from deep in her throat, charmingly trilling. “I also recall seeking a means to kill my loathsome governess.”
I dipped my head. “And I failed to fulfill my promise.”
“Indeed—you owe me,” she said with a mocking frown.
She took off a fur-lined glove and ran her fingers over the decorative stitching on Mother’s gown. Her nails were long, pointed, and tinged with gold. She wore a cluster of emeralds set into a gold band on her middle finger. “Is this your handiwork?” she asked. “I have urgent need of a seamstress.”
It took only a moment to register what was being offered. “It would be an honor to serve you, Mademoiselle,” I said, making a shaky but deep and heartfelt reverence.
CHAPTER 20
U p by candle the next morning, I brushed out my hair with bran flour and, shivering with the unseasonable cold, braided it with a long yellow ribbon, coiling the braids tightly and covering them with a starched white cap.
By the thin light of dawn, I could see that it had snowed. Even so, I decided to wear my summer cloak, the only one that wasn’t patched. I took up the carrying basket I’d prepared the night before. Lined with hemp, it held my precious tools—a bone case of brass pins and needles, silk and metal threads, iron scissors and long-bladed shears.
The Mortemart estate was on the other side of the river, in the parish of the Saint-Sulpice church. I would have liked to hire a litter, but I had only earned sixteen sous the night before—and the players nothing at all. The King had rewarded the troupe handsomely, but the debts were high and needed to be paid off first. I would call on Monsieur Martin that evening, explain that it would be a while yet before we would be able to pay him back for the money he’d so kindly advanced—money we’d needed to pay for Mother’s rich costumes. I would give him two of her complimentary tickets to appease.
It took time to find the street the Mortemart residence was on, and once there I felt I was in another realm: the air was fresh after the frosting of snow, which made everything quiet. Above the high walls I could see the branches of great oak trees, the tips of dark pines cloaked in white.
I walked up and down the rue Saint-Guillaume several times before identifying the emblem with the coiled snake over a carriage gate entrance. The courtyard behind the ironwork gates was large: a six-horse carriage stood at the ready, the driver sitting atop smoking a pipe as two footmen in white livery brushed off the snow.
There seemed to be only one entrance. I pulled the bell rope. Three men in blue cloaks—the concierge and two guards—came to the gate.
“Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente is expecting me.”
“For what purpose?” the concierge demanded, his breath billowing.
“I am a seamstress,” I said, praying he wouldn’t demand guild identification.
The concierge nodded to one of the guards, who sprinted across the courtyard toward the entrance.
I blew into my cupped hands to warm them. I feared I would be shown in with chattering teeth, my cheeks chapped and reddened, my eyes and nose running. Just as I was about to expire of the cold, one of the guards and a maid appeared. The guard fumbled with a big iron key and the creaking gate slowly opened. “You may enter,” he said. Ushering me into the realm of the blessed.
The maid led me through a guardroom and down some stairs into the kitchens—a vast, warm, subterranean domain of enormous vats, emitting delicious (and some noxious) smells. Loaves of bread were being lifted out of the great ovens and gutted chickens draped over glowing embers. Five pies sat cooling.
I followed the maid past a buttery, a spicery, a chandlery, and into a narrow corridor which opened onto a dining hall for the servants of the house. Six men—a pantler (I guessed), two butlers, three yeomen of the kitchen—sat at a table covered with platters of grilled meats, boiled eggs, bread, bowls of thick soup.
Working
I dipped my head. “And I failed to fulfill my promise.”
“Indeed—you owe me,” she said with a mocking frown.
She took off a fur-lined glove and ran her fingers over the decorative stitching on Mother’s gown. Her nails were long, pointed, and tinged with gold. She wore a cluster of emeralds set into a gold band on her middle finger. “Is this your handiwork?” she asked. “I have urgent need of a seamstress.”
It took only a moment to register what was being offered. “It would be an honor to serve you, Mademoiselle,” I said, making a shaky but deep and heartfelt reverence.
CHAPTER 20
U p by candle the next morning, I brushed out my hair with bran flour and, shivering with the unseasonable cold, braided it with a long yellow ribbon, coiling the braids tightly and covering them with a starched white cap.
By the thin light of dawn, I could see that it had snowed. Even so, I decided to wear my summer cloak, the only one that wasn’t patched. I took up the carrying basket I’d prepared the night before. Lined with hemp, it held my precious tools—a bone case of brass pins and needles, silk and metal threads, iron scissors and long-bladed shears.
The Mortemart estate was on the other side of the river, in the parish of the Saint-Sulpice church. I would have liked to hire a litter, but I had only earned sixteen sous the night before—and the players nothing at all. The King had rewarded the troupe handsomely, but the debts were high and needed to be paid off first. I would call on Monsieur Martin that evening, explain that it would be a while yet before we would be able to pay him back for the money he’d so kindly advanced—money we’d needed to pay for Mother’s rich costumes. I would give him two of her complimentary tickets to appease.
It took time to find the street the Mortemart residence was on, and once there I felt I was in another realm: the air was fresh after the frosting of snow, which made everything quiet. Above the high walls I could see the branches of great oak trees, the tips of dark pines cloaked in white.
I walked up and down the rue Saint-Guillaume several times before identifying the emblem with the coiled snake over a carriage gate entrance. The courtyard behind the ironwork gates was large: a six-horse carriage stood at the ready, the driver sitting atop smoking a pipe as two footmen in white livery brushed off the snow.
There seemed to be only one entrance. I pulled the bell rope. Three men in blue cloaks—the concierge and two guards—came to the gate.
“Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente is expecting me.”
“For what purpose?” the concierge demanded, his breath billowing.
“I am a seamstress,” I said, praying he wouldn’t demand guild identification.
The concierge nodded to one of the guards, who sprinted across the courtyard toward the entrance.
I blew into my cupped hands to warm them. I feared I would be shown in with chattering teeth, my cheeks chapped and reddened, my eyes and nose running. Just as I was about to expire of the cold, one of the guards and a maid appeared. The guard fumbled with a big iron key and the creaking gate slowly opened. “You may enter,” he said. Ushering me into the realm of the blessed.
The maid led me through a guardroom and down some stairs into the kitchens—a vast, warm, subterranean domain of enormous vats, emitting delicious (and some noxious) smells. Loaves of bread were being lifted out of the great ovens and gutted chickens draped over glowing embers. Five pies sat cooling.
I followed the maid past a buttery, a spicery, a chandlery, and into a narrow corridor which opened onto a dining hall for the servants of the house. Six men—a pantler (I guessed), two butlers, three yeomen of the kitchen—sat at a table covered with platters of grilled meats, boiled eggs, bread, bowls of thick soup.
Working
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