Everywhere was above the sun. Everywhere was below the moon.
The whole Château was mocking her.
Armand’s room was in the royal wing, not far from the King—“An honor no bastard has yet received,” said Erec—and it came furnished with not only silk-cushioned chairs and gilt-framed mirrors but also two bland-faced, obsequious valets who bustled out and started exclaiming over the state of Armand’s clothes, though Rachelle couldn’t see anything wrong with them beyond a few creases from sitting in a carriage all day.
Erec’s hand pressed against the small of her back. “This way,” he said softly, pushing her toward the door that led farther into the suite.
“I thought I was supposed to guard him,” said Rachelle.
“You are, but his valets report to me and they can keep him out of trouble for the five minutes it will take me to show you your room.”
So Armand could be left alone in his room sometimes? Rachelle would be happy to use that excuse to sneak out and search the Château as often as possible.
“I’m staying in his suite?” she asked.
“Not exactly. Through here.”
The bedroom was dominated by the vast, gilded hulk of a canopied bed. Ignoring the entrance to the study at the opposite end of the room, Erec pushed aside one of the hangings to reveal a narrow door.
“The reason he received this suite,” he said, “is so that he could have no secrets from you.”
On the other side of the door was another bedroom, this one decorated in pale blue and silver. But Rachelle hardly noticed the luxury, because the far door stood open, and through it she could see Amélie kneeling in the dressing room amid an ocean of silk and lace.
Amélie looked up. “You’re here!” she exclaimed, and jumped up to grab Rachelle by the shoulders and kiss her cheeks.
“Yes,” said Rachelle. The warm, comforting pressure of Amélie’s hands on her shoulders nearly stole her breath away. Then she looked around the room. Several trunks sat open on the floor, and their contents had exploded across the room in great waves of shimmering, many-colored fabric.
“Where did that all come from?” she asked.
“There are one or two things beyond my power,” said Erec, “but obtaining ladies’ dresses is not one of them. You’re going to be the loveliest lady in the court tonight.”
Rachelle rolled her eyes. “Save the flattery for someone who’s in love with you.”
“Very well.” He leaned close and breathed in her ear, “You will be the lady dearest and most dreadful.”
For a moment, she almost felt the wind of the Great Forest in her hair.
“That is not a compliment,” she said quietly.
“At least it’s perfectly true.” He kissed her cheek. “Now I have duties to attend. Remember, you and your charge will be at the reception tonight.”
Then he was gone. Rachelle could still feel the press of his lips against her cheek. She forced herself to look at Amélie, who had now seen her kissed and complimented by the most famous and unrepentant of all the bloodbound.
Amélie pursed her lips. “So that’s Monsieur d’Anjou. I thought he’d be prettier.” She spoke with the same half-prim, half-laughing voice she used to describe her mother’s most troublesome customers. As if nothing had changed.
Rachelle laughed shakily and said, “You should tell him that. It might be the first time he’s ever heard it.” She surveyed the chaos of the dresses. “Do you have any idea how I’m supposed to get these on?”
“You don’t,” said Amélie. “You stand still and let me put them on you.”
“Do you know how they go on?”
Amélie made a face. “More or less. There’s going to be a chambermaid to help, so I’m sure we’ll work it out.” She paused, then said, “So Monsieur Vareilles is here?”
Rachelle sighed. “In the next room.”
“You still don’t like him?” Amélie’s voice was soft; she didn’t quite look at Rachelle, as if she knew this question might be difficult.
“I never said—” Rachelle began.
“You don’t like him.” Amélie picked up a dress and shook it out. Her voice was calm and matter-of-fact. “I’m not angry. I just wonder why.”
There were a hundred reasons, and only one that really mattered: Armand pretended that the most terrible day of her life had been a joke. That the forestborn had never really been able to threaten her, because there had been some other way out. That if she’d just been clever enough, or brave enough, or holy enough, she could have defied the Great Forest itself and survived.