She smiles at him, a huge bright smile, all pink tongue and teeth. Will smiles back, and it’s like his whole face just beams, and his cheeks dig into dimples, and his eyes turn into a couple of deep, warm oceans, all before he can stop himself. It’s kind of incredible to watch.
Will’s facial transformation makes Jules laugh, which makes me laugh because Jules sounded exactly like Pete the Parrot, croaking farewell to me from his cage in the breakfast kitchen. The fact that I laughed makes Lilly laugh, and pretty soon all three of us are laughing, dry and brittle, like a really terrible trio of beatboxers. None of this is even remotely funny. That just makes me laugh harder.
Will gets his face under control. Raises his eyebrows at us and rolls over. I’m pretty sure he’s still smiling, though. Our laughter trails off.
I feel full as I curl up against the table leg. Full and warm, which is ironic because those grapes were crap and the temperature in here is fairly chilly, lights or no. I decide I’d live on laughing if I could. I’d probably starve, but maybe it would be worth it.
I start to doze. Get a crick in my neck and move my pillow to the floor. I’m nearly asleep, my whole body fuzzy and dull. I open my eyes, more of a slow, reverse blink. Will is asleep. Jules is standing by the fireplace, looking nervous, kicking his foot against the marble. Lilly is asleep in her chair. And behind her, just outside the bubble of light, Perdu is standing, watching me, his eyes burning scabs into my skin.
Palais du Papillon, Chambres Jacinthe—112 feet below, 1790
The servant’s name is Jacques. He has come every day since I struck him with the vase and he no longer locks me out upon his arrival. He seems to enjoy the company as much as I do, though he is far more ready to say so. He is altogether too insolent, I think. He smiles when there is nothing to smile at and he does not walk like a gentleman, he saunters. Furthermore, he is slow in being useful.
“Why can you not simply unlock the panel and let me out?” I demanded the day we met.
“Mademoiselle, they are watching!” he said, cradling his bruised face and staring at me like I was a wild troll. “What can you not understand? I will already have to spin a pretty tale to explain this face you gave me. ‘Oh, yes, I slipped while feather dusting the china and blackened my own eye.’ You must understand, we have direct orders from Lord Havriel never to allow anyone into the serving passages, least of all you. And if you were to leave, you would be caught. There are other servants running to and fro constantly. You would not get a hundred feet before they raised the alarm.”
I shook my head and turned away as if to say: You do not know me, and you do not know how many feet I would get.
He carried on. “And once they’ve caught you, they’ll put you somewhere worse and you’ll get a warty old hag for a servant, and I assure you she won’t speak a word to you, especially if you beat her with a vase. Listen. Please, mademoiselle, listen to me and I will help you.”
I turned toward him again, curious. His face was earnest, his eyes the colors of slate. “I know of your plight, mademoiselle,” he says. “I know they have locked you away, and revolution or none, it is not right to be caged so. But you must tread carefully. You will have one chance to get your sisters and get back to the surface. You will not get another.”
And so we began to talk.
This is what I have learned, six days later. The fact that I can put it all down so briefly vexes me: Jacques follows orders from the head butler, Monsieur Vallé. Jacques’s job is to take care of my hyacinth rooms and to provide me with all that I need. He is strictly forbidden to speak to me. He has seen no one else of my family. The last Bessancourt he saw was Mama. She was no longer breathing when he and the old guard carried her down. Jacques would not tell me her wounds, but he has a mother, too, in Péronne, and he said that if she were to die, he would weep for a year. His face was grave when he told me this, and when I cried he did not leave me, but sat at my side until I was exhausted, wrung out like a bit of washing.
Today I am sitting on the floor of the boudoir and he is cleaning, or pretending to.
“Why are you no longer a guard?” I ask him. “When we came down, you were in uniform.”
He shakes out a sheet with a snap. “They told me there was no need for guards here. Peace and everlasting safety and suchlike, you know? The palace is invincible. So now I am a chambermaid.” He laughs and begins tucking the sheet in at the corners, and I cannot help but notice that when he laughs, his face becomes quite wonderful to see.
“Did you come of your own choice?”
If he says yes I will like him less.