“Father de la Croix.”
“Yes.” Yves cleared his throat. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
“I give you to His Holiness, and I command you to obey him without question.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Yves whispered.
“Mlle de la Croix.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” Her voice was as strong and as pure as the sea woman’s song.
“You’ve offended me and my holy cousin as well. You must accept punishment from us both.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
Innocent made her wait until he had finished the rosary.
“I forbid you this ridiculous desire to compose music,” Innocent said. “Not to save your modesty, for you are lost, but as a punishment. You must be silent.”
Marie-Josèphe stared at the floor.
“Very well,” Louis said. “Though it’s a shame, for she might have been very good if she were a man. Mlle de la Croix, my punishment is this. You desire a husband, and children. I thought to forbid these to you, to send you to a convent.”
Marie-Josèphe paled.
I’ll break it down, Lucien thought. I’ll lay siege to the walls as if it were a prison, an enemy city in war —
“But that is too simple a solution,” Louis said.
He turned away from Marie-Josèphe and addressed himself to Lucien.
“You will leave court.”
I was right not to hope for a lesser punishment, Lucien thought.
“You will resign the governorship of Brittany to M. du Maine. You will resign your title and your lands to your brother.”
Lucien’s plans for the good of his family trembled in his hands.
“And you will marry Mlle de la Croix. You may live on the dowry I promised her. If you do not give her children, you will break her heart. If you do give her children, you will dishonor your sworn word, to the woman you love — as you dishonored it to me.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” Lucien’s pride finally failed him. He could barely speak.
“I’ve condescended to spare your lives — but I wish never to see any of you again.” He nodded graciously to Innocent. “Here is your priest, cousin.”
“Did the sea woman repent?” Innocent asked.
“No, Your Holiness.”
“She declared war on the men of land,” Marie-Josèphe said. “And then she disappeared.”
“I should excommunicate you all.”
Yves fell to his knees.
“I shall not. Father de la Croix, you will have use for your priestly authority. Holy Mother Church faces a terrible threat. The sea monsters —”
“They’re people, Your Holiness!” Marie-Josèphe said.
“Yes,” said Innocent.
Lucien was as surprised as Marie-Josèphe and Yves, that the holy man would admit something so damaging to his influence.
“Your Holiness,” Yves said, “they’re nearly extinct because of the Church. Instead of offering them the word of God —”
“That is why —”
“— we tormented them as demons —”
“— history must be —”
“— and we preyed on them as cattle. I —” Yves cut off his words when he realized he had interrupted Innocent.
“— corrected.” Innocent nodded. “History must be corrected,” he said again.
Innocent opened the drawing box. He drew out a handful of pages: Marie-Josèphe’s dissection sketches. He crumpled one. He thrust its edge into the candle flame. It burned to his fingers. He dropped the ashes in a golden Aztec dish.
“Father de la Croix, your penance is this. You will search out every mention of the sea monsters.”
He snatched M. Boursin’s book from the table beside him, and flung it to the floor.
“Every book.”
He scattered a sheaf of letters, the current prize of the King’s Black Cabinet, waiting to be read, many addressed by Madame’s bold handwriting.
“Every letter.”
He ripped a handful of pages from the current volume of M. de Dangeau’s journal.
“Every chronicle of this self-indulgent celebration of the monsters. This week of Carrousel must vanish utterly.”
He flung down a handful of broadsheets, the Stories of Sherzad.
“Every painting, every myth, every memory of the creatures. The decree of the Church that raised them from demons to beasts.”
He handed Yves a roll of vellum, inscribed with black ink and illuminated with gold and scarlet.
“You will erase the existence of the sea monsters from our conscience. And from our posterity. You will do as you know you should.”
Yves bowed his head. He unrolled the vellum and held it to the candle flame. It smoked, contorted, burned. The stench of burning leather filled the chamber. With blistered fingers, Yves dropped the ashes into the Aztec dish.
Innocent rose.
“Who gives this woman?”
Yves remained silent.
“I do,” His Majesty said.
I am married, Marie-Josèphe thought. Married by the Prince of Rome, given in marriage by the King of France and Navarre... and I’m perfectly indifferent to the honor. I care only that I love Lucien, and he loves me.
But he did not look like a man in love. Sitting on the window-seat while she packed her few things, absently stroking the cat, he stared into space. Marie-Josèphe readied a basket for Hercules, who watched suspiciously.
“You may live apart from me,” Lucien said.
Marie-Josèphe stared at him, stunned.
“You’ll have your dowry, your liberty, time for your studies. I must leave court — I’ll never trouble you —”
“You’ll be my husband, in all ways!”
“But, my love,” he said, “I’m no longer M. le comte de Chrétien. Only ordinary Lucien de Barenton.”
“I don’t care.”
“I do. I have nothing. I can give you nothing. No title, no comfort — no children.”
“We’ll have more than nothing — I promise you! But I’d choose nothing, with you, over everything, with anyone else. Nothing, with you, is liberty and affection, consideration and love.” She took his hands, stripped of their rings. “I’d find only joy in a child with your spirit. But I’ll never torment you.” She stroked her fingertip along his eyebrow, down his cheek. “I will hope for you to change your mind.”
Lucien kissed her palm, her lips. He drew back reluctantly, sharing her anticipation.