a circle three times before settling down behind her knees. “I’ll be back,” I said.
The rooms next to Cécile’s were devoid of anything other than furniture, but at the end of the hallway, I found the master chambers belonging to her mother.
Genevieve de Troyes’ room was very much a boudoir, decorated with ornate furniture, plush burgundy fabrics, and artful clutter. The walls were covered in paintings of women in repose, many of them work I recognized as having originated in Trollus, and all of it expensive. Trinkets of glass and porcelain cluttered the tabletops, and a stack of gilt embossed books sat next to a chair by the fireplace.
I knew well enough how little an opera singer – even a star – was paid, and it came nowhere near close to enough to pay for all this opulence. Her benefactor was a marquis well known to be a patron of the arts, and he must be generous indeed to endow her with all this.
Cécile had only rarely spoken of her mother, and I’d never been able to decide whether she loved the woman to the point of adoration, or hated her. Having never met Genevieve, my opinions were all based on hearsay, but what I’d heard, I hadn’t liked. Past and current behavior suggested she was at the least, selfish, and at the most, a narcissist. But that might all be a front, an image cultivated to fit the perceptions of how an opera star should behave. From what I knew, she’d been born into a family of modest means, her father dying at a young age, leaving her to be raised by her songstress mother.
Yet Genevieve walked in circles far above her social status should allow, which suggested that there was more to her than what the gossipmongers whispered. I was intensely curious about her, doubly so given Cécile’s frantic plea that she needed saving earlier tonight.
With fingers of magic, I began to rifle through cabinets and drawers, making certain I left everything as it had been. I found little of interest other than stacks of love letters from would-be suitors, and pages of badly written poetry signed by someone with the initial J. Her closets were full to the brim with expensive clothes, shoes, and all the accoutrements a wealthy woman was likely to own, the whole of it dominated by a spicy perfume that tickled at my nose.
The drawer in the bedside table I opened, immediately closed, then opened again, my curiosity stronger than my moral fiber as I assessed the collection of silken cords, feathers, and bits of lace. Interesting.
It was only as I was about to close the drawer again that I noticed something was off about the depth of the space. A quick inspection showed me how to pop the false bottom up, revealing a stack of age-darkened letters hidden beneath. A clever place to hide something from high-minded servants.
Turning my attention back to the letters, I skimmed through them. They were from Cécile’s father to her mother, all written in the five-year period following their separation, and each and every one of them pleading with her to come join her family. Questions as to why she changed her mind about accompanying him. Words begging her to come to Goshawk’s Hollow, describing how much he and their children missed her. Desperate sentences explaining that he would sell the farm and bring the children back to Trianon, if only she would answer his letters.
In the last year, they decreased in frequency, but the plea never changed – right up to the point they stopped. Was that when she finally answered him, I wondered? Was that when she said no? Or, after five years of pleading, had he finally realized it was hopeless? And what did it mean that she had kept these letters all these long years? Were they trophies like the love letters I’d found, or deep down, did Genevieve really care?
I thought about taking the letters to show to Cécile, but something stopped me. How could seeing written evidence of her father’s unanswered pleas to her mother do anything but hurt her? She had enough to deal with without me digging up old wounds, so I replaced them in their hiding spot.
Downstairs, I wandered through the great room, the parlor, the kitchen, and even poked my head in the cellar before stepping inside the small, windowless study I found under the stairs. Expanding my ball of light, I started going through the contents