Mistress of the Sun by Sandra Gulland Page A

(“Neptune came upon them, with all his vorages and his waves full of scum”), she thought it might have something to do with a whirlpool.
    “Cancer ascendant? Tant pis! We shall never get along,” Princess Marguerite said cheerily.
    Nicole, the other waiting maid, jumped into the room.
    “Where have you been?” Princess Marguerite demanded.
    “Out spying.” Nicole gave a sly look. “That harlot from Tours is here.”
    “Mademoiselle de la Marbelière?”
    “ And she’s got her son with her. Your half-brother.”
    “The bastard.” Marguerite sounded horrified.
    Petite flushed, understanding. Once, in Tours, on the way to the surgeon, Sister Angélique had shielded her from seeing a woman in a passing carriage—this same Mademoiselle de la Marbelière.
    The Princess sank down to the floor, her skirts wafting out around her. “She’s not here to see my father, is she?”
    “I’ll find out,” Nicole said, leaping back out the door.
    A maid of the wardrobe entered with a wicker basket containing a sable snug and a blue velvet cape trimmed with swan’s down. As the maid secured the enormous cape to the Princess by means of an ivory button at the neck, Petite tucked the soiled cloth under the pale green carpet of uncut pile.
    The Princess took a handful of sweetmeats from a bowl and stuffed them into the snug. “You have to carry my train,” she told Petite, pulling toward the door.
    Petite scooped up the train as best she could. Holding it high, she hurried after the Princess, down the stone stairs and along the chilly arcades, sidestepping the piles of feces left by dogs.
    The chapel abutted the unfinished wing. It looked as if part of it had been destroyed and then patched back together. The Princessentered a small door and climbed a narrow circular stair, emerging onto a balcony that overlooked the chancel and nave. The little chapel had stained-glass windows and a vaulted ceiling, and the altar was covered with a dark velvet cloth trimmed with silver lace. Pews in the front by the railing were already full, a crowd standing behind—shopkeepers and townsfolk, Petite guessed by their attire. Incense failed to cover the scent of sheepskin and damp wool.
    “We’re early,” Marguerite said with disgust, dipping her fingers into a baptismal font set into the wall. She crossed herself, bent a knee to the altar and climbed up into the single chair.
    Petite wasn’t sure what to do. The Princess would likely be offended if she were to dip her fingers into her holy water—but wouldn’t God be offended if she didn’t?
    “My cape,” the Princess said, swinging her feet. Petite arranged the fabric so that it wasn’t wadded in a lump behind the Princess’s back.
    The balcony beside theirs was crowded. Petite recognized the two younger princesses, sitting at the balustrade. The youngest stuck her tongue out, then collapsed into a giggle.
    “My mother the Duchess says that you’re not to smile in the chapel,” Marguerite said. “Nor are you to frown. You must maintain a beatific expression.”
    Petite tried to look beatific, but it was difficult with her teeth chattering. She wished she had brought a wrap.
    “I get my own balcony because I’m Little Queen,” Marguerite said, making a face back at her sisters—the bratchets, she called them.
    “That’s good, Little Queen,” Petite said, as a tall comely priest in a patched surplice strode up the aisle. Under his thick wool cassock, he was wearing riding boots with spurs, which kept catching on the hem.
    Those in the pews below stood, but Princess Marguerite remained seated. “That’s Abbé Patin, our tutor,” she said.
    The Abbé crossed himself, his voice booming out, “The Lord be with you.”
    “And also with you,” Petite intoned. The familiar ritual of the Mass was a comfort.
    The Abbé began to read from the Bible in Latin, his voice commanding.
    “We call him the Thunderer,” the Princess said. “He had a wench in Paris,” she went