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It was the sort of night where the heat pressed against you like a warm duvet and every breath you took turned to steam in your throat. In his quarters, André tossed and turned, sleep just out of reach. When he finally surrendered to insomnia and sat up, his bedsheets followed, plastered to his chest and arms like a clingy lover.
In truth, it wasn’t just the heatwave interrupting his slumber.
The intensity of the weather over the past week had caused tempers to shorten all through the Jarjayes manor, with he and Oscar proving to be no exception. All it took was a slightly too pointedly cynical remark from him, then a dressing down from Oscar that was rather vehement in proportion to his sarcasm. Both were things they could normally laugh over in a matter of minutes, but the situation had instead stretched out to days of Oscar riding to Versailles alone and André being left to the mercy of Nanny’s equally stormy mood at the estate.
It wasn’t the longest they had gone without speaking to one another—Oscar tended to be the more stubborn of the two when it came to apologizing, but André could match her pace for pace if he felt particularly ill-used—but this time the schism felt different and André felt at a loss on how to bridge the gap.
It didn’t help that the one long glimpse he’d managed to get of Oscar yesterday had made her seem uncharacteristically pale and wane, like flora wilting beneath the summer sun. André wasn’t arrogant enough to assume that he could be the only cause of such a mien, but their quarrel probably wasn’t helping matters.
André sighed and pushed his sweaty bangs back from his face.
Rather than wait for Oscar’s frustration to boil over, the best course of action would obviously be to work out his lingering resentment tonight, steal what rest he could, then meet her with a conciliatory smile and apology in the morning.
After few more moments to convince himself of that course of action, he then hefted himself out of bed to begin doing just that.
Upon entering the hallway, André saw a flash of white at the end of the hall. Not wanting to wake anyone up, he hurried towards the place where it had appeared. If it was a burglar, he wanted to know before sounding the alarm.
Rather than the expected thief, it was Oscar. She moved with almost supernatural swiftness down the stairs and out the door, directly past him. André frowned and moved to follow her. Perhaps both of them had the same idea, in which case, there was no reason to wait until morning to talk to her.
Oscar moved quickly towards the stables, slipping past the doors quiet as a ghost. André watched from the shadows as Oscar silently saddled and mounted her horse with practiced ease beforegalloping off with a quick thump of her heels. André scrambled to ready his own horse and rushed after her.
So hard pressed he was to follow the distant figure past the gentle hills and valleys that it took him a little while to realize that the shape of the land around him had changed. The path they both rode on wound through a large copse of trees, trunks slender and branches uniformly uplifted as though worshiping the moon above. The night wind alternately sounded like whispers or the faintest hint of music as it rushed through the gaps, raising goosebumps on André’s arms.
It felt like they traveled for hours. The sweltering heat of the evening had long given way to a wintry chill deep within the forest. The tips of André’s fingers grew red with cold and he began to see his breath escape his mouth in sharp little puffs. If Oscar was affected by the sudden change in temperature, she gave no sign as her horse tirelessly sprinted on ahead of him.
It didn’t make a difference, really. Where Oscar led, André would follow.
Where Oscar led turned out to be the other side of the forest. The dirt path eventually widened into the most curious palace André had ever seen. Instead of the normal mortar walls, it was as though some magician had convinced the trees to warp themselves into a series of walls and arches, branches tangling and bowing in a uniform series as far as his eyes could see.
The light from within the halls was dim compared to the mansions André was used to, like it was being lit entirely by fireflies instead of candles. He watched as dark figures disentangled themselves from the surrounding woods and made their way within.
So caught up in watching the gathering, that André missed Oscar dismounting and casually walking to join the party. He watched as one of the men greeted her cheerfully and beckoned within the corridor. Oscar didn’t return his greeting, but she did begin walking to where they pointed.
André hurriedly dismounted and ran towards her. Any lingering grudge he had was long forgotten at this point. Everything about this situation screamed that they shouldn’t be here, that this was not a place to trespass upon. If Oscar disagreed, then he’d drag her away physically and deal with the consequences afterwards.
But, somehow, as he approached the hall it seemed to waver in the distance, like a mirage. The time spent traversing the lawn somehow contracted and expanded with every step; space and time a quagmire.
The more progress he made, the more he felt much of his trepidation melt as a strong wind might blow an eerie mist away. The lights didn’t seem quite as dim up close when he could see the ballroom beyond the arcade and the people milling about within, murmurs of conversation tripping out towards him similar to the babbling a forest brook over pebbles.
No doubt this midnight dance was just some noble’s passing fancy, he told himself. One of hundreds Oscar had been entangled in one way or the other—and just as good a place as any to make up after their quarrel.
He slipped in and stood next to a pillar, thoroughly ignored. Above, he noted, distantly, the boughs of the gallery roof were interwoven with stars.
The ball was mostly men from what André could tell, but there had to be women somewhere. Between the gaps in guests milling about, he caught a glimpse of whirling up ahead, the impression of dancing, of color and lace and long hair piled high in loose ringlets.
