“Possibly,” he said. “We’re not going to reveal what he did just yet.”
Because if people knew he had turned against the King, they might support him. She remembered the way Armand had looked at her last night, and she felt cold and hollow.
She would have to face that loathing again. After she left Erec, as she wended her way back through the Chateau to her quarters, she couldn’t stop thinking about it. She had to make Armand tell her where he had put Joyeuse. So she would have to face him again, and he would rake her with another one of his disdainful glances, and she felt absolutely sure that it would take him only one look at her to know what she’d done.
He had never thought any better of her. Why should she care?
She spent the day hunting for Joyeuse along every possible path from Armand’s rooms to where she had captured him. She found nothing, and she began to wonder if Armand had managed to dump it down a well. Or if he’d gotten someone to smuggle it out of the Chateau for him.
The thought made her want to beat her head against the wall. She had been so close, and if only she hadn’t trusted him—
He would have to tell her what he did with it, she decided. She would have to make him talk.
That meant getting Erec to let her see him, and that meant keeping him happy. So when Erec told her that the King wanted to dine tête-à-tête with them that evening, she obediently went back to her room to dress.
Sévigné helped her with both the clothes and cosmetics. It was no comfort now to sit still with someone painting beauty onto her face. With Amélie, it had meant that she was loved. Now it just felt like pretending.
Amélie was gone from the Chateau. Rachelle had tried to avoid thinking of her all day, but now she couldn’t escape the memories: Amélie’s frightened eyes, the way she had flinched. And now she could understand what she hadn’t then: that Amélie was probably terrified because her friend had turned up gripping a sword and spattered with blood. Of course she’d been scared. And Rachelle had thrown her away because of it.
At least she’d be with her mother when Endless Night fell. It was probably for the best.
Erec turned up at her door just as Sévigné finished painting her. He kissed Rachelle’s fingers and said, “It’s a most enchanting illusion. You look almost like a lady.”
“Almost?”
Rachelle had seen herself in the mirror: skin rendered flawless by powder, the glistening red lips, the precise triangle of blush on her cheeks. Her dress was pale blue silk embroidered with roses; there were little silk roses in her hair and a tiny black velvet patch shaped like a rose on her cheek. She looked so much like a lady, she could hardly recognize herself.
“Perhaps only because I know you,” he said. “Beneath the silk and lace, you are still a forest creature.”
Her face burned, and she didn’t dare answer back. Because this was not like every other time they had walked together. With every movement he made, she was helplessly aware of him, and she knew that he could use that against her any time he pleased.
They dined outside, on a small terrace that was ringed with marble statues of women holding lanterns. The lamps were lit, and crimson butterflies swirled about them in thick red clouds. Then Rachelle blinked, and there were only moths flitting next to each lamp.
The King arrived a few moments after them, and there were bows and curtsies and kissing of hands, and then they were seated.
“So,” said the King, wheezing a little. “I hear you have been doing your duty excellently as my son’s bodyguard.”
Rachelle hoped she was still smiling, but the King’s gaze had dropped, and she knew he must be staring at either her breasts or Erec’s ruby. She didn’t know which embarrassed her more.
“I have tried, sire,” she said. “What is to be done with him?”
The King seemed to find this hilarious; he let out one of his famous booming laughs. “What is to be done with him? D’Anjou, do you have any idea?”
“Teach him manners and keep him out of sight,” said Erec. “You know he’ll soon be irrelevant, sire.”
Rachelle hadn’t known she could feel pity and revulsion at once. It was disgusting how they laughed over the night before, as if Armand betraying them and people dying were no more than a joke. And yet she couldn’t help pitying them, because their words were more true than they could guess. Once the Devourer had returned and humans were the cattle of the forestborn, it would be truly irrelevant who had claimed to be king of Gévaudan.
The meal wore on. Rachelle could tell the food was exquisite, but she could barely choke it down. Out here on the terrace, with the evening breeze on her skin, the elegantly trimmed trees of the garden in the distance, she couldn’t forget that Endless Night was coming. For all she knew, she could be watching the next-to-last sunset the world would ever know.