Dragonfly in Amber - Diana Gabaldon [235]
“I will pray for you,” she said, smiling what would have been a tremulous smile on a face less solidly carved. Her expression changed suddenly to one of deep consideration. “Though I do wonder,” she added meditatively, “exactly who would be the proper patron saint to invoke in the circumstances?”
* * *
Mary Magdalene was the name that came to mind as I raised my hands overhead in a simulation of prayer, to allow the small wicker dress frame to slip over my shoulders and settle onto my hips. Or Mata Hari, but I was quite sure she’d never make the Calendar of Saints. I wasn’t sure about the Magdalene, for that matter, but a reformed prostitute seemed the most likely among the heavenly host to be sympathetic to the venture being now undertaken.
I reflected that the Convent of the Angels had probably never before seen a robing such as this. While the postulants about to take their final vows were most splendidly arrayed as brides of Christ, red silk and rice powder probably didn’t figure heavily in the ceremonies.
Very symbolic, I thought, as the rich scarlet folds slithered over my upturned face. White for purity, and red for…whatever this was. Sister Minèrve, a young sister from a wealthy noble family, had been selected to assist me in my toilette; with considerable skill and aplomb, she dressed my hair, tucking in the merest scrap of ostrich feather trimmed with seed pearls. She combed my brows carefully, darkening them with the small lead combs, and painted my lips with a feather dipped in a pot of rouge. The feel of it on my lips tickled unbearably, exaggerating my tendency to break into unhinged giggles. Not hilarity; hysteria.
Sister Minèrve reached for the hand mirror. I stopped her with a gesture; I didn’t want to look myself in the eye. I took a deep breath, and nodded.
“I’m ready,” I said. “Send for the coach.”
* * *
I had never been in this part of the palace before. In fact, after the multiple twists and turnings through the candle-lit corridors of mirrors, I was no longer sure exactly how many of me there were, let alone where any of them were going.
The discreet and anonymous Gentleman of the Bedchamber led me to a small paneled door in an alcove. He rapped once, then bowed to me, whirled, and left without waiting for an answer. The door swung inward, and I entered.
The King still had his breeches on. The realization slowed my heartbeat to something like a tolerable rate, and I ceased feeling as though I might throw up any minute.
I didn’t know quite what I had been expecting, but the reality was mildly reassuring. He was informally dressed, in shirt and breeches, with a dressing gown of brown silk draped across his shoulders for warmth. His Majesty smiled, and urged me to rise with a hand under my arm. His palm was warm—I had subconsciously expected his touch to be clammy—and I smiled back, as best I could.
The attempt must not have been altogether successful, for he patted my arm kindly, and said “Don’t be afraid of me, chère Madame. I don’t bite.”
“No,” I said. “Of course not.”
He was a lot more poised than I was. Well, of course he is, I thought to myself, he does this all the time. I took a deep breath and tried to relax.
“You will have a little wine, Madame?” he asked. We were alone; there were no servants, but the wine was already poured, in a pair of goblets that stood on the table, glowing like rubies in the candlelight. The chamber was ornate, but very small, and aside from the table and a pair of oval-backed chairs, held only a luxuriously padded green-velvet chaise longue. I tried to avoid looking at it as I took my goblet, with a murmur of thanks.
“Sit, please.” Louis sank down upon one of the chairs, gesturing to me to take the other. “Now please,” he said, smiling at me, “tell me what it is that I may do for you.”
“M-my husband,” I began, stammering a little from nervousness. “He’s in the Bastille.”
“Of course,” the King murmured. “For dueling. I recall.” He took my free hand in his own, fingers resting lightly on my pulse. “What would you have me