In which
Genevieve goes back,
Percy yearns
for the rest of the story,
and Soleil is
violently startled
***
It was only when
the centaur, whose name was Diamon, was settled down onto the parlor
floor (a process both awkward and endearing to behold; his legs were
shaky, like a newborn colt's) and given a cup of tea (which he
sniffed suspiciously before sipping), that he began to answer the
questions that Percy and the others could barely keep from asking.
Yes, he had Prince Percival and his sisters to thank for his sudden
appearance at Minnowway. Yes, he was brand-new. The first thing
he'd known was that he was standing in front of the King. There had
been nothing before that, although it was odd: he seemed to have
visions, or senses, if you would, of centaurs racing across
fields together, gathering around fires at night to roast the day's
kill; playing sweet, strange tunes to each other upon pipes. This
knowledge of his ancestors seemed something like memories, but only
because there was nothing better to which they could be compared.
Yes, it felt rather wonderful to be newly-made, to be freshly alive.
Yes, he was starving, and – with utter politeness – might someone
be troubled to show him to the grounds of the estate, where he could
find running water and fresh vegetation?
Genevieve summoned
a servant, and Diamon trotted eagerly out of the room after the white
gloves, an enormous smile upon his kind, bearded face.
“Mmm,”
Genevieve sighed contentedly, after a moment. Percy felt as though
he were afloat on a sea of golden champagne. The grand expanse of
all these discoveries was simply overwhelming.
“But,” Musetta
began, and when she spoke, her voice had softened – less
inquisitive, and more awed - “please, might you tell us about
yourselves? I mean – to which species do you belong? You seem
rather close to human.”
Genevieve
stiffened in her chair, her chin snapping up.
“I am
human,” she said coldly.
“Oh,” Musetta
said, sounding taken aback. “I beg your pardon.”
A charged silence
ensued. Percy observed the white cat cautiously. Her eyes were
downcast, her faced suddenly pained. She was playing with the golden
locket that hung around her neck.
“Gen and I –
we didn't – we didn't always look like this,” Hamlin said
hesitantly. “We were both blond,” he added, as if this was key
information. Then the tips of his ears turned red again, and he
bowed his head. The silence resumed.
“A spell has
been cast upon us,” Genevieve finally spoke up. “It's what
turned us into cats, and turned our servants invisible.” She gave
a helpless giggle. “I'm sorry, it's just that we've never had to
explain this to anyone before. Well, except Mortimer, but, you know,
he's -” she turned to the dark, slender man, and he glanced up at
her. They held each other's gaze for a moment. “- one of the
kindest, most understanding people I've ever met,” Genevieve
finished, with another giggle. Mortimer's eyes dropped, and he
smiled gently.
Percy looked
keenly from one to the other. He hadn't realized that there was
something between them. He wondered who Mortimer might be – what
his full name was; why he stayed at Minnowway rather than with his
own family. Percy curbed his tongue, deciding that he'd better not
pry. Things seemed to operate on their own terms and at their own
pace here. It was all so different from the stiff, staunchly formal
world Percy had always known, where the smallest breach of etiquette
could bring unreasonable shame upon one's family; all while
insincerity, deception, and masked malice were ignored, and
understood as simply being part of the game. It had always seemed to
Percy that, within a family and among friends, one could commit the
very worst of crimes; and yet still be redeemed through honest
contrition and honest pardon.
But treat one
another with insincerity, Percy thought, and you may as well
throw in the towel. You've forfeited your ability to make honest
mistakes, let alone honest reconciliations. Your actions are that of
a paper doll; your words those of a mechanical bird. You have chosen
to be less than real.
He saw no
such dark cloud amongst his new friends. He saw only kindness and
openness; and sweetness: in a spectrum that spread from the proud,
sparkling little cat-woman, to her gruff, bumbling brother, to the
dark man whose green eyes seemed to see and perceive all.
“You should tell
them, Gen,” Hamlin said, touching his sister's elbow.
“I know. I'd
have to go back,” she said quietly. She turned her hands palms-up
on her lap, and gazed down at them, smiling. Percy waited, a smile
creeping onto his own face.
