to the light of day by the girl’s behavior. Everyone kept an eye on the little girl, watching her for any sign that she might say something about one of them. Everyone in that household had secrets, the normal secrets of humankind, but still, there were love affairs and shameful behaviors that none of the servants wanted to be made public. They had all begun to send sideways glances at the girl every time they passed her or were in the same room with her.
Not everyone resonated with this new vibration. Julien could think of nothing but his own health, the way his stomach revolted at almost anything he put in it, of his thin limbs and weak-kneed attempts at walking, of the unending necessity for rest. Getting better took every ounce of energy he possessed. Genevieve was lost in her own thoughts, and with the profound hope that the new baby she was carrying would finally give Pierre a son. Only on rare occasions did she give any thought to what might be wrong with her oldest daughter. It did not trouble her enough to take her away from her other concerns for longer than a few moments, at best. Not knowing what to do, not knowing what it was she was dealing with, she had a tendency to shove it aside, to ignore the tiny sparks of foreboding that would occasionally creep up her arms. It was easier to pretend that nothing was amiss, to smooth down the hairs that were standing on end, and pick up the latest fashion magazine from Paris, and dream of the day when her figure would be restored once again.
The comte knew, the way a former officer in the army would know, that people were talking. He knew he needed to do something to protect Adrienne from the deleterious effects her stories could produce. But like Genevieve, he shoved the idea aside, unable to summon the energy. He was tired, tired in a way that he had never been, and family and servants often found him asleep in a chair. He kept his eye on the girl, he kept his eye on Marie, but he did not deal with the situation the way he might once have done.
Most of the burden fell on Lucie. She was young, much too young to be put in this position, but she was the only one who had the quick-witted intelligence, the depth of curiosity, and the overarching concern for Adrienne, which kept her abreast of everything. She made it her business to keep a close eye on everyone in the château. She watched over Adrienne like a mother hen, and she also kept a sharp eye out for any predators. She watched Marie through lowered lashes. She listened to the conversations of the other servants whenever she had the opportunity. She was sure of only two things: the servants, and by extension the village of Beaulieu, were talking, and she was convinced, the more she watched Marie, that the woman had something she was trying to hide.
Adrienne had nothing new to offer in the circumstances. Lucie had pressed her, privately, to see if the girl had any idea who might have poisoned Julien, to see if there were any further visions to explain what had really happened to him. But Adrienne was not caught up in the intrigue. It was just a curious story she had seen, a little like one of her fairy tale books, and she was able to put the whole thing aside just as easily as she did Cinderella.
Lucie had begun keeping a journal. She waited until Adrienne was asleep, waited until all sounds in the household had ceased, and then she crept from her own bed, in the room adjoining Adrienne’s, and sat at a desk in her nightgown and woolen shawl, scribbling away by candlelight. She kept the journal in her suitcase in her wardrobe, a suitcase her father had given her years ago, the only item she possessed that had a lock and key. She wrote down every vision that Adrienne had shared with her. She wrote down Marie’s reactions. She wrote about her own fears, the suspicions that continued to feed on the stares and silences and whispers of those around her. The more she wrote, the more she observed, the more certain she
Not everyone resonated with this new vibration. Julien could think of nothing but his own health, the way his stomach revolted at almost anything he put in it, of his thin limbs and weak-kneed attempts at walking, of the unending necessity for rest. Getting better took every ounce of energy he possessed. Genevieve was lost in her own thoughts, and with the profound hope that the new baby she was carrying would finally give Pierre a son. Only on rare occasions did she give any thought to what might be wrong with her oldest daughter. It did not trouble her enough to take her away from her other concerns for longer than a few moments, at best. Not knowing what to do, not knowing what it was she was dealing with, she had a tendency to shove it aside, to ignore the tiny sparks of foreboding that would occasionally creep up her arms. It was easier to pretend that nothing was amiss, to smooth down the hairs that were standing on end, and pick up the latest fashion magazine from Paris, and dream of the day when her figure would be restored once again.
The comte knew, the way a former officer in the army would know, that people were talking. He knew he needed to do something to protect Adrienne from the deleterious effects her stories could produce. But like Genevieve, he shoved the idea aside, unable to summon the energy. He was tired, tired in a way that he had never been, and family and servants often found him asleep in a chair. He kept his eye on the girl, he kept his eye on Marie, but he did not deal with the situation the way he might once have done.
Most of the burden fell on Lucie. She was young, much too young to be put in this position, but she was the only one who had the quick-witted intelligence, the depth of curiosity, and the overarching concern for Adrienne, which kept her abreast of everything. She made it her business to keep a close eye on everyone in the château. She watched over Adrienne like a mother hen, and she also kept a sharp eye out for any predators. She watched Marie through lowered lashes. She listened to the conversations of the other servants whenever she had the opportunity. She was sure of only two things: the servants, and by extension the village of Beaulieu, were talking, and she was convinced, the more she watched Marie, that the woman had something she was trying to hide.
Adrienne had nothing new to offer in the circumstances. Lucie had pressed her, privately, to see if the girl had any idea who might have poisoned Julien, to see if there were any further visions to explain what had really happened to him. But Adrienne was not caught up in the intrigue. It was just a curious story she had seen, a little like one of her fairy tale books, and she was able to put the whole thing aside just as easily as she did Cinderella.
Lucie had begun keeping a journal. She waited until Adrienne was asleep, waited until all sounds in the household had ceased, and then she crept from her own bed, in the room adjoining Adrienne’s, and sat at a desk in her nightgown and woolen shawl, scribbling away by candlelight. She kept the journal in her suitcase in her wardrobe, a suitcase her father had given her years ago, the only item she possessed that had a lock and key. She wrote down every vision that Adrienne had shared with her. She wrote down Marie’s reactions. She wrote about her own fears, the suspicions that continued to feed on the stares and silences and whispers of those around her. The more she wrote, the more she observed, the more certain she
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