Mom comes home bubbling over with excitement because a short story she wrote got accepted to an obscure literary journal. She’s been sending stuff out for years, stacking up piles of rejections, almost never getting any feedback, much less published. It always seemed so pointless to me. Why keep writing if no one’s ever going to read it?
For the first time, I kind of get it.
I’m writing Marguerite’s story for me. I thought that’s how it would stay. I wasn’t trying to write the Great American Novel or whatever. (That’s for white dudes anyway, right?) But now Jess is involved, invested. Which I love, but it adds this whole other layer. What if no one had ever read it? If a girl tells a story but there’s no one there to hear it, did it even happen?
Papi comes home with flowers and sparkling cider, which he drops on the kitchen counter so he can grab Mom by the waist and twirl her around. I hope he doesn’t throw his back out.
Jess watches it all unfold, bemused. Then they begin bustling about the kitchen like some sort of servant, pulling out wineglasses with a flourish, draping a dish towel over their forearm. It’s an act, a way to cover the hurt, I think, of watching a happy marriage.
Or maybe Jess is genuinely happy, folded into a family where no one’s screaming or selling off contentious heirlooms.
Jess serves the cider and fills a glass for me, but I leave it on the counter. It’s sickly sweet and reminds me of the day we found out Nor had been accepted into the University of Washington.
Of course she was accepted into the University of Washington. She was a top student, on one of the best high school newspapers in the country, internship at the aquarium, volunteer at the library, even a couple years on the track team.
But when we found out, we celebrated like she’d gotten into Harvard. Mom and Papi both cried, there was bubbly (or our version anyway, since my parents both come from hearty lines of alcoholics and never touch a drop), and then we all piled into the car and headed to one of those shops full of overpriced stuff branded with the university’s mascot and colors.
Purple reign! Go dawgs!
We left with sweatshirts and pennants, ball caps, and even a stuffed Husky. For the next week, gas and groceries went on a credit card, but we did it anyway. This was the dream, land of opportunity, only up from here.
* * *
—
When the house is quiet, I pull out the weapons and lay them on my bed.
There are three longswords, and one is significantly larger than the others. I run my hand along the blade. It’s smooth and flawless, like Jess has been polishing it, readying themselves for the battle to come.
The hilt is filigreed like the one Jess first drew in the margins of my notebook. I realize with a start that the sword is one and the same. When I try to lift it, it’s nothing like the prop swords we used in the church basement. I can barely hold it one-handed. Doing battle would be unthinkable.
But even the act of holding it sends a surge of power through me. Marguerite’s longing for a sword as she forges her path through the world makes perfect sense. The idea that a girl, stripped of everything but her grief and rage, might see no other options? It’s more real than ever before. If I’d been holding this weapon instead of an umbrella—
A weapon would have done nothing for Nor, though. By the time she got dragged behind the frat house, it was too late for that. By the time she was born, it was too late for that. Our world had already decided that a boy like Craig could take what he wanted from a girl like Nor.
So defense, prevention, justice are impossible.
Which leaves only revenge.
PERSONAL FRIENDS
The chateau at Anjou
sprawls along the Loire River
much grander than my memories.
Shouldn’t it be the reverse:
those childhood moments
reflected against the wall of memory
absurdly large, blurred edges.
Like the jump off the dock
into shallow water
so monumental to a child,
epic leap off a cliff
onto jagged rocks below
survived only because
I was so brave.
The water
is no longer
shallow
and I don’t know
how to swim.
I lead Minuit;
Emilde leads
the convent’s horse
(heaven forgive us)
to the gate
that keeps the peasants
from their betters.
I’ve no idea which we are.
The answer comes quickly.
No beggars.
I watch the guard’s hand.
It does not go to his sword
as it would for a greater threat
than four bedraggled girls.
Begging your pardon,
Emilde begins.
I am no beggar.
I employ my haughtiest voice.
