The Queen's Necklace (30 page)

Not for Ys the card parties and the light flirtation. She would be queen, and it was up to her to learn the almost dizzying intricacies of a highly ritualistic way of life. “You will,” said Lord Wittlesbeck, “carry on your shoulders the weight of a thousand-year-old tradition.”

It was a tradition, apparently, that could make even a simple act like drinking afternoon tea as elaborate a ceremony as a coronation.

“Always at the same hour. There can be no room for deviation. The teapot shaped like a silver lion. The macaroons and the almond biscuits arranged on the plate in a rayed pattern. You lift your cup
so
, with the handle between your thumb and middle finger, take the smallest possible sip—”

“But what if I am thirsty?” she interrupted impatiently. “And if I don't want
tea
at all? What if I prefer chocolate, or cinnamon-water, or even sherry?”

“No doubt there will be suitable occasions for indulging those tastes. But not at afternoon tea. Now
as
I was saying, mademoiselle: You will have precisely twenty minutes, after which time you exit the room through the south door, and proceed, with a slow and stately gait, to the west balcony, where—”

As Doctor Purcell had predicted, Ys was dismayed. When she was queen, she was rapidly discovering, her time would no longer be her own. It had all been assigned and parcelled out, restricted by ritual, ordered by custom. At last, she was moved to protest. “But is this how King Jarred lives his life? I don't believe it! Surely the
king
does not live a virtual prisoner in his own palace.”

“Indeed he does,” said Lord Wittlesbeck primly. “Except for a few hours he spends each evening with his old tutor, an occasional visit to an old friend, that is substantially how he
does
live his life. Though for him, of course, having been born to it, it is all as natural as breathing.”

Ys was incredulous, but she was also determined. If Jarred could, she could. She was a hundred times more royal than he was. After all,
her
ancestors had ruled the earth for five thousand years, while his—what were they? They were less than the lackeys that waited on him now.

Yet the hours were long and her heart was weary in those stifling little rooms, crowded with books and rolls of parchment, with maps and diaries and documents so old as to be practically primeval, with chests and cabinets bursting with regalia—most of it pinchbeck and paste, for real jewels were so common at Lindenhoff that only stage props could possibly be magnificent enough for state occasions—and over it all lay the dust, dust, dust.

For these were the Lindenhoff Archives, where the records of births, deaths, marriages, coronations, and christenings had been kept for more than a thousand years. On the walls, between the inevitable golden cupids and arabesques, crowded an immense collection
of dim oil paintings in gilded frames, Jarred's ancestors and not a few of her own—dating back to the days when Lindenhoff was a summer palace of the Maglore Empress.

As for Lord Wittlesbeck, he was a little old man, very quick, light, and active, exquisitely attired on all occasions. His fluttering movements, his thin painted eyebrows, the two exceedingly high points of his white wig, lent him a perpetually startled appearance—or perhaps that was only owing to Ys, whose sharp tongue and uncooperative spirit might well keep him in a constant fever of agitation.

When Lord Wittlesbeck recited in his high quivering voice the details of endless court ceremonies—when Ys leafed through the thick old books he placed before her, learning by heart the Order of Precedence, the Order of March—when she listened with growing dismay and contempt to Lord Wittlesbeck's hoary old tales of ambitious courtiers and their social-climbing wives—a claustrophobic panic set in.

Sometimes, Ys closed her eyes and tried not to listen, but the old man continued to buzz in her ear like a particularly annoying gnat, and some of what he said inevitably penetrated.

Even to dress in the morning was going to take hours, as there would be separate women appointed to hand over her shift—her petticoats—her garters—her stockings—each one fiercely protective of her hereditary “privilege.”

“Feuds have begun,” said Lord Wittlesbeck, “and have lasted for generations, over a single encroachment—a glove in the hands of the wrong noblewoman, a countess who had the temerity to usurp the duties of a royal duchess—and it will be up to you to make certain that nothing of the sort happens again.”

“
I?
” said Ys, her eyes flying open. “I look after the whole quarrelsome brood like—like a school-mistress or a nursemaid? Surely
they
will be there to look after
me
?”

