Lorraine laughed at His Majesty’s witticism, enjoying Marie-Josèphe’s anguish.
Monsieur chuckled briefly, but with more distress than amusement.
The sea woman sang a melody of heartbreaking beauty, a distillation of love and grief.
“I would send it with him,” Marie-Josèphe sang, following the melody. “Send it into the depths with him, to acknowledge that I, too, will die.”
“Does she not,” His Majesty said carefully, “claim to be immortal?”
“No, Your Majesty.”
“We are all immortal in the love of God,” His Holiness said. “Does your sea monster believe in the Resurrection? In God’s everlasting life?”
“Life itself is everlasting,” Marie-Josèphe sang, in harmony. “People live, people create new life, people die. People never come back.”
His Holiness made a sound of utter disgust. “Your games have passed beyond amusement, Mlle de la Croix — even beyond pagan belief. You tread the edge of heresy!”
“I didn’t invent the story, Your Holiness,” Marie-Josèphe said. “Please, please believe me. The sea woman told it. She doesn’t understand heresy —”
“You should,” Innocent said.
“But she could understand God!” Marie-Josèphe exclaimed. “She could, if Your Holiness taught her. You could give Our Savior to the people of the sea —”
“Be silent!” His Holiness said. “Convert beasts?”
“She thinks Jesus on the Mount should have preached to loaves and fishes instead of to people.”
No one laughed at Lorraine’s observation; Count Lucien gave him a glare of perfect animosity.
“Where’s the token?” Louis ignored both Lorraine and Count Lucien. “The token she wishes to give to her mate?”
The sea woman snarled. Marie-Josèphe winced, shocked by the reply: shocked, but not surprised. She hesitated, hoping in vain that she would not have to lie.
“Your Majesty, someone took it.”
“Who?”
“One — one of the sailors.”
The sea woman protested, thrashing her tails, splashing Marie-Josèphe’s back with cold fetid water.
“Your Majesty, isn’t this proof that she talks to me? I have no other way of knowing about her token.”
“Dear foolish child,” Louis said, “I have no way of knowing the token ever existed.”
He gazed at her sadly. His next words, she knew, would be a death sentence.
“Don’t kill it,” a visitor whispered from the back of the tent. Other commoners took up the refrain: Don’t kill it, don’t kill it. His Majesty’s brow clouded. Marie-Josèphe wanted to cry to the visitors, Don’t you know, His Majesty cannot be cajoled or threatened? With all goodwill, the spectators only made things worse. A musketeer strode toward the disturbance; the whispers stopped.
“You’re most clever,” His Majesty said to Marie-Josèphe, “trying to save your pet by making it into Scheherazade.”
His Majesty’s courtiers laughed, all but Count Lucien.
“One Thousand and One Ocean Nights, by Scheherazade the Sea Monster!”
Chartres cried.
The sea woman clambered past Marie-Josèphe, dragging herself to the top of the stairs. She glared at the King.
“Shhhhrrrzzzzaaddddd,” she snarled.
“The clever Mlle de la Croix has taught it to talk!” Lorraine exclaimed. “Though not as well as a parrot.”
Monsieur laughed. “Sherzad the parrot!”
“The myth requires —” His Majesty said.
The laughter ended.
“— that I allow it to live for another day.”
In amazement, in desperate gratitude, Marie-Josèphe flung herself at the King’s feet and kissed the cold hard diamonds at the hem of his coat. He brushed his fingertips over her hair.
His Majesty left the tent, walking as strongly as if he had never been afflicted with gout. Innocent and his attendants accompanied him. The courtiers followed. The visitors cheered His Majesty as if their protests had had something to do with his decision.
“Let us have another sea monster story, mamselle!” shouted one of the spectators when His Majesty had left.
Cries of approval and agreement surrounded her in an opaque cloud of noise. They threatened to overwhelm her. Count Lucien grasped Marie-Josèphe’s elbow.
“Are you quite well?”
She was too faint with exhaustion and relief to get to her feet. Count Lucien pushed her sleeve above her wrist. The swelling had vanished, and the streaks had receded.
Marie-Josèphe drew back, for his touch made her tremble.
“Will he spare her?” she whispered.
“I cannot say. This is a reprieve.”
“A day...”
“Anything can happen in a day.”
oOo
Yves slipped away from the other courtiers. Agitation gripped him. If anyone saw him, they would surely send him to the madhouse. His eyes must be staring, white-rimmed; his hair must be wild as a hermit’s. He gripped the ring in his pocket. The gold burned patterns into his flesh.
He left the Green Carpet, where the courtiers attending the King were likely to see him. He strode past the Obelisk, up the hill, into the Star Garden.