Whatever she wished, it was not her place to claim such intimacy with Count Lucien. She had already declined his terms.
She knelt on the bank and adopted a cheerful demeanor. When Sherzad surfaced before her, Marie-Josèphe bent to kiss her forehead.
Sherzad’s skin felt strange, cooler and rougher than normal. One of her claws was broken, and an ugly ulcer disfigured the curve of her shoulder. Her hair was tangled and dull, but her eyes gleamed wild.
“Dear Sherzad, what happened, what’s wrong?”
In Sherzad’s song, the sea woman fought her way past the iron gratings and out of the canal, swam along an underwater stream, and gained her freedom in the sea.
“Oh, my sweet, did you believe the Grand Canal is a river? It isn’t, it only connects to the aqueduct. Don’t despair. The ship will find the treasure. His Majesty will keep his promise.” Marie-Josèphe touched the inflamed skin around the ulcer. “How did this happen?”
Sherzad flinched and snarled, complaining of the filth in the fountain.
“Count Lucien — !” She hoped to stop him before he rode away. But he had not mounted Zelis. The two horses, unbridled, cropped the manicured grass beside the Queen’s Boulevard. Count Lucien came away from the horses, carrying saddlebags and a rolled-up rug.
“May Sherzad beg the use of your salve?” Marie-Josèphe asked. “She’s hurt herself.”
Sherzad’s snarl refused Sieur de Baatz’ salve.
“It saved my life! No, now, don’t lick the wound, you’ll only make it worse.”
“I have none,” Lucien said. “I’ve sent to Brittany, to my father, for more.” He unrolled the red Persian rug onto the grass. “Sea woman, may I look at your injury?”
Sherzad slipped from Marie-Josèphe’s grasp and hovered just out of reach.
“My charm eludes her,” Lucien said.
“She’s frightened. She’s in despair. She tempted them, Count Lucien — she lured them into releasing her here, she planned an escape. How I wish she’d succeeded!”
“You wouldn’t like to witness His Majesty’s wrath if she escaped.”
“I don’t care!”
“You should.”
Lucien sat on the rug, his legs straight out in front of him. He pulled off his gloves. The tendons and muscles of his hands moved and flexed. His fingernails were perfectly manicured. He opened his saddlebag and drew out a bottle of wine and two silver goblets.
“Marie-Josèphe,” he said, intent, “His Majesty’s power is absolute. It overcomes any impediment to his will.”
“What could he do!” she exclaimed.
Lucien jammed a bottle-screw into the cork and twisted it hard. “He could bleed you again. He could accuse you of witchcraft. A word to M. Bontemps sends you to the Bastille.” Lucien jerked out the cork and filled the goblets. “He could give you to the Inquisitors —”
“He wouldn’t —”
“Or he could banish you to a convent.”
“Please, don’t.”
“As he’s banished lovers.” He handed her a goblet.
“Are you trying to frighten me?”
“Yes.”
“For my own good, as my brother restricts me and Dr. Fagon bleeds me and Lorraine persecutes me!”
“You’ve said you love truth: The truth is, you oppose His Majesty at great peril. Would you rather I lied?”
Marie-Josèphe drank, too unhappy to savor the wine. Everyone she thought she could trust had lied to her, except Count Lucien.
“I could not bear it if you did,” she said.
“I swore I’d never put you in danger,” Lucien said. “Lies are dangerous.” He took bread and cheese and meat pastries and fruit from the saddlebag. “But we’ve had enough difficult truths. Let us play at being carefree peasants. No intrigue, no etiquette, no court —”
“No money, no food, no shelter,” Marie-Josèphe said.
“Another difficult truth,” Lucien said. “We’ll play at being courtiers on a picnic.” He drank a long draught of his wine and refilled their glasses. He reached into his pocket, drew out a heavy folded piece of parchment, and handed it to Marie-Josèphe. She unfolded it and read it and glanced at him with gratitude.
“Sir, I’m so grateful —”
“It was but a moment’s effort,” he said. “The decree of manumission for your sister means nothing if your brother withholds his signature.”
“He will give it,” she said.
When Sherzad decided she was in no danger of having M. de Baatz’ salve inflicted upon her, she swam closer, asking curious questions.
“Would you like to try our food?” Marie-Josèphe offered Sherzad a piece of bread. Sherzad tasted it and spat it out, pronouncing it fit for fish-food. She liked cheese even less, rejecting it even for fish. Marie-Josèphe handed the sea woman her goblet.
Sherzad sniffed. She thrust her mouth and chin into the goblet and upended it, drinking as the red wine spilled out over her throat and her breasts like blood.
“Do show her how to drink, Mlle de la Croix,” Count Lucien said. “This is excellent wine. I don’t mind if she guzzles it, but I wouldn’t have it wasted.”
Sherzad did better on her second attempt, draining the goblet and demanding more.
“No, it’s your first time,” Marie-Josèphe said. “It will make you silly, if you aren’t careful... All right, just a little.” She and Sherzad shared a goblet of wine. Sherzad sang, comparing the effects of drinking wine to those of eating a certain luminescent creature from the deep, deep sea.
Sherzad leaned on the bank of the canal, humming and whistling softly. She took Marie-Josèphe’s hand and pressed it against her cheek, against her lips. She pushed the sleeve away from the lancet wound. The cut had nearly healed, and the inflammation had disappeared.
“Do you see? Count Lucien cured it.”
Sherzad snorted, slid into the water, and swam away. Sunlight gilded her.
A little drunk herself, Marie-Josèphe lay back on the rug, supported on her elbows.
The tent stood over the Fountain of Apollo, its sides open to the breeze. Within the cage of Sherzad’s late prison, Apollo and his chariot drove widdershins. Marie-Josèphe scowled at the statue.
“Why do you frown?” Count Lucien chided her gently. “I planned a moment to ease your worries.”