I am the daughter of
Monsieur Georges de Bressieux
and a personal friend
to the Duchess Isabella of Lorraine.
He grunts.
I’ll be your personal
friend, chérie.
My hands grasp
for the sword I do not have.
I would slit his throat so fast
his blood would drench
these convent clothes,
the grass, the gate, my rage.
Emilde’s voice surprises,
friendly, warm.
You hail from Brioude
if I am not mistaken, friend?
I glance at her
but she avoids my eyes.
I recognize your rhythms.
Hard to forget, even after
years in service.
A hint of camaraderie,
demeanor changing.
Grew up along the Allier.
I’ve just returned
from burying my pa.
Emilde makes
the sign of the cross
and he grunts again.
The world is better off,
believe you me.
Emilde laughs;
I’ve never heard her
laugh before.
Do you know
Old Melisende,
by chance?
The herbwife?
She only delivered me
into this world!
We are saved by the herbwife,
Emilde’s grand-mère—
or so she claims.
We’re sent to the servants’ entrance,
granted admission to the kitchens
and welcomed for a spell to rest and eat
though still no one believes my station.
The guard’s hands wander
as he ushers us into the kitchen.
Let me know
if you need help
getting warm.
Emilde and Zahra speak
the language of servants,
seat us at their table,
procure bread and butter, tea.
The household help
eye us, invaders.
They hardly know
invaders, though.
I watch for one who might believe me,
relay a message to the duchess.
I’m rallying the courage to ask
the last one in the kitchen
as the candles are extinguished.
Then she speaks.
When you’ve had your fill
you�
��ll bed down in the stables.
Be gone by dawn, you hear?
This ain’t no home for strays.
I push to my feet
ready to breathe fire
on this insubordinate.
Helene grabs my arm,
pulls me down, tucks her chin.
She speaks, for only
the second time, since . . .
Yes, madame.
Thank you, madame.
Emilde shakes her head
as the woman grunts, retreats.
I think her scorn is for the woman.
Instead she turns on me.
We only just got in.
You’d see us thrown out
as night falls?
I whirl on the kitchen girl
who oversteps again and again.
That wretch may not know
I am her superior
but you ought to.
A bell jangles
before she can retort.
Our heads all whip
to the wall of bells,
each attached to a tiny sign
carved with a different name.
I’m still puzzling them out
when the wretch returns.
Bloody hell,
which one was it?
Zahra is quick to answer.
Far right.
The woman frowns.
You’re sure?
Yes, madame.
As soon as she’s gone
Zahra grabs my arm.
The duchess rang
for her lady’s maid.
I do not see
how that helps us.
I sent that woman elsewhere.
You must go to the duchess!
I run.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
I write.
My parents carry on, grading papers and fixing leaks.
I write.
Jess doodles in my margins, regales me with tales of summer camps long past, disappears when their aunt whisks them away from the family drama for a few days in Victoria.
I write.
Nor does whatever Nor does now. We bring a meal over to her apartment one Sunday afternoon and my parents take it in with careful looks devoid of judgment. Her roommates add me on social media.
I write.
Instead of sleeping, I write. Instead of eating, I write. Instead of letting my brain stop long enough to remember Isaac’s hands confining me, his entitlement to my body, how much worse it could have been if even one detail of the story got changed—we were inside, I was intoxicated, that woman hadn’t been driven by trauma or addiction or Seattle’s wild inequity to camp on the church steps with a blade in her hand—I write.
BUTTERFLY
I race through corridors,
head down, feeling by instinct
for Isabella’s chambers.
Even with the cap and apron
Zahra hurled at me as I raced
from the kitchen, it was folly
to think I could ascend unnoticed
to the upper levels and stumble
upon the proper chambers.
I’ve reached the main floor
and up yet one more staircase
before my heart sinks
all the way back down
to the cellars.
You, girl.
A male voice
pins me where I stand,
a butterfly trapped.
Panic rises.