“They will be there to enhance your status,” replied the Master of Ceremonies, with a lift of his insignificant small nose. “And to enhance their own. Your comfort, your convenience will not matter to them at all—as, indeed, it should not matter to you. You will learn, mademoiselle, that superior minds are above such trifling considerations. Heat, cold, hunger, boredom, thirst—these things are but transitory. But beauty, elegance, the continuation of an ancient tradition—these endure.”

Ys stared at him, her eyes growing wide with disbelief. It seemed to her these petty Human monarchs had arranged everything the wrong way around. Yet when she looked at those portraits of the Maglore Empresses up on the wall—when she saw them, with their still pale faces and their cold dark eyes, prisoners inside their stiff, bejeweled, old-fashioned gowns and their monstrous yellow cartwheel ruffs—it seemed as though they must have suffered, too. Why had they done so?

Madame would say that they did what they did for pride, for dignity, above all for Power. But what was the use of Power, Ys wondered, unless it allowed you to make
other
people uncomfortable, to suit your personal convenience?

The discovery of a nest of rats in the Archives eventually drove Ys and Lord Wittlesbeck to a lower chamber, this one more open and airy, and a series of lessons on dancing and deportment.

Yet Ys was no happier now than she had been before. She listened with a mutinous heart and a resentful spirit, as the fussy little man instructed her in the art of the perfect graceful curtsy.

“No, no, no, mademoiselle! The wrists must be held exactly
so
. And as one rises, the head must dip just the slightest—
Mademoiselle Debrûle
are you attending to me at all?”

“No,” said Ys, rising straight up. “I am
not
attending.”

The skill in question was one she believed she had already mastered.
Even Madame Solange, that harshest of critics, had agreed that she did it very prettily. But now it appeared, all these months later, her previous training was quite inadequate. There was not one
single
form of obeisance she was expected to learn. There were
three
basic styles—the nod, the bow, the deep genuflection—and dozens of different variations, each one precisely calculated to the relative ages and titles of the parties involved.

Ys smoothed out the skirts of her new silk gown, made a slight adjustment to the old and valuable rose-point lace fichu covering her shoulders. “When I am King Jarred's queen, everyone will bow and curtsy to
me
. When that day comes, there will be nothing for me to do but respond with a regal inclination of my head.”

Lord Wittlesbeck cleared his throat, rocked back on the heels of his tiny pumps, regarded her sternly. “Mademoiselle, there will be a period between the day when your betrothal is officially announced and the day you are wed. During that time, it will be up to you to set an example for others to follow later.

“I know nothing of the customs in Château-Rouge—or in any of the other places mademoiselle may have graced with her presence—but if you will heed my advice, you will pattern your behavior after King Jarred's, which is always impeccable.”

Ys bit her lip. She was growing heartily sick of hearing King Jarred's perfections endlessly extolled, and she wondered what she could have possibly done to deserve such a noble
bore
for her future husband.

The lesson over, Ys gathered up her fan, her gloves, her cloak, and pinned on her big, black velvet hat. She left the room in a rush, almost colliding with the king's uncle in the corridor outside.

“Lord Hugo Sackville,” she said, with a cold, perfunctory nod, her lessons in courtesy apparently forgotten.

The stout old gentleman leered at her. “Mademoiselle Debrûle. You seem to be quite a fixture at Lindenhoff these days. If I may say
so, you are looking particularly delightful this afternoon; I do not think I have seen that gown before.”

Ys felt her stomach turn over in disgust. She knew what he was thinking: that she was Jarred's mistress, that her lovely new things had been his gifts, his
payment
for services rendered.

“You may recall, Lord Hugo, that I am but recently out of mourning.” And she swept on past him, before he could detain her a moment longer. As much as she disliked them all, as much as she despised every Human in the palace—from the scullions down in the kitchen all the way up to Jarred himself—she held a special contempt for this aging lecher.