When she finally
looked back up, she had changed: she was shining as if reflecting the
sun; she had come fully alive. Her clothing seemed to be no longer
black, but white, white as a bride's gown. And everything else had
changed with her: colors were more vibrant, and sounds echoed more
richly throughout the parlor. Percy found himself sitting at the
edge of the sofa, leaning in to hear what the white cat had to say.
All seemed to have stopped to observe her: the birds and even the
trees were silent and still, inclining ears and waiting breathlessly.
“It happened
three years ago,” Gen said. “I was seventeen, and it was
summertime.”
***
THE
CHERRY TREE
being an ACCOUNT of the SUMMER of
1760
in the LIFE of GENEVIEVE MARIETTE
BEAULIEU
I.
“Ham? Ham.
Ham.”
Genevieve was poking her brother
repeatedly in the stomach as he lay in the sun room's hammock,
reading a volume of poetry. At length, the book shifted to the right
to reveal a pair of doleful blue eyes.
“Gen.”
“Ham. Help me convince Miss
Marie to throw another party here tomorrow night? Please?”
“No, Gen. I'm all party-ed out.
Besides, you know I'm not much a party person to begin with.”
“Well, you...you seem to like
parties when certain pretty girls are involved,” Genevieve
retorted. Hamlin's eyes went wide. The book resumed its original
position over his face.
“That's why you're reading so
much poetry all of a sudden, isn't it? Because you know that
Jacqueline Bertrand loves it.”
“Well, I – I –
ahhmurnuhummrrnun,” Hamlin said, his voice sinking to an indistinct
rumble. Genevieve could see his ears glowing pink where they
protruded from his golden curls.
“And that's why you finally
shaved off your beard, too,” she added, grinning.
“Just, it was – get –
hotmmmergapuph,” Hamlin replied.
“I'm so BORED! And it's so
beastly hot,” Gen sighed, sitting down abruptly and flopping back
onto the floor. She snapped open her fan and beat it until her curls
flew about, sticking to her face.
“So, stop being bored and go do
something,” Hamlin said after a while, a little resentfully.
“See?”
Genevieve cried, sitting up and pointing. “You mumble
deliberately.”
The book moved aside once again.
“Genevieve, you've got thousands of books and two hundred acres of
land at your disposal. It's no one's fault but your own if you're
bored.”
“It would only be hotter
outside!”
“Then you find a tree, and sit in
its shade! Goodness, Gen, you're seventeen years old. You're not a
child anymore!”
“But I hate
just going off and being alone. I can't stand it!”
“Now's the perfect time to learn
to,” Hamlin said simply, and the book went back up. Genevieve
glowered at him for a few minutes before heaving a sigh, getting up,
and marching out into the corridor. She paused to give another
exasperated sigh at her reflection in the mirror by the back
entrance. Puffing out her lips into a pout, she turned and slouched
through the doors.
Once outside, Gen blinked beneath
the bright sunlight. Oh, silly – she'd forgotten a hat. After
staring listlessly back at the entryway for a few minutes, she
decided that she didn't feel like going back inside. She shrugged
and began to meander east. She figured that the gardens must be
diverting enough.
She couldn't remember the last time
she'd been outside, alone, for no reason other than to be outside.
If friends were visiting, she'd show them Minnowway's grounds, but it
always seemed to be more for the sake of making an impression than
out of some kind of love for the outdoors. Gen nodded stiffly to
workers whose names she couldn't remember.
She breezed through the first
garden, which was filled with ponds, all surrounding one great
fountain in the center. She passed on into the next one, which was
devoted to topiaries of fantastical creatures, and on into the next
one, where peafowl were strutting about. She moved through the maze
of countless gardens, her heels clicking primly.
Finally, she came upon one garden
that made her linger before entering. She frowned up at the stone
archway, unsure of why the simple design struck her so.
She stepped within, and the hot
bustle of the summer day instantly stilled.
This world was enveloped in
silence, punctuated only by the occasional burst of birdsong.
Genevieve strolled easily along the winding brick walkway, motivated,
for the first time, by curiosity. The grass that lay on either side
of the path looked so very luscious; most luscious of all where the
trees created deep, cool patches of shade. She was about to slip off
her shoes and go dancing about in it, until she realized how
ridiculous she would look. Such behavior was for children, not young
ladies. What if one of the servants were to see, and then spread
word about it? Pull yourself
together, Gen, she scolded.
