The Forbidden Rose

Five

IT WOULD BE A DIFFICULT DAY, AND IT WAS STARTING before the sun came up.

Marguerite sat on the edge of the fishpool and pulled the comb LeBreton had given her—a man’s comb, plain but finely made—through snarls, not being gentle with herself. It was a relief to accomplish something concrete. Her braid was heavy between her fingers when she wove it, twist by twist. Her hair smelled of smoke.

LeBreton came from the orangerie into the enclosed garden of the fishpond, deliberately making noise to let her know he was coming.

He carried a coarse towel and a roll of linen clothing. “There’s time to wash. The boy’s still currying the beasts.”

“I will groom myself while he grooms the donkeys. There is an inherent symmetry about mornings. Have you ever noticed?” She took the clothes from him. They smelled of fresh washing and ironing. “That is a chemise. It is an odd thing for a man like you to carry about with him.”

“I stole it last night from that hut down by the river.”

“From the laundry maids.” He had made a good guess of her size, had he not? He must have sorted through clean laundry from half the village to find clothing that would fit so well. Guillaume LeBreton was a man of unusual skills. “I think I have become a receiver of questionable goods. Still, I am glad to wear something clean.”

“I left a coin.” He set the towel on the wide lip of the fish basin. There was more clothing wrapped in it. A clean fichu. An apron. She would wear borrowed linen from the skin out.

He stood, looking formidable. Behind him, dawn curved like a shell. The wide granite pool was white as the moon.

It was cold as the moon when she dipped her hand beneath the surface of the reflection. “Will you tell me what you plan to do with me? I am naturally curious.”

“We’ll talk about it when we’re on the road. I want to get away from here. Soap.” LeBreton laid it beside the towels. A metal box of soft and greasy-looking soap. “Probably not what you’re used to.”

“It is lovely. Thank you.”

“Don’t get any in the pool.”

Fish were poisoned by soap. She liked it that LeBreton knew that, and cared. It is in such small things that men reveal themselves.

Goldfish came and nibbled at her fingers. She had named them all when she was a child. Moses—because he parted the waters—and Blondine and fat, lazy Rousseau. Once the noisy Jacobin riffraff took themselves off, Mayor Leclerc would come from the village with tubs to steal her fish for his own pond. He had coveted them for many years. She hoped he would hurry. They should not be neglected in this fashion.

“I’ll leave you to it, then.” LeBreton took himself off to the orangerie.

It was dawn, the beginning of a new day. It was not raining upon her. She had eaten good food and drunk good coffee. She had succeeded in sending a message to Crow. Her fish would go to a good home. She was filled with a mood of optimism.

On the other side of the wall, in the orangerie, she could hear LeBreton sweeping glass back into place across the floor where it would look natural and well scattered. The ashes of their fire had been tidied away, the straw thrown into the stable. There would be no sign that anyone had spent the night here.

The ties of her skirt had tangled into hard knots. She made herself patient, picking and tugging till the strings were free and her skirt fell to the flagstones. Her stays were already loosened to sleep in. She tugged them looser still and pulled them over her head. She slipped the shift from her shoulders and let it fall.

She wore nothing at all. It was strange to be unclothed under the open sky.

Her reflection looked up at her from the fish basin, more pale than the sky, rippling in the circles that spread where fish came to lip at the surface. The rim of the basin was gritty under her buttocks, with little puddles in every unevenness. The wind of the new day scraped her skin like a dull knife. She put her feet in the water. The slippery film of mud at the bottom of the pool crept up between her toes. Cold. Immeasurably cold.

Quickly, before she lost her courage, she wet half the towel, rubbed water down her arms, over her breasts and her stomach, hissing every breath in and out. Then up and down her thighs. She washed every scratch, every cut. There was not one of them without a sting. It was not helpful to remind herself that she was the descendent of warriors.

Moses and Rousseau and the other great rulers of the pool held themselves aloof, but many small fish came to nibble at her calves and ankles and the knuckles of her hands with little bites, like kittens.

Citoyen Giant Bear spoke to his servant in a distant grumble.

Enough. Enough. She was done. She pulled her legs from the water. Naked, except for an extensive covering of goose bumps, she stepped into her sabots. The chemise Citoyen LeBreton had stolen was clean but old. It had been mended unskillfully. She shook it out, becoming acquainted with its many faults and limitations.

There was no warning.

LeBreton was upon her. He slammed into her and carried her with him in a great angry rush, backward, against the wall of the garden. His hand covered her nose, her mouth, and she could not breathe.