She ran down three flights of stairs and climbed into the open carriage that was waiting for her down in the courtyard. She told the Ouph coachman to go slowly, as her head was aching. This was not strictly true: she felt light-headed and more than a little queasy after so many hours in that stifling salon, but it was her back and her legs that ached, a nagging pain that had been with her for days. Yet she was not inclined to confide such intimate details to a mere coachman, so she pleaded a headache. The barouche went out though the palace gate at a slow and stately pace.

Ys closed her eyes, leaned her head back against the padded seat. How she would make them pay—for all the discomforts, all the indignities!
Her
elegant mind was not above considering these “trifling” matters, and she fully intended to be revenged when the time was right.

The carriage swayed as it turned a corner. Feeling somewhat revived by the cold air, Ys opened her eyes and glanced around her. The barouche was crossing a neat little brick-paved square at the center of town. A movement caught her eye, caused her to turn her head. An exceedingly handsome youth in a striped satin waistcoat and a large snowy neckcloth was bowing in her direction. Recognizing him at once, Ys felt a sudden stir of excitement and instructed the driver to pull up his horses immediately.

As the barouche rattled to a halt, the good-looking youngster moved to intercept it. With one hand on the door, he smiled up at Ys. “If the lady permits?”

“Yes, of course,” said Ys, suddenly breathless. “Come with me, Zmaj. I've had the most deadly afternoon! It is time that I had some amusing company.”

Zmaj opened the door, ascended gracefully, and sat down on the seat beside her. He had lived for a time at the mansion with Ys and Madame, but he was lodged now in rented rooms. It had been almost a month since his last visit, not since Ys abandoned the blacks and greys and whites of half-mourning. With a lift of one dark eyebrow, he took her in: the dashing hat, the dainty gloves embroidered with seed-pearls, the new and elaborate way that she had of wearing her bright golden curls.

Though she had bitterly resented a similar scrutiny on the part of Lord Hugo, she felt a thrill of pleasure at the frank admiration in the Maglore youth's gaze.

Perhaps because Zmaj was so beautiful himself. His skin was so white as to be nearly transparent, his features were chiseled—the shape of his mouth was particularly enchanting—the dark hair curled at the nape of his neck, where it was caught back and held by an immense black bow. Yet for all his prettiness, he was tall and well-made, and whatever he happened to be doing—whether it was walking, or dancing, or sitting, or especially making love—he did with a muscular grace that was peculiarly his own.

But perhaps, Ys cautioned herself as the carriage moved on, she was so enamored just because Zmaj, and his brother Jmel, and his cousin Izek, were the only young Maglore she had ever met.

“
Beautiful, but of limited intelligence
.” That was how Madame Solange described the three boys. “
Like too many of our kind they lack certain qualities, qualities which I have labored mightily to instill in
you.” Ys put a hand to her brow. She was tired of carrying Madame's ideas,
Madame's pronouncements, even Madame's voice inside of her head wherever she went.

She tried to make light conversation as the carriage left the town and started down the shady country road leading to the mansion. Though it was Ys who spoke and Zmaj who sat back with a satisfied smile, playing with his coral and tortoiseshell watch fobs, the journey passed swiftly. Just outside the gates, the barouche stopped, and Zmaj descended. He handed Ys down, dismissed the driver with a casual wave, then offered her an arm and escorted her into the house.

They paused in the vaulted entry hall, where Ys hesitated. For some reason, Madame was now discouraging his visits—though an affair between him and Ys had clearly been part of her plan from the very beginning.

Thinking of how prettily Zmaj made love, Ys made up her mind to defy her governess. With a blush and a rapidly beating heart, she offered him her hand, a gesture that might have meant dismissal as easily as invitation. But Zmaj being Zmaj—and every bit as aware of his own beauty as she was—he needed no more encouragement than that.

With careless gallantry, he raised her hand to his lips, kissed first the palm, then the place on her wrist where the blood raced so swiftly beneath the skin. He was just leaning over to kiss the pulse-point at the base of her throat—But a door burst open somewhere above, there were hurried footsteps, and Madame Solange swept majestically down the carved oak staircase, with Ys's Aunt Sophie trailing three steps behind.