Chapter Sixteen

 

My aunt Iolanthe was not at home.

I had been so busy bracing for a possible confrontation, I hadn’t seriously considered the fact that she might not be at her Fremont Street high-rise.

“She’s in Paris,” my uncle Lucien informed me, leading me into a room that seemed to be all windows, French oak hardwood floors, and views of the tops of other skyscrapers.

My uncle Lucien is not actually my uncle. Aunt I never married him, never took him as her beloved consort, but he is definitely more than her companion, and I’ve known him since I was thirteen, so he has always been Uncle Lucien to me.

“Paris? Why?” I accepted a tiny sherry glass brimming with ominously green liquid. Absinthe. I’m not a fan of absinthe, but Uncle Lucien is, and he views all visitors as an excuse to crack open the “green fairy.”

“She’s petitioning the Crone. Although Estelle specifically instructed her not to do so.” He shrugged. “Iolanthe always thinks she knows best.”

“Do you know what’s really going on?”

Lucien is very handsome, very amiable, but not necessarily the sharpest knife in the cutlery drawer.

He tossed back his absinthe, blinked, and said, “These damned fanatics think they can overthrow nearly five hundred years of peaceful succession.”

Four hundred and fifty-two years, to be exact, and the succession to the trône de sorcière wasn’t always peaceful, unless you consider murder peaceful in comparison to outright war. Of which, I guess, an argument could be made.

“Is Waite with her?”

“Is Waite with who?” Lucien inquired.

“Is Waite with Aunt I?”

“Waite? No. Why would he be? He hates Paris.” Lucien shook his head. “Sometimes I think that boy is a changeling.”

My cousin Waite is not a changeling. He’s the offspring of my aunt and her late beloved consort Walter Whitby. Walter was mortal and died when Waite was a baby. You would think being half mortal would give Waite a more enlightened world view, but he’s one of the most virulent anti-mortal witches I know. Anyway, Lucien was a close family friend, and perhaps it was not surprising—per Maman——that after the crossing of Walter, Aunt I turned to Lucien for comfort.

“Does Aunt I believe the Crone will intercede on Maman’s behalf?”

“If she does, she’s a bigger fool than I think. The Crone is in as much danger as anyone, if you ask me. Not that anyone does in this house.”

“But then—”

“I told Iolanthe, get the Queen out of Paris and back to Domrémy. But you know those two girls. They always think they know best.”

“Which two girls?”

“Iolanthe and your mother.” He studied his empty sherry glass as though it presented an unsolvable—and regrettable——mathematical equation. “Concatenation Integrity, my arse. The de Darrieux woman is behind it all. You’ll see. I told your mother to poison her years ago, but no one listens to me.”

Concatenation Integrity? The unbroken—no, unassailable—line of succession is what he referred to. As confusing as this was, I began to see a glimmer of light.

“I know that Maman and Thérèse de Darrieux were rivals at one time.”

“It’s all your father’s fault. He was betrothed to de Darrieux. She was a distant cousin of your maman, seventh in line for the throne, back then. Ninth now. You know, no real threat. But your mother decided she would have your father for her own.”

“You’re kidding.”

I love my father, but the idea of him as a chick magnet was just…no. And Maman as a poacher of another woman’s fiancé? No way. And not just because Maman was not a woman ruled by passion.

“Not at all. As you know, because of the line of succession, your mother declined to marry your father, and I don’t think he could really quite forgive that. After Arabella was born, he took up with the de Darrieux creature again.” Lucien sighed. “And after Arabella… Well, it was all over between them. I think your mother blamed him for that as well.”

As well as the failure of their relationship? Or as well as someone else she blamed? I wasn’t sure. I asked instead, “What did happen to Arabella?”

Lucien stared at me. “Don’t you know?”

“No.”

He cleared his throat nervously.

“What happened to her?”

“I always assumed you knew.”

I said again, “No.” Honestly, until now I had not really wanted to know.

“Well, I… She was a very gifted witch. Very gifted. And a voracious reader. But she was a child. She read things she should never have been allowed access to. Fairy tales and such nonsense. Stories concocted by mortals about witches turning themselves into ducks and hares and all manner of ridiculous things.”

My mouth went dry. I had a terrible feeling I knew what was coming, and I suddenly understood my mother’s fierce antipathy for mortal books, mortal movies, mortal TV programs…mortals.

Lucien glanced at me, cleared his throat, said awkwardly, “Arabella created a potion she thought would turn her into a star. But the potion contained hydrogen cyanide.”

I had no idea what to say. I had known that something too painful for my mother to speak of must be truly dreadful, but this was beyond my imagination.

“Your mother always believed someone put that idea in the child’s head.”

“Do you think that’s true?”

He didn’t meet my eyes. “I wasn’t there.”

“But?”

“I think Thérèse de Darrieux is a poisonous woman. But did she actually poison your sister?” He moved his head in firm negation. “No. Do I believe she will try to poison the Société du Sortilège against your mother? Oh yes. Very much so.”