“Do you not wish to dance with mademoiselle?”
It took André a moment to realize he’d been spoken to; the sound had been less like words and more like the reverberation of a distant bell. When he turned to meet this stranger, his eyes widened. His first thought, immediately, was that Oscar had managed to seek him out in this sea of nobility instead, so closely did the man’s cascade of blond hair and blue eyes match hers.
“I’m not here to dance,” he said, finally. Honestly, André found himself frustrated. He’d never had this much trouble picking Oscar out of even the largest crowd before and this man lifting his hopes only to dash them left André with a bitter taste in his mouth. “I’m looking for my...my friend.”
The man beside him threw his head back and laughed—a rippling of chimes—as though André had said the most amusing joke he’d even heard. “The shadow proves himself no less delightful than the caster! I’m glad you decided to put in an appearance before the end.”
“You make it sound like you were expecting me,” André said, eyes still peeled for that ineffable silhouette.
“We had hoped,” the man replied. When André didn’t respond, he bowed low, from the exact distance etiquette demanded. The most elegant man in Versailles couldn’t have asked for a dance in a more perfect way.
André felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise as the man proffered his hand. Though the man’s posture was humble, his eyes were anything but. They were ravenous and piercing, as though he’d already cut to André’s beating heart with a single glance.
“Would you like to dance?”
André started down at that hand, open and completely empty, yet presenting peril all the same.
Like a deer that infers the hunt is on through the air itself, André bolted. It was the only word to express what he did, darting through throngs of people like an animal in the woods, even as he told himself that he was being ridiculous.
There was no way a stranger—of all people—knew.
When Oscar was learning how to dance, André was the only one she was willing to practice with outside of lessons. Another gift of nobility artlessly shared with her best friend, like swordsmanship and horseback riding. However, this gift proved different in one precise way from all the others.
The practice would only take place in musty, unused guest rooms, or hidden in the trees close to the edge of the lake. A couple of times it occurred on the uneven stone floors of the basement pantry when Oscar was particularly determined to learn a step and Nanny had said André had too many chores to play that day.
Once André had asked her—backside still smarting from Nanny’s switching after he came to lunch with clothes streaked with dust—why they couldn’t just practice in the great hall where lessons took place.
Oscar had stared at him in response. Even in memory, André flushed at the open bewilderment in that gaze.
“You don’t think it’d be peculiar, two boys dancing together?” Like she was asking if he understood the sky was blue, or water wet.
How to respond to that! Perhaps now that he was older he’d have the words to express that it hadn’t even crossed his mind to frame the lessons in those terms. It had just been him and Oscar practicing, just like anything—everything—else.
He’d now be able to press down, down the secret thrill he’d felt when his friend held him close, palm to palm, heart to heart. This same beautiful friend that had punched him so hard it left a bruise all up his arm and, at the same time, entranced him to speechlessness at the way the summer sun could set that golden hair aflame at just the right angle.
At the time, he’d only agreed with her.
The rehearsals continued as they had.
About the time André found himself a corner he considered safer, less obvious, a change came over the ball, like the shuddering breath of some great beast before it shifted in its sleep. He had rejected this wild thing and its gift and, in return, was being rejected.
It started with just two or three men leaving the ballroom, slipping out into the darkened passages that led deeper into the palace. Then more and more, until André himself felt drawn along in the undercurrent. He still took the chance to look for Oscar in the shuffle until a shock of color wrenched his attention to the center of the mass of people.
A woman—clad in a dress of loamy green, hair swept up away from her neck—carried along the in the drift, even as she struggled with all her might to break free. Her mouth wide in a wordless shout as she shoved the unyielding men boxing her in. Their bodies jerked with the force of her blows, but the line continued forward as one.
At that very moment he realized, with a chill that dimmed his very vision, that woman was Oscar!
His stomach curdled in on himself. Instead of an inability to find her, it suddenly felt like an inability to see her. Like he’d lost a contest he’d only been distantly aware he was participating in. As he opened his mouth to call out to her, she slipped through the open maw of the doorway and he was left to struggle through the sea of people, trying to get to where she vanished.
Just as he reached the door, it slammed in his face. Frantic, he turned to the one beside it, only to find that it had shut at the same time. In fact, he was alone in the massive hall, all ways inside barred to him.
Pounding on the door only prompted hysterical laughter from the other side. Perhaps it was just the sound traveling through heavy wood, but when his voice grew hoarse from screaming and his kicks began to diminish in power, it seemed to shift to the howling merriment of beasts.
Panting, he turned and slid down the wall into a sitting position. Even if the doors never opened again, leaving was unthinkable. All he could do was wait.
So, André waited.
It could have been hours. It felt like days—the only thing giving lie to that was the one source of light entering the hall. It came from the moon, ensnared in the tangle of boughs above just as surely as the stars it had for company.
Eventually, his eyes closed, and he slept.
