Page 25 of Where Shadows Bloom

“My lady,” said Lope, just behind me, her words punctuated with frantic breaths, “forgive me; you move too fast—”

“She really did live here once,” I whispered. I longed to touch the canvas—instead I stood as close as I could, examining each glob of paint and trace of the swirling of her brush.

“That—that painting, it looks—”

I pointed to theMin the corner. With a proud, pained smile, I turned back to Lope. “I’m not dreaming,” I said. “Shewashere. She painted here. She lived here. This is proof.”

Without a second’s thought, I scurried back to the cardplayers, who had become distracted by the wine that had just been served. When I touched Señora Emilia’s arm, she jumped in her chair and let out a nervous little laugh.

“I’ve found the painting,” I said.

“Mademoiselle, I’m in the middle of a game!” She grinned back at her fellow cardplayers. “Poor dear didn’t learn manners in the countryside, did she?”

Desperate for her help, I took the barb she’d meant to hurt me and twisted it into a tool of my own. “I have a great deal to learn,” I said, my gaze respectfully low and demure. “All I want is to be a part of the magnificent story of this palace, this marvelous tale you’ve woven. I believe there is more still to learn about myself. About my mother. Could I impose upon your kindness just once more?”

“Darling thing,” cooed a blond noblewoman.

Emilia heaved a sigh. “Very well—which painting was it, my love?”

I pointed to it. “The one of the two statues in the garden.”

The table erupted into gasps and whispers and laughter. My confident, charming smile faded; a great chill swept through me. I had heard this sort of laughter from the gossiping market-goers back home. Mirthless and cruel.

“Thatpainting has an absolutely delicious story,” Emilia said with relish. “Sit, sit!”

Lope and I took our places again, but this time, I reached for her hand. Each callus and scar was so familiar to me. So faintly I thought I’d imagined it, I felt her thumb brushing against my knuckle.

“That painting was done by la Comtesse Marisol de Forestier. The king’s favorite painter. And hisfavorite.”

As the others snickered, I threw a confused glance to Lope, who always knew more than I did—but her brow was furrowed, too.

“My—my mother’s name is Mirabelle,” I said weakly. “I’ve seen her sign it—”

“That may very well be her namenow, but when she was at court, it was Marisol.” Emilia lifted the fan from where it hung on her wrist, covering her mouth once more. The glee in her eyes, however, was undisguised. “So she changed her name, ran off to the countryside, and hadyou....”

“Señora,” interjected Lope, anger glinting in her eyes, “please—speak plainly.”

“Yes, yes, tell the story,” said the man with a flock of ribbons in his hair. “No interruptions fromanyone, agreed?”

The table nodded solemnly. I pressed my hand to my hammering heart, as if I could silence its beating.

“Yes, yes, dear. Once upon a time,” Emilia began, “there was a young countess. She was considered one of the great beauties of the court, and His Majesty himself spotted her. During a ball, he plucked her out from the dancers, and she danced just for him. The two of them, they were like the sun and the moon. Resplendent and glorious. They were captivated by each other at once.”

My throat had gone dry as sand. All Mother had ever said was that she had met the king once or twice. And even then, she’d say precious little about him, no matter how I pestered her. “Are you saying that my m—that Marisol was in love with the king?”

The others at the table tittered behind their fans. Was my questionthatridiculous?

“Oh, my sweet girl,” said Emilia with a twinkle in her eye. “You know so little about the ways of the court.” She poked my arm with her fan. “Whether or not true love bloomed between them, one tiny problem remained. The countess already had a husband, and he was no fool. Well, in some aspects he was. He was jealous, too jealous.”

Emilia shook her head, her red curls wagging like the ears of a dog. “The count was so angry, hearing rumors that he was made the cuckold, that he fetched a horse and rode off to be a soldier in His Majesty’s army at once.” She jabbed her finger against the tablecloth, making it ripple like she’d dropped a lump of sugar into a cup of milk. “He preferred to die rather than see his wife shame him so. They say that before he threw himself in front of a cannon, he shouted, ‘I curse my wife and her lover!’”

“No!” I cried.

I blinked, reacquainting myself with my surroundings. Everyone around the table, even Lope, had turned to gape at me.

The gamblers. The music. The laughter. A moment ago I was on a battlefield, watching an innocent man fling himself into the arms of Death.

Was any of this true? Was my mother this same woman? It seemed impossible to believe. ThisMarisolthey described was so bold and careless, so easily swayed by the pleasures of the court—the kind of woman my mother feared I’d become.

---