She turned her eyes upward. The
towering chestnuts created something of a canopy above. Squat little
umbrella trees, now in full bloom, provided miniature oases from the
sun. She picked her way delicately through the beds of daffodils and
lavender. The wild rose bushes that lined each wall of the garden
were bursting with delicate pink and deep fuchsia. As she moved
deeper, their rich, sweet scent wafted forward. Her steps slowed
until she was standing perfectly still. The fan slipped from her
hand, but she didn't think to pick it up again. Her chin lowered
itself from its place in the air, and she stared, distracted, at the
closest rose bush.
Something shivered, at the back of
her mind, and then in the pit of her heart – something that she had
never known before. At least, something that she had only known
very, very long ago, when she was a child. She put out a shaky hand
to balance herself against a tree trunk. She turned, slowly, and
continued deeper into the garden.
Her steps were careful now, and
hesitant. Her eyes scanned the ground; she was afraid, somehow, to
look haphazardly in just any direction.
She stopped when the toe of her
shoe bumped into the roots. She knew where she stood.
It was the cherry tree, the one
whose planting none of the gardeners had ever been quite old enough
to remember; the one that had grown taller and broader and stronger
than any proper cherry tree ever should; the one that little Gen had
climbed; whose branches had provided a bed for warm-weather naps;
which had served as base for hide-and-go-seek with Hamlin; which had
fed her through every summer, fed her belly, fed her heart, till her
fingers and mouth were sticky and red and sweet.
Gen looked up.
There, sprawled out among the
branches, and fast asleep, was a beautiful young man. He was very
long, and very blond, and his suit was of golden brocade. He had
propped his bare feet up onto one sturdy branch, and his arms were
flung carelessly over his head. His beautiful, pale face was turned
towards her, and there was a smile on his lips. She stared up at
him, dumbstruck.
The man stirred, taking a deep
breath and stretching his arms. He rubbed his eyes, blinked them,
and looked down at Gen. A smile bright as the sun broke over his
face. He sat up. “Hello, my lady,” he said, in a voice like
warm earth and red wine.
“Hello,” Gen said hazily.
“Is it your land upon which I
have ventured? I beg your pardon for this rather unconventional
situation in which we meet; it's only that I desperately needed a
place to lay down my head for the night; and this fine tree seemed
just made for repose!” He patted the trunk appreciatively.
Gen goggled at him. “Y-yes, it
is my brother's land,” she stammered.
“Oh – I am most abominably rude
– I am Luc, prince of the Land that lies beyond the East,” he
said. Gen caught her breath in awe. A prince! “And what is your
name, my lady?”
She flushed
proudly. “I am Genevieve Beaulieu, Lady of Minnowway, where you
now find yourself; my brother, Lord Hamlin Beaulieu, is Duke.”
“Lady Genevieve. It is a delight
to meet you.” His bright blue eyes smiled along with the rest of
his face.
“Likewise,” she said, and then,
partly because curiosity was killing her, and partly because his bold
smile emboldened her - “your Highness, if I may inquire, what is it
that brings you here, and so unaccompanied?”
“Oh! I am simply traveling for
the sake of seeing what there is to see. To meet people, to know
places, to encounter beauty. And, sometimes, I do prefer to travel
alone, to be alone. There are some things that must be done on one's
own, after all.”
Genevieve stared up at him,
shocked. “But – to travel all alone! And a prince! The thought
is inconceivable!” She cried. “What if you were to be robbed,
or to injure yourself?”
He lifted his brows. “That is,
indeed, a risk that I take,” he said simply.
“And who tends to you throughout
the day, and prepares you for bed at night?”
“I do. I gather fruit or hunt
game, and find a good place to settle each sundown. Tell me, lady,”
he said, his voice taking on a confiding lilt, “don't you ever wish
to strike out and do things all on your own? Don't you ever grow
tired of being waited on hand and foot?”
“Why, of course not!” Gen
said, a little indignantly. “Such treatment is my right as
noblewoman.”
“And how did you earn that
right?” the prince asked softly. “By choosing to be born to a
duke?”
Genevieve was stricken wide-eyed
and silent.
