The Rose Bride (19 page)

“Yes, the king sees what he wishes to see,” Desirée concurred. “But for how long, Mother? And what if others see something else? Someone else? Me?”

Ombrine laughed, low and clever and evil. “Why do you think I took that inventory? We’ll take little things no one will miss and pay the Circle for more spells, more power. No one will touch us. Ever.”

“No more starving. No more rags,” Desirée exulted.

“I’ve been thinking that perhaps the god took Rose as payment. If so, he has favored us twice over. We are certainly blessed:”

“Oui,” Desirée said cheerily as she adjusted the cuff on her fine gown.

“Now, come, let’s make sure Reginer Marchand drinks his wine.”

No!
Rose took an unthinking step toward them, panicking when she realized what she’d done. But they didn’t see her.

With a second step, they would.

She caught her breath and forced herself to stay rooted to the spot.

Just then, Reginer’s wife, Claire, came out of the stable. She was holding two of the golden goblets.

“Ooh, that dog,” Claire said, with a moue of apology as she held them upside down and shook them, as if to illustrate her point. “He got loose and ran all over the studio! And I’m afraid he knocked over the wine,”

Rose was startled. She remembered the two times she herself had dumped out Ombrine’s proffered goblets. Was the goddess still at work?

“What a pity.” Ombrine reached out and took the goblets. “We’ll have to make some more.”

“Indeed,” Desirée said.

The week of feasting ended and life for most in the Land Beyond went back to normal. But for Jean-Marc life extended into a state of bliss. He was a husband again and he hoped to become a father soon. In the evenings, he would return from his long day as king to find “Rose” standing at the balcony, gazing up at the stars with a faint smile on her face. In the mornings, the sun glimmered through her blond hair and dusted her creamy skin with gold.

With the queen by his side, Jean-Marc resumed the custom of dining with his nobles. After the death of Lucienne, he had usually dined alone. Now jesters and acrobats came to court. Minstrels and troubadours sang of love in the greenwood. His life was full to bursting, just like his heart.

Of an evening, he would stroll alone by the reflecting pond and think about the journey his heart had taken. The early death of his mother, Queen Marie, had cast a shadow over his childhood, and Lucienne was the sunshine that turned dour youth to happy manhood. Then her death sent him to a land of utter blackness, and sorrow was the only house where Jean-Marc could lay his head. Grief became his sanctuary.

Then the Rose Bride knocked and called him back out into the light. It was blinding, this love, so bright it burned. He wondered if one day it would mellow like a blazing fire that finally banks, with coals that give off steady and reliable warmth. He couldn’t imagine such a thing. His love was all-consuming.

One night, not long after he had first seen the little brown doe, she appeared beside the statue of Artemis. She gazed directly at him as if she had been waiting for him. He was charmed and moved, and for a moment, afraid that perhaps the goddess had sent her on an errand that would end badly for him.

She stood her ground, though she shifted her weight and flicked her tail. Her distress signals made perfect sense: He was a man and a hunter. She appeared to be alone and vulnerable.

“Bon soir, ma petite,”
he said softly. He walked over to her, bowed, and greeted her. She took two faltering steps backward and made shallow keening noises. “It’s all right. I won’t hurt you.”

She turned tail and bolted.

The next evening, he saw her again. She permitted him to come a little closer, but fear overtook her again and she disappeared into the trees once more.

On the third night, she stood immobile as he approached. Then, when he was perhaps ten paces away, she laid down her ears and made her little crying noise. He was touched by her fragility, her vulnerability, and for no good reason than that he wished it, he set himself to the task of winning her trust.

By the fifth night, he thought to bring her a gift. It was an apple, shiny and red. He took it from the large golden bowl of fruit in his council chamber. Kings ate their apples with knives and forks, and he considered asking a servant to cut it up for her. But
she was not a lady, she was a deer, and so he simply tucked it into his pocket.

He held the succulent fruit out to her. She took a cautious step toward him, and another. At the last, she stopped, and gazed up at him.

“Take it,” he urged her.

But she would not.

Disappointed, he turned and resumed his path beside the pool. Then he heard the clop of her hooves. He slid a glance over his shoulder. Her ears were down—she was still anxious—but she fell in beside him and walked with him, as if she were a wolfhound on a leash. He was quite amazed and very pleased.

He held out the apple. She blinked at it, but didn’t take it.

He walked. She kept pace.

“How is it with you?” he asked her. Of course she didn’t answer. He didn’t expect her to. As if she had asked, he said, “It is very well with me. I think you know why.” He smiled. “I’m very much in love:”

She made no response and they continued their stroll. After a time he said, “It’s a wonder to wake up beside a wife again. I’d forgotten what it was like.”

After that, they walked on in companionable silence. The doe was skittish, but she didn’t flee.

He resolved that by the next full moon, she would take something to eat from his hand.

And so it became a ritual for them. Rose would wait for sundown, and Jean-Marc would appear. He always
came alone and he brought her an array of tempting delicacies: apples, cabbages, carrots. After a few evening strolls, he took up the habit of bringing along his lute, which he would strum as they walked.

Mostly he spoke in raptures of his deep love for the queen. Then, over time, he began to discuss affairs of state and the doings of the court.

“My eyes have been closed for so long,” he confessed. “I’ve let things go. I haven’t provided for my people. I was so lost in my sorrow and then in my joy. No wonder Sabot was on me to marry. I wonder at the restraint he showed. He should have shaken some sense into me and made me see how completely I had lost the love of the people. The Pretender could never have taken such advantage if I had been a popular king.”

He cocked his head at her. “Now that I’ve had a chance to gather my wits, I see the possibilities for change. I can improve the lot of my people and their children. And speaking of children ...”

