The Duke In His Castle by Vera Nazarian Page B

Oh, how well he knows it.
    He finishes breakfast and puts down the bone porcelain cup with the last of its contents in dregs on the bottom. It clinks delicately against the bowl, and sunlight swirls along its gilded rim.
    Izelle chooses the moment to settle in a great chair across from him. Sunlight glares into the chamber from his favorite window and illuminates her grotesque cap and half of her face, emphasizing the doll-like prettiness, the rounded apples of her cheeks.
    “I will no longer do you the dishonor of duplicity,” the Duchess says.
    “I am glad.”
    “Truth is a bit more complicated than I am prepared to divulge. Not because I am unwilling, but because I am unsure where to begin. . . .”
For the first time the Duke gives her an effortless smile. “Begin,” he says, “with yourself.”
Izelle sighs. “Very well. Know then, that I am not the Duchess of White—Nairis is.”
He stares, unblinking.
    Izelle removes her cap and drops it on top of an open volume. Underneath, her dark hair is ruffled and wild, and she is so much a doll whose wig has been pulled by some unruly little girl for all of her childhood.
    “Nairis—well, she is not, I mean, it’s not her true name—but she is my sister. And that vendor was in her service, of course—I had him carry her box into your castle. Nairis . . . For years we used to play at Princesses of the ancient land called Aegypt, and eventually we were both Queens, naturally. She was Nairis the Fabled One, and I was Volatris the Graceful One. Not that I’ve ever been graceful, on the contrary. Nairis—I mean, Izelle—she was the graceful one. She was also beautiful, wise, intelligent, kind, perfect as a crystal vase. Still is, as you know. And she was gloriously slender and tall, even when she was seven or eight, a year older than me. And I was just this short and fat and idiot child who laughed like a crow and ate too many pastries.”
    “What is your true name, then?” the Duke says softly.
    “Cora,” she replies. “No, wait, I am sorry . . . I did tell you, no more deceit. I always wished they’d called me Cora. Or even Clara. Or better yet, Clarissa, which sounds light as a feather. Instead they shackled me with Molly. Which is short for Mollyanne or maybe Meredith, or even Mary, or Marie. Only, in truth, I am unsure. Mother and father both died before I could ask, and the birth name is recorded in our chapel as Molly.”
    “Molly,” he says, testing the sound.
    “Yes, what a nasty name, isn’t it?” she says. “Vulgar as myself.”
    “Not particularly original, but neither is it all that unsavory,” he replies, watching her squirm. “So, you took your sister’s name. How did that come about? Should I ask how she died? I do have some idea, so you needn’t be afraid to speak freely.”
    Molly gets up from her chair, and he notices she is still holding the rose in one hand, while her cap lying on the table is forgotten. The blossom is a tea rose, deep bloody crimson, so dark that it is rich as velvet, and the perfume that comes from it is potent musk. The stem is thick and pale green and the thorns are sparse. She twirls it between her fingers.
    “I’ll tell you, yes. But if I may ask, my Lord, would you come downstairs with me, out into the open? The sun is bright there, and I must—I have something to show you.”
    He complies silently, this time without any protest. After winding down several flights of stairs, they come out into the courtyard.
    The scorching sun shines down this great stone “well,” while the gates of iron stand open.
    The gates. . . . These are the gates to the world outside the castle.
    There, the whole universe continues, outside and beyond. A sand road rolls in a carpet of yellow gold, and all about, a green brilliant countryside.
    How many times, countless times, he stands here thus, feeling the breeze wash over his face, seeing that familiar nearest birch tree out next to the road, knowing that he