you think? Except for a few who worked magic for ungrateful kings”—he gestured at a man in armor, his helm tucked under his arm—“most of them probably never did anything more horrible than order dinner. They worked small magic if they had to and tried to avoid beheadings.”
How matter-of-fact he was! She wondered what it must have been like to grow up in a family where magic was so much a part of everyday life, where no one had to renounce their magical ancestors but instead displayed them casually in the hall, where their faces could be seen to resemble one’s own. If Camille had grown up like this, she might know what was happening with the pamphlets. She might even know how to control it.
And, said a tiny voice deep inside, perhaps you wouldn’t be so ashamed of what you are.
As they walked on, Camille’s eye snagged on a portrait of a young man. His long dark hair coiled over his shoulders, his mouth defiant. Set into the forest green of the background was a small seal, no bigger than a coin: a gilt circle with an M inside it, surrounded by five tiny stars. From the corner of his eye dangled a lapis-colored tear. His fingertips were black, as if ink-stained.
“At the house there’s a portrait of Séguin”—Chandon flinched—“painted just like this.”
“It’s a kind of iconography.” With his ringed finger, Chandon pointed out the unusual features. “The tears indicate the sorrow the magician uses to work his magic. The blackened hands represent the burned smell of magic, and how it scorches to use it. The stars are a bit bold, I admit—they mean the person is a magician. This style was fashionable until the purges under Louis XIV. After that, these kinds of portraits were hidden in back halls like this one, warded against non-magicians who might start shouting for inquisitions. The style is known as à la merveille. I find it quite beautiful.”
In the style of marvels. But spells and wards could fade, couldn’t they, like the glamoire worked on Versailles? A portrait like this would be an admission of guilt, and yet, here they were. “You’re not afraid to have them hanging here.”
“Where else would they hang?” he asked, genuinely curious. “The house protects its magicians.” A shadow shifted across his features. “Or did you mean I was afraid of what they’d done? I’m not my ancestors—not at all!—but I am rather pleased with who I am. Not even a king has the power to make me hate myself.”
Again that little voice whispered: Can you say the same of yourself?
She pushed it from her mind as they came to a pair of carved wooden doors. “Here we are,” he said. “Are you ready?”
“Ready for what? I thought we were here simply to listen to your plan.”
“I’m afraid it may be a bit more complicated than that.” He took her arm. “Shall we go in?”
19
Chandon flung open the double doors. Beyond was a room of candlelight and shadow. Where she had expected at least a handful of people, there was only one frowning young man, elbow on the mantelpiece. Wearing a foppish high collar and extravagantly tight clothes, he raised a monocle to his eye and glared.
“Come in!” Chandon said, practically pulling her along. As she hurried toward the fireplace, she took in the heavy oak furniture, long rows of black bookcases, tapestries so fine they could have come from the Gobelins. Beneath her feet lay a fantastical carpet crowded with curvetting dragons.
“Ignore every stick of the furniture,” he said under his breath. “It was Maman’s idea to have medieval things to match the house. I won’t answer for it. Roland!” he called to the magician by the fire. “Our final guest has arrived. May I introduce Camille Durbonne, the Vicomtesse de Séguin?”
“Vicomtesse,” the young man said. “The Comte de Roland, your servant.” He was a little older than she and Chandon and slight, with a sharp, arrogant nose and wavy mahogany-brown hair. He wore a haughty smirk, and the small bow he gave Camille was, according to any standard of etiquette, a certain snub.
But he was not the only one in the room. Another young man in a military uniform was kneeling by the fire. As he rose to greet her, the Baron de Foudriard, Chandon’s lover, was as fiercely handsome as ever. Dark-haired and possessed of a lion’s grace, he looked as if he could spring into action at a moment’s notice. The scar on