When he woke up, the hall had once again transformed. An ocean of colors spread out as far as his vision allowed. A d ress of silk in hue of the tide at dawn there, another the shade of a crimson rose about to bloom here. As far as he could tell, the room was now full to bursting with almost entirely women .
H e struggled to his feet, prepared to search the ballroom centimeter by centimeter if he had to in order to find Oscar this time, when he found she wasn’t difficult to locate in the slightest.
Oscar stood in the center of attention. Her black overcoat had an accent of embroidered golden vines sprouting from the collar to the hem, a perfect match to the shade of her hair. Her expression as she watched over the ladies in her charge was cool and disinterested — if she’d seen André prone against the wall at any point, she gave no sign whatsoever.
Somehow, he found it more difficult to move through this feminine multitude than he had during the prior party. No matter how carefully he tried to maneuver, it seemed he was destined to bump into someone, or tread upon another’s train. Their emotionless stares bored into him, whispering without words that he didn’t belong in this place. That his chance had come and gone and he should leave.
Invariably, when he lifted his head after making his apologies, he found Oscar on the other side of the room, in the opposite direction from where he’d been struggling to reach her. These tricks were only enough to keep him stymied for so long, though. He did eventually manage to shove his way within range of Oscar, through outraged huffs and snarls.
From up close, she had an abnormal, pale pallor to her cheeks and the expression in her eyes lifeless, totally unlike her normal lively countenance.
“Oscar!” he called out. Her head jerked slightly at the sound of his voice, but she didn’t move or respond in any other way. The hostility to the sound of his voice seemed to cause the overall temperature in the hall to plummet.
A t a loss of what else to do, he grabbed her hand.
That response was instantaneous.
Oscar shrieked in agony and immediately tried to jerk her hand from his. André held fast, griping tighter, even as the biting cold of her skin burned like frostbite against his own. He used his free hand against her shoulder, trying to pull her in closer. She convulsed like his touch had branded her instead, wrenching back and forth to try to escape.
Low titters filled the air.
“Is this how a stable boy asks someone to dance?”
“How violent, how repulsive!”
André ignored them, choosing instead to speak directly to Oscar. “ It’s me, André, I’m here. I’m sorry I’m late. I’m sorry we fought. I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”
With each apology, he thought he felt some of the tension leave Oscar’s body, but she still didn’t actively respond to him.
And all around, the sighs continued in an eddy of negativity.
“A gentleman understands when someone doesn’t want to dance with them.”
André grit his teeth. By now, he’d lost all feeling in the hand gripping Oscar’s directly and the one pressed against her shoulder howled in toment.
“Love can’t be forced, stable boy!”
“I know that!” he bit out, more to himself than to the source.
It felt like he’d been born understanding that. From the day he became aware of Oscar as another person, he’d grown used to tamping any hint of conflagration down to warm admiration. It made excellent practice for the day he realized she’d fallen in love with the Queen’s beau.
“I’m sorry,” he continued his apologies. “I was glad your love was unrequited, but still jealous that you spent so much of your time thinking about him and feeling sorry for him. I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. It’s not your fault; you shouldn’t have to change!
“You don’t deserve to be miserable!”
O scar’s entire body heaved. André could feel her come alive beneath his fingers, natural warmth suffusing through her limbs and bringing back heat to his own.
“An...dré…?”
At that single word, André’s heart leapt. He felt as though it would burst in his chest. He wanted to cry; he wanted to demand that she get out her sword and that they duel until neither of them could stand; he wanted to laugh; he wanted to hold her so tight that her very bones creaked from the strain.
Instead—hand in hers—he ran.
Snarls and screams of rage pursued them, high feminine shrieks and masculine roars of rage, gasping howls hot on their neck. Neither of them so much as glanced back, just flew to where their horses waited on the outskirts.
The way back home passed as though a blur, through the forest of dead branches clawing at the sky, past the strangely rolling hills and the valleys gouged between. The wails of their pursuers faded the further away they galloped and by the time they reached familiar landscapes, the clamor had ceased entirely.
When they reached the stables of the Jarjayes manor, Andre had just enough presence of mind to unsaddle the horses and pull the doors shut before he collapsed in the hay. The last thing he noted, triumphantly, before his eyes shuttered of their own accord, was Oscar prone next to him.
Dawn’s rosy fingers found them through gaps in the slats of the stable walls, long before anyone else could.
“André?” Oscar’s grip on his hand tightened convulsively, even as she began to sit up. As in all things, André followed. “I had the strangest dream…” She shook her head. “It must have been a dream…”
“You too?” André replied. “I dreamt we were at a ball in the forest...”
Oscar shook her head again, exhaustion making her words heavier than they would have been normally: “No, mine was nothing like that. I dreamt you were calling for me, but I couldn’t see anything. Everyone said you were gone, but I…”
“I’m here,” he said.
For a long moment, Oscar just smiled. Then: “Yes, of course, you are.”