Prince Luc looked at her very
seriously for a few moments. But then he blinked, and a smile
smoothed his face again. “Are you Lady by virtue of those golden
curls?” he teased. “Or perhaps those rosy cheeks? Or is it
that proud little demeanor?”
Gen dropped her gaze, blushing
hotly. She heard him chuckle above her.
“But truly, fair one,” he
continued, “what I mean is that a queen cannot rightfully call
herself a queen unless she is willing to serve her own subjects.”
“Ah, but I am not a queen.”
“For shame, my lady.”
It was Gen's turn to chuckle. A
fleeting thought passed through her mind: why
do you feel so at ease with a man you've never met before? And a
prince, no less? But she brushed it aside.
“Is not your father needing you
at home in his kingdom, your Highness?” she asked, hoping that the
question was not too impertinent. She imagined that few questions
could be, when addressed to a man up in a tree.
“Not at the present. Indeed, it
is my father who sent me.”
Genevieve tried to decipher this,
and failed.
“Well, Sir,” she said, folding
her hands pertly, “where have you left your horse?”
The beautiful man grinned. “I
haven't got one.”
“What! You, travel on foot! Now
that, I cannot believe. You are jesting.”
“So little faith in my bodily
fitness!”
“Well then pray, Sir, where have
you deposited your shoes?” Gen asked, looking pointedly at his
feet, which he was now dangling cheerfully from his perch in the
tree.
“Haven't got those either,” he
laughed. When Gen gaped, he laughed some more, and pointed to his
feet for inspection. “See for yourself,” he said. Sure enough,
his soles were brown and covered in thick, impressive-looking
callouses.
“Your Highness,” Gen said, “I
am utterly shocked by your lack of footwear. It is disgraceful!”
(But secretly, secretly, she was utterly delighted by this beautiful,
barefoot vagabond of a prince.)
“I beg to differ, my lady!
Indeed, what are you
doing, wearing shoes on such a day as this? It is outrageous! The
earth seeks to please you by providing warmth and sunshine, and you
respond by clomping about on it with heels? I am scandalized by your
feet, and the slippers in which they are currently clad.”
And they both laughed.
“Lady Genevieve,” Prince Luc
said, after they had quieted, “may I rest here at Minnowway for a
while?” His eyes had turned wistful, and a little sad.
“Of course!” Gen assured. “I
mean – as long as my brother doesn't object, and I don't see why he
would!”
“Good,” he replied, and he
smiled at her once again. There was something supremely wide-eyed
and candid about the way that he looked at her. It made Gen feel
naked and shy and beautiful all at once. She had to keep looking
away.
“Lady Genevieve,” he said
softly, from above. Gen forced herself to look back up.
He was grinning at her as though he
thought her to be the loveliest woman in the world; as though she
were the only woman in the world. It was all so strange. What
is happening? Could this possibly be real? Gen thought
faintly.
“Aren't your feet tired from
walking for so long in those fussy heels?” His eyes were
sparkling.
“Oh – well, I – I mean, I'm
used to it -”
“They're coming off. I insist.”
And then, in one, easy movement,
Prince Luc jumped down from the branches. A small shower of cherries
rained down in accompaniment, bouncing about his feet.
There was something somehow new
about the way that he walked. It wasn't particularly fluid, but it
was very steady and very strong. And it wasn't as if he were taking
his first steps, either – rather, it was simply as if he walked
without every having stumbled or fallen. Dusting off his suit, he
took the few steps necessary to come to stand directly before
Genevieve. She had to turn her face all the way upwards to meet his
eyes, for he towered over her; she did not nearly reach his shoulder.
He extended his hand, and she took it.
She stooped to dislodge one foot
from its shoe, but it took longer than was necessary, for all she
could think about was the warmth of his hand holding hers. When she
finally stood back up, a wave of dizziness washed over her, sending
her off balance.
“Oh -” she yelped, tottering
backwards, but he caught her and steadied her once again. “Thank
you, Sir,” she gasped.
“Of course, my lady.”
“I'm not sure – maybe –
perhaps it is the sun – I did forget a hat today, and I haven't
been out very much lately – just a touch of sunstroke, that is all.
I feel quite better now.” Gen did not disclose that the sensation
had not been entirely unpleasant, or that it had worsened when he had
put his arms around her.