You’re the new
chambermaid?
I fight for breath.
There’s still a chance.
What on God’s
green earth
are you wearing?
I’m . . . I’m sorry, sir.
Go back downstairs,
be fitted for your uniform
before you venture up again.
I curtsy,
turn to go.
Wait.
Merde.
You are not
a chambermaid.
I take a half step back,
debate how far I’d get
if I should run—
De Bressieux?
I won’t
be running
anywhere.
Cool cloth on my forehead
murmured voices at my side
sweet smell that belies
the sweat and horse and grime
caked into my skin.
She wakes, René!
A woman.
Marguerite, my dear?
I turn to see this one
who knows my name,
remembering only then
the man had known
my name as well.
A face, apple-cheeked,
older than mine but
younger than Mother’s
and so much warmer.
Duchess?
She laughs.
Isabella, please!
You’ve broken into my home.
I think we can speak as friends.
My eyes follow the man’s
warm chuckle, find him
leaning against the fireplace.
The man from the hallway.
You remember René?
René. Such a simple name
for the Duke of Lorraine,
King of Naples, husband
of the woman who might
be my salvation.
That is, if he does not
decide to th
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
I fumble for my phone as it buzzes in the dark.
I’m already awake. I’m awake because there’s no sleeping when Marguerite is this close to the weapons she needs. But it’s the dead quiet time of night when phones should not be ringing and I cannot stop the immediate surge of heart into throat.
Oh god, Em, there’s a used condom right next to me . . .
It’s finally happened. Their dad is moving to San Francisco. Their mom is fleeing to Saipan for the rest of the summer while strangers pack up the art and antiquities and sell the house. Jess has to go with one of them.
Annoyance surges through me and I wrap my hand around the rondel dagger that has taken up residence underneath my pillow. I breathe. Poor baby. A luxury high-rise in a city of diversity and culture, or a tropical island paradise. Since I’ve met them, they’ve talked constantly about wishing their parents would get it over with. Now it’s happening. Dreams come true.
“Can I come over?” they say.
But Marguerite has only just come face-to-face with Isabella. “You’re going to be fine,” I say. “I’ll call you in the morning.”
APOLOGY
You need to rest.
Isabella turns the cloth
on my forehead.
The sky outside
is pitch-black.
René knew me by Father’s ring
but Isabella didn’t need
a crest to know I was the girl
who’d stabbed at hay bales
with fury but no skill.
Now I have both.
My sister—
Helene is safe in chambers
with her lady’s maid.
Your maid awaits you
in the adjoining room.
I take all this in
struggle to form words
to explain our presence
but there’s no need.
Sleep now.
You’ve had a journey.
And I suspect
you’ve traveled
more than miles.
I do not wake again
until the sun is high
and Zahra bustles about
fresh and clean
and newly uniformed.
It’s any other morning.
But it’s not.
Helene?
She’s found the library.
Did she sleep?
Zahra pauses.
I heard her scream.
But when I checked
Emilde’s lullabies
had done the trick.
I sit up.
Emilde can soothe my sister
in the night, but I will destroy
the ones who made her scream.
I don the garments Zahra lays out,
though they’re far too fine.
I will not be taken seriously
running through the halls
in traveling rags.
I do not, however, wash.
I’ve more important things
to consider than grime
beneath my nails.
Besides
the worst of it
will never
be washed
away.
The first servant does not understand
my questions. A simpleton, I think,
or else they don’t speak French.
I don’t consider that perhaps
my words are all ajumble,
like my mind, my heart.
I interrupt the next
on hands and knees,
scrubbing the stones of the great hall.
She sighs, but has the answer I seek:
The duchess has gone out
for her morning ride.
The estate is
grander than Father’s,
but stables are stables.
The familiar smell,
the light creeping in
through cracks in the walls,
the graceful beasts.
I sink onto a pile of hay
let myself set down
the unwieldy shield
I’ve been carrying for days