“She’d never be happy there!” Haleed cried.
“For five years, I read no books,” Marie-Josèphe said. “The sisters said knowledge would corrupt me, like Eve.” She had tried to forgive her brother his awful decision, but she could not let him repeat it. “I heard no music. The sisters forbade it. They said, Women must be silent in the house of God. The Pope demands it. I did without books, without studying — I had no choice! I couldn’t stop my thoughts, my questions, though I couldn’t speak them. Mathematics — !” Her laugh was wild and angry. “They said I was writing spells! I heard music that was never there, I could never stop it, no matter how I prayed and fasted. I called myself a madwoman, a sinner...” She looked into his face. “M. Newton replied to my letter — but they burned it, unopened, before me. How could you send me there, where every moment tortured me? I thought you loved me
—”
“I wanted you to be safe.” His beautiful eyes filled with sudden tears. He put his arms around her, relenting, hugging her protectively. “And now, I’ve asked too much of you — the work is too difficult.”
“I love the work!” she cried. “I do it gladly. I do it well, and I’m not a fool. You must listen to me!”
“I have the obligation to guide you. Your affection for the sea monster is unnatural.”
“My affection for her has nothing to do with what she told me. You know her stories are true.”
He knelt beside her bed. He took her arm.
“Pray with me,” he said.
Prayer will comfort and sustain me, Marie-Josèphe thought.
Marie-Josèphe slipped to the floor and knelt. She folded her hands, bowed her head, and waited for the welcome embrace of God’s presence.
“Odelette, join us, pray for Marie-Josèphe’s recovery.”
“I will not!” Haleed said. “I’ll never pray like a Christian again, for I am a free woman, and a Mahometan, and my name is Haleed!” Hugging herself for warmth, she turned her back and stared into the moonlit gardens.
“Dear God,” Marie-Josèphe whispered. “Dear God...”
Does God have a plan for my suffering? she wondered. But my suffering is nothing, compared to the martyrs — compared to the despair of the sea woman. Other people undergo bleeding without a second thought. I should submit to it bravely.
Instead, she had forced Lorraine to behave in a way that destroyed her high opinion of him. She no longer cared what Lorraine thought. She had diminished herself in Count Lucien’s estimation, which mattered to her a great deal.
“Dear God,” Marie-Josèphe whispered. “Dear God, please speak to me, please direct me. Tell me what is right and proper for me to do.”
She begged, she even dared to hope, for a reply. But in the face of her entreaties, God remained silent.
18
Moonlight flooded through the window and pooled on the floor. Marie-Josèphe slipped out of bed. She stood still; a dizzy weakness passed.
Haleed slept soundly; Yves was gone. Shivering, Marie-Josèphe slung Lorraine’s cloak over her shoulders and crept into the dressing room. She held herself up by leaning against the wall, by grasping the doorjamb.
Lorraine’s perfume surrounded her. Her stomach clenched. She flung down the cloak and struggled not to vomit. She would never wear the cloak again, no matter how soft and warm it was. She would burn it, if she had a fire.
She opened the window and gazed into the night. The moon, two days from full, loomed over the sea woman’s prison. Marie-Josèphe tried to sing, but she could only whisper.
Yet the sea woman heard her, and replied.
She’s still alive, Marie-Josèphe thought. Bless Count Lucien —
Marie-Josèphe snatched up her pen. A new scene for the cantata poured from the sea woman’s song. The pen sprayed tiny grace-notes above the staff. The candle puddled and drowned.
She wrote the last few notes and waved the page in the air to dry the ink. The cantata was complete.
Marie-Josèphe drew the tapestry from the harpsichord and flung it around her shoulders. She opened the keyboard.
In the shadowy dawn, tears running down her face, she played the story of the sea people’s tragedy.
oOo
Lucien attended the King’s awakening, but his thoughts were elsewhere. While Dr.
Fagon did his work, Lucien blotted the perspiration from His Majesty’s forehead. He bowed to His Majesty when the King led the procession to Mass, but Lucien did not follow. A church was the one place where he would not follow his King.
“Dr. Fagon.”
Lucien and the First Physician were alone in His Majesty’s bedroom. The doctor looked up from studying the results of His Majesty’s regular purge.
“M. de Chrétien,” he said, bowing.
Count Lucien returned Fagon’s salutation with a nod.