white wigs were askew, the knees of their blue satin breeches wrinkled and dirty, and they hung their heads, whether ashamed at being caught at such a babyish pastime, or because it was long past their bedtime, he could not be certain. It occurred to Jarred that he ought to say something, as he was responsible for them.

“We will play cards,” he decided at last, remembering that Zelene had sometimes done so with her own pages. “It is—a more gentlemanly occupation.”

The boys were pleased, though perhaps a little surprised. They brought out the cards and pulled up chairs to a table by a latticed window, where the moonlight came in. Jarred played with them for the next hour,
Beggar My Neighbor
and
My Bird Sings
, until the sunrise, when Doctor Purcell arrived.

“You sent for me earlier, I know.” The old man looked apologetic as he made his bow.

“It was nothing urgent. I told them not to disturb you if you were resting. But now you
are
here, you may congratulate me. I seem to have extricated myself from that little difficulty we discussed before.”

“Extricated?” said the philosopher. “Do you mean the young lady?”

Jarred sent the pages away; it was long past time that he did so anyway. “I followed your advice to the letter,” he told Purcell, once they were alone together. “Well, you know that I did. Mademoiselle and her family fairly haunted Lindenhoff.”

“So I recall,” said Purcell. “And the result?”

“She is apparently convinced that being my queen would be simply unbearable.” Jarred picked up the cards and shuffled through them absently. The deck was a fanciful one: the suits were hearts, roses, rubies, and poniards. “Because—while I never spoke of our future together after that first time, I did—rather make love to her.
Nothing serious, just a few kisses, which I have to say she disliked amazingly.”

He smiled ruefully, remembering what a chilly reception his kisses had received. He could smile now, though he had hardly been inclined to do so at the time. But it often seemed to Jarred that when he was with her and when they were apart he was two different persons. “And when I realized exactly how she felt about it, it came to me that if I pretended to be very stupid—if I kept on imposing in that particular way, it might serve to foster her aversion to me.”

“And did it?”

Jarred dealt himself the Queen of Hearts. Amused by the fancy, he ran through the pack until he came to the Knave of Poniards. “Unflattering as all this is to my self-esteem, I must admit it has succeeded admirably. Even better, she has fallen in love with her handsome young cousin, just as you predicted.”

Purcell walked over to the marble fireplace at one end of the room, examined his reflection in a gilded mirror over the mantle. “Jmel, Your Majesty—or Zmaj? I confess I have trouble telling those young men apart.” The doctor made a slight adjustment to his neckcloth. He had dressed in haste on receiving the king's summons.

“Zmaj. I should tell you, Francis, that I haven't been near the Debrûle mansion for several weeks, and Mademoiselle has been missing her lessons with Lord Wittlesbeck in the archives. Naturally, I suspected the truth. And when I encountered the young lady in town with Zmaj today—when they both looked so startled and guilty—I knew for certain that our plan had succeeded.”

And if his relief had been mixed with jealousy—it had still been relief. Relief that this pastel fantasy of a palace would remain his exclusive domain, that the comforting old rituals, seldom altered, would remain intact. Relief, above all, that there would be no more intrusions by the dark-eyed little foreign beauty and her bizarre relations.

“This is all very satisfactory,” said the philosopher. “And you may congratulate yourself that no announcement has been made, that you did not write to any of your relations warning them to
expect
an announcement.” He turned and looked expectantly at the king. “But when do you intend to discuss this with the young lady?”

Jarred put down the cards. “I will visit Mademoiselle the day after tomorrow. After I saw her in town, she sent me a letter asking me to call, suggesting that I come on either the sixth or the tenth, when her aunt will be out of the house. I believe, Francis, that I am about to be asked to grant her her freedom. Naturally, I mean to oblige.” He knew there was still some danger of fanning the embers of his cooling passion back into flame, but a final interview seemed to be required.

“On the sixth, Your Majesty? But are you not engaged to visit your cousin, Lady Serena, at Ravenhurst that day?”

“My heavens, yes,” said the king, slapping his forehead. “Now, how did I come to forget!”

He folded his hands and rested his chin on them. “Though I must admit, while I have always considered poor old Cousin Serena the greatest bore in nature, compared to an afternoon call at the Debrûles', with the aunt pretending to be so amiable and Zmaj looking daggers at me—”

Despite the growing light outside, it was still very dim in the room; several of the spermaceti candles had burned down. Purcell was in the act of relighting two of them under the mirror, when the king startled him with a sudden peremptory command. “No, don't do that!”

The doctor jerked and turned around. The king laughed uneasily. “I do beg your pardon, Francis. I can't imagine what made me speak so sharply. But let that be. There is light enough already, and the truth is, I find that any sort of—glare—gives me a headache.”

Purcell moved forward, took out a pair of his spectacles from a
coat pocket, and placed them on the end of his nose. “Is there something amiss with your eyes, sir?” He peered intently into the king's face.

“I expect it is only the time of the year. I'll be myself in another few weeks,” said Jarred. Then he wondered why he had not simply stated the truth: It had nothing to do with the light in the sky, it had everything to do with bright lights shining on mirrors and other reflective surfaces.

But there were many things he hid from Purcell: his frequent confusion and lapses of memory, the way that Mademoiselle Ys alternately attracted and repelled him.

