“I can make my own way,” Odelette said angrily.
“And you shall, if you wish. But, think, sister, our fortunes are improving. If you wait, only a while, I’m convinced, if you stay with me, you’ll share in them. You’ll go into the world better than a lady’s maid. You might go to Turkey — if you truly wish to go to Turkey, which you have never seen —”
“As you had never seen France,” Odelette said, “but here you are.”
“That’s entirely different,” Marie-Josèphe said.
“How, Mlle Marie?”
“Perhaps it isn’t different after all, Mlle Odelette. But if you do go home to Turkey, would it not be better to return rich and well-attended, as suits your true station, rather than as a maidservant, or a gypsy?”
“That would be better,” Odelette said. “But... I cannot wait too long.”
“I hope you won’t have to,” Marie-Josèphe said. “Now, come, go back to sleep if you can. I’ll lock the door.”
“Let me help you undress.”
“Only help me with my gown, I have a little work to do still.”
First Odelette must have something to wear, for Chartres had rent her threadbare shift beyond repair. In the wardrobe, Marie-Josèphe’s shift with the turned hems lay on top of a new one, of heavy warm flannel with three lace ruffles.
“Where did this come from?”
“Queen Mary. You may wear it. I shall take your old one.”
“It’s yours, you shall wear it.”
Marie-Josèphe helped Odelette into the new nightshirt, gratefully accepted her sister’s help in getting out of her gown and shoes and stays, and tucked her sister back into bed. She used the chaise percée and splashed cold water on her face and hands.
When she washed away the dried blood between her legs, she realized her bleeding had stopped, days early. Worried, she tried to gather her courage, to overcome her terror of submitting to the medical arts. For a moment she resolved to speak to a physician.
But she had so many other, more important things to worry about, so many things to do. The physicians here were so grand, she should not waste their time with female complaints. And, in truth, she could only feel grateful for being spared more mess, more inconvenience. To be safe, she put on a clean towel, and soaked the bloody one in a basin of cold water.
I wonder if the sea monster bleeds? she wondered. She answered her own question: That’s ridiculous. Animals don’t bleed. They’re free of the sin of Eve. Besides, if the sea monster bled like a woman, she would be in terrible danger from sharks.
She fetched Lorraine’s cloak. His musky perfume tickled her nose, as the curl of his perruke tickled her cheek when he bent down to whisper to her. She curled in the chair by Odelette’s bed, her music score in her lap, her bare feet tucked under the warm cloak.
Candlelight flickered across the pages.
I thought the score was perfect, she said to herself, but the sea monster is so sad, so frightened in her captivity....
Odelette slipped her hand from beneath the covers, reaching for Marie-Josèphe, holding her fingers tight. Marie-Josèphe left her hand in Odelette’s even after her sister had fallen asleep. She revised the score, turning the pages awkwardly, one-handed. She dozed.
She gasped awake, frightened by the pleasure that invaded her body. The sheaf of music paper spilled to the floor.
The burnt-out candle, its smoke pungent, left her room without a breath of light. A song crept around her, as cold as night air. The sea monster swam through the window, as if the glass were transparent to material flesh. She hovered above Marie-Josèphe, upside-down, her hair streaming around her and toward the ceiling.
Shivering, entranced, Marie-Josèphe thought, This is a dream. I can do as I like.
Nothing, no one, can stop me.
She stood, and raised up her hands to the sea monster.
The song hesitated; the sea monster vanished. Marie-Josèphe hurried to the window. The tent loomed at the bottom of the garden, the white silk glowing eerily.
Gardeners’ torches flickered in the North Quincunx and the Star and reflected from the Mirror Fountain. The creak of the gears of the orange-tree carts pierced the soft murmuring quiet of the gardens of Versailles.
Singing again, the sea monster appeared, bright as sunlight. Other sea monsters followed, swimming in the air, circling, caressing each other, creating a whirlwind, a whirlpool.
Marie-Josèphe stepped toward the window, expecting to pass through the panes, like the sea monsters. She bumped her nose painfully.
How strange, she thought. In a dream I must be able to pass through the window and swim in the air like the sea monsters. I cannot; my imagination fails me. If I open the window and step out, I would fall. Everyone says that a dreamer who falls instead of flying must die.