Her heart stopped beating. She faltered.
No, not with
her, she thought. She stared at him, smelled him. A child would seal them together. It was the way of things. Once that happened, all hope was dashed.

What
hope?
she chided herself.
Artemis has made you into what you are. She allowed him to
marry
Desirée
.

“. . . my sister-in-law is going to have a baby,” he finished.

Relief made her stumble. Claire and Reginer were to have a child. So they were well ... so far.

And as for Jean-Marc ...

It is not too late
, she thought. But he had married her. He was bound to her by the gods.
He was tricked
. . . .

“Perhaps it will go that way with Lucienne and me,” he said. She blinked at him and he blushed. “I meant to say Rose. Rose is my wife. Lucienne . . . died.” He sighed and rested his chin on his chest. “At least, I think she did. You see, my new wife looks exactly like her. And I have thought . . .” He trailed off, gazing at the spires and turrets of his palace.

His voice fell to a choked whisper. He didn’t look at her and his words came out diffident and uncertain, as if he felt that he was taking a risk.

“If indeed you are an envoy from Artemis, can you please tell me, is she Lucienne magically restored to me?”

Then and there, her hopes of love shattered. Monsieur Sabot had so much as told her that Jean-Marc had searched for her because of the resemblance. But to hear him say that it was Lucienne he still wanted, to hear the longing in his voice, and the wish . . . it hurt her more than she could ever have anticipated.

“Come,” he whispered.

She gazed up at his dark eyes, his strong chin. Would he come to love Desirée for herself in time Would Ombrine and Desirée bewitch him into thinking that he did?

She followed him and then they crossed into a
courtyard. Paper lanterns and festoons hung from the pomegranate trees. Lutes and tambours played and masked folk in fancy dress toasted each other with tankards. A peacock swayed past in all his glory. Monkeys giggled and capered in the trees.

“We’re celebrating Reginer and Claire’s new happiness,” he said.

“Your Majesty, have you a new pet?” a man asked. He was dressed in soldier’s gear, but he wore a half-mask above a beard braided with ribbons.

“Indeed,” Jean-Marc replied. “I suppose I do:’ His voice was warm enough, but Rose smelled tension on him. It was getting stronger. It was becoming difficult for her to remain beside him. The fear pushed her animal instincts to the limit, ordering her to flee. But the woman she still was wanted to remain by Jean-Marc’s side.

Jean-Marc stopped for a moment and she followed his line of vision. They were nearing a domed building fronted with columns. On a rise beyond it, a flame burned in a stone bowl.

Jean-Marc took a torch from a sconce in the stone wall and opened a door beside it. He said to Rose, “Follow closely, little one. There are steep stairs.”

He spoke true. She walked down the sharp stone incline very carefully, her hoofs clacking, the noise echoing against the buffeting flame of his torch. His tension grew. On the last stair, he paused.

And then he walked into the dark, low room lined with sarcophagi, all of them topped with women lyingn
in repose. This was the final resting place of queens, she guessed.

He knelt before the one in the center of the room. “Et
voila,”
he whispered reverently. “If you have seen my present queen, you can see why I’m asking Artemis my question.”

She drew up behind him and looked over his shoulder.

The room spun. Rose swayed. It could not be.

It could not be.

A painting was one thing. But the marble image was identical to Rose in every way. The arch of a brow, the shape of her nose—she searched for something that was different. There was nothing. She and the figure were closer than twins. They were the same woman.

It could not be.

Along the side of the alabaster, the name LUCIENNE had been cut into the stone. Rose read it three times to make certain it didn’t say her own name.

She turned away, thinking that she understood the king a little better. If she had the chance to meet her mother’s double, or Elise’s, or even her father’s, she would dare much to make it happen. If he had loved his wife half as much as she loved those whom she had lost, then she pitied him.

But she also knew straight down to her soul that whether he was married to Desirée or to her, Rose, it didn’t matter. Maybe that was why Artemis had permitted Desirée to steal her appearance and changed
her into a doe. To spare her from such a marriage. What would it be like to wed a man who saw you only as the most perfect of replacements? To know for a certainty that the best you could hope for was to ease the pain of true love’s death?

Her purple roses had promised that she was loved. What Jean-Marc sought in marrying her was not love at all. It was comfort.

She was dashed. Bleating, she turned and headed for the stairs, her hooves making a terrible noise. Jean-Marc rose and called, “Wait! Stop!” but she couldn’t. Human free will was not in command of her; her deer self knew she had to get out.

Danger
.

For there is no greater danger to a human being than the breaking of one’s heart.

Rose escaped from the mausoleum and dashed out into the festive courtyard. Panicking, she bleated and a portly man dressed like Dionysus, lord of wine, said, “For the love of the gods, look! Where’s my bow?”

“Let’s catch her! We’ll have venison for breakfast!” shouted another, costumed like Poseidon, god of the sea.

Rose dodged them easily. They were both very drunk. But as she darted through the crowd, she caught sight of another man, standing distant, and her blood ran cold. He seemed to be made all of shadows and he was watching her. A dark bird perched on his shoulder. He seemed very like the
dark figure she had seen with Ombrine and Desirée back at the
chateau
.

“By the gods!” a woman dressed like a princess shouted as she staggered toward Rose, obscuring her view. She was holding a cup of wine and a piece of cake. “Is this someone’s tame doe?”

Then the woman swayed out of Rose’s field of vision.

The shadowy man was gone. And as before, Rose wondered if she had imagined him.

“Attends!
Wait!” she heard Jean-Marc calling behind her. She put on a burst of speed and raced through the courtyard, dodging the revelers.