“At least,” he said out loud, “there will be no more saltless feasts at the Debrûles'.” He had finally discovered the reason why meals there were always so tasteless: it was a general deficiency of seasoning and a specific lack of salt.

“Feasts without salt?” Purcell had been in the act of removing his spectacles, but now he put them back on and regarded the king with a puzzled frown. “I was not aware that there were any invalids living with the Debrûles.”

It was true that many physicians advised their patients against salting their food. The reasoning was: as salt was deadly poison to Goblins, it could not be entirely wholesome for Men. Accordingly, children, old people, and invalids were often warned against overindulgence—or any indulgence at all. But that healthy adults should shun the seasoning was highly unusual.

“Mademoiselle has a delicate constitution. Not precisely sickly, but highly susceptible. So, Madame Debrûle has engaged a chef who cooks without salt, and the rest of the kitchen staff, if you will believe me, appears to be made up entirely of Ouphs!” Thinking of this, Jarred shuddered. Of course, everyone
had
things of Goblin manufacture—but to actually trust them with the preparation of food? It seemed just a little unsafe.

“You will be going to Ravenhurst, then?”

The king nodded. “I'll tell young Faison.” Mr. Faison was his personal secretary, an active and enthusiastic youth with his eye on a cabinet post some years in the future. “He can make my excuses to the young lady, and also write a letter to Cousin Serena, reminding her to expect me. Her memory is not what it was.”

But two days later, a little after noon, the king and the philosopher met in the courtyard between the clock-tower and the stables, just as Jarred was preparing to enter his summer carriage.

“My dear Francis,” said the king airily, pausing beside the barouche to pull on a pair of tan gloves, “why do you frown? Is it the startling shade of my coat? Or the coquelicot ribbons on my walking-stick, which I must admit are a little gay?”

“Not at all,” said Purcell. Though he
had
noticed that the king wore his dark hair unpowdered, that there was a lightness and a lack of formality about his attire unlikely to find favor in the eyes of such an exacting old woman as Lady Serena. “I am pleased to see that you are finally wearing colors. It merely occurred to me that you are leaving rather late, if you intend to reach Ravenhurst in time for supper.”

“Ah,” said Jarred. A lackey opened the door of the carriage, and the king climbed inside. “There has been a foolish mixup—a slip of the tongue on my part. Mr. Faison
assures
me I told him today for the Debrûles and the tenth for Cousin Serena. I only learned of the mistake this morning.”

He laughed uneasily. “I can't think how I came to do anything quite so stupid. But after all, it has worked out much for the best. The sooner I break with Mademoiselle, the better for all concerned.”

“Indeed, Your Majesty, I quite agree. And I felicitate you, sir, on the cancellation of your impending nuptials.”

The king found Ys waiting for him in the parlor, the room with too many mirrors. Madame Debrûle had
not
gone out, though she had retired to her room with some minor complaint and would not be able to receive him.

Mademoiselle looked ill herself, her face flushed and her lips very white. Either she was sick, Jarred decided, as he strode into the room and caught sight of her sitting on a chair by the window, or she was in a violent passion. Then he realized that she was all in black again, swathed in yards of heavy bombazine despite the heat, and wearing black gloves as well. Perhaps that was why she looked so feverish.

“I beg your pardon,” he said, as she jumped up from her seat, sank gracefully down in a low curtsy. “I hope I've not come at an awkward moment. Mademoiselle, have you suffered another loss?”

“Yes,” she replied in a low stifled voice, as she accepted his hand and allowed him to raise her. “It was my Cousin Izek. Do you remember him, Your Majesty? I think that you saw him only once or twice.”

Jarred tried to dredge up some memory of the young man's face. “Izek. The thin boy with the romantic duelling scar. Were you very close?”

Ys shook her head. “But it was so very sudden. They say he ate something that violently disagreed with him.” She shuddered from head to foot, as though that stifling room had suddenly turned much too cold. “My Aunt Valentine says it should be a lesson to us all.”

Jarred was confused, and not because of the mirrors on the wall. He was learning to avoid looking directly at them, to slide his gaze around the edges without appearing to do so. “I don't quite—you did say that it was food poisoning? I fail to see what your aunt—”

Ys gave a bitter laugh. “She says that life is short and full of dangerous chances. That we are not to look to future happiness, but to take what we want today!”

“Yes, I see. It seems a rather harsh thing to say, under the circumstances, and yet—” He felt a sudden desire to confide in the girl. “And yet, I can't say that she is wrong. Zelene and I, we had so many plans for the future. And all the time we were making those plans, there was a weakness inside her. We never knew, no one ever guessed, until one day she just stopped breathing.”

All the while that he spoke, Ys was gazing up at him, her eyes wide, her lips even whiter than they had been before. He did not know if it was sympathy or shock. “It could happen to any of us, just that way, to just stop breathing. Particularly in
this
house.” The king was surprised by the sudden flash of resolution in her eyes. “But it will not happen to me, and it will not happen to anyone that I love.”

Her hands went to the necklace at her throat, fingering the crystal pendant. Seeing her do so, Jarred felt the blood grow thick in his veins, his heart leap inside his chest. Ys was staring at him with what could only be described as a calculating look.

“It is very convenient that you came here today. Convenient—but I wonder if it was precisely fortunate for either of us?”

There was darkness and there was confusion. When Jarred finally came back to himself again, he found that he was lying in semidarkness on a large four-poster bed in a strange room.