“Well, then -” and he bent down
to scoop up the tiny slippers, and then straightened and offered her
his arm. “Are your toes happy?” He inquired merrily, as they
made their way out of the garden.
“Oh, very! The grass is simply
lovely,” Gen breathed.
“Of course it is! Will you
introduce me to the gardeners, Lady Genevieve?”
“Oh – your Highness, I – I am
ashamed to say that I can't remember their names.”
The beautiful, barefoot, brand-new
man drew her arm closer through his own. “Then we'll find out
together,” he said.
***
Percy stared
incredulously at Genevieve. He smiled over at Mortimer, expecting to
get a twinkling grin in return. But Mortimer was focused on the
little white cat, his face drawn.
“Is there more
to the story?” Percy finally asked, politely.
“What?”
Genevieve piped, looking up. Her eyes were blurry and distant.
“You wandered
outside, and found a man named Luc sleeping in a tree...” Percy
trailed off. He glanced over at Musetta, who seemed to be equally
confused.
Gen stared at him,
seeming to be somewhere else entirely.
“I don't
understand,” Percy said finally, with a laugh. “Am I missing
something? I don't see what any of this has to do with the... the
spell that you mentioned. Is there more to the story?”
Genevieve smiled,
dropping her eyes. “There is more,” she conceded. “Much more.
But please, might it wait till tomorrow night?” She looked up,
and her eyes were pleading.
Percy nodded,
although he still felt lost. “Of course, my lady.”
Genevieve smiled.
“Please. All of you – call me Gen. Let us drop formalities.
And now, as it is almost seven o' clock, let us make our way to the
dining hall.”
***
Upon retrospect,
Soleil would not remember that night's dinner in the same way that four
other of the people at the table would remember it. Her impression,
instead, would be similar to that of only one other.
She would
remember, hazily, how Gen revealed yet another surprise: a midnight
soiree, a gathering of members of the Guild of Enchanted Ones; Kay
and Gerda were already due any time now – they had been Queen
Viviana's mentors, and now they, along with two others, would come to
stay at Minnowway to serve as tutors for the six of them.
She would remember
the food, which tasted even more decadent than it looked: the roasted
fowl, the colorful selection of puddings, the array of candied and
crystallized fruit, the endless bottles of golden honey-berry liquor.
She would remember
thinking it strange how Mortimer kept showing her attention, when she
was doing nothing (so far as she could tell) to encourage him – and
especially when Musetta was trying her hardest to catch his eye.
She would remember
being at the very height of giddiness, continuously suspended in a
state of surprised delight; sitting there with her family and her new
friends, with chandeliers blazing above; surrounded by more beauty
than she ever knew existed, as well as the promise of more beauty to
come; finally convinced that it was not all a dream – is
it not strange? How somehow, the living is sweeter than the
dreaming, she thought to herself.
But one memory
would stand stark and glittering-clear, sharp as a sword's edge, in
Soleil's mind, when she would seek solitude in order to think later that night.
She saw what
happened, perhaps because she had been waiting for it; perhaps
because fate would have it that she should be the first of the Simons
to see. In any event, it did seem odd that it should go unnoticed by
everyone else at the table.
Musetta had just
said something witty, and everyone was laughing. Mortimer reached
out to take up his dessert fork, and upset his water glass in the
process. He hurried to catch it (in this moment Soleil realized that
the glass had been completely full, while the wine glass beside it
empty), and his right hand consequently got quite doused. Soleil
took in that
(firstly)
Mortimer winced in response to the water, and grasped his hand, as if
it were acid burning his skin;
(secondly)
Mortimer folded back the cuff of his jacket, unbuttoned his shirt at
the wrist, and began to roll it up when he saw something beneath the
fabric that caused him to pale (if it was possible for him to become
paler) and quickly pull down his sleeve once again. Before he
managed this, however, Soleil caught a glimpse of thin, red marks
beginning at the inside of his wrist and traveling up his arm, marks
which could have been anything from knife-cuts to fresh burns.
(thirdly)
Mortimer lifted his gaze and looked her squarely in the eye.
(lastly)
Soleil snapped her eyes away, thunder roaring her chest, and
deafening her ears.
Copyright © 2012
by Olivia Meldrum
