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Genevieve considers for a moment. ‘Ah—you are American. In truth, I have never met an American in person. My grandfather has spoken much to me of the conflict there; a branch of our family is in Massachusetts, although I have not met them.’
He blinks at her, face bland, and she finds herself bashful. It is as if he has never held a conversation before.
Genevieve perseveres. ‘Which colony. . . Pardon. Which state are you from?’
‘You ask a lot of questions, Madame de Vienne.’
‘Mademoiselle,’ she corrects. She draws her fan from her pocket and spreads it before her face in a practised movement, peering at him over the edge. ‘I am not married.’
He smirks at her, eyes knowing, and Genevieve flutters her fan to hide her nervousness, feeling a flush begin at her throat. She glances about desperately for a different topic of conversation. ‘I cannot comprehend this creature,’ she says, referring to the topiary. ‘Do you know what it is?’
He tips his chin upwards to observe the topiary; his Adam’s apple is pronounced. ‘A lamia. You haven’t heard of them?’
‘I must have, once, when I was a child and studying the myths, but I cannot remember the details.’
‘She’s a monster,’ he says. ‘She consumed her own children.’
Genevieve’s nose wrinkles. ‘How awful. An odd choice for such a beautiful maze. Have you found the centre yet, sir?’
‘Probably.’
What a bizarre answer. ‘Was it worthy of the search?’
He shrugs. ‘It’s a maze. There’s little to see but more hedges. Were you expecting a prize?’
‘I have already found you, sir,’ she says. She does not mean for it to sound quite as brazen as it does—she has spent so long without company—and, oh, now Monsieur Sterne will think her loose, surely? If Genevieve had spoken so at Court, she would have been branded an awful flirt. She forgets herself. She always forgets herself around pretty things.
Leander Sterne cocks his head. His blue eyes sweep over her, assessing without shame or deference—from her satin shoes to the very top of her head, eyes lingering for a moment on her face. She shifts uneasily beneath the scrutiny.
Satisfied somehow, he laces his hands behind his back and steps towards her, bowing slightly at the waist. Genevieve has a strange reaction to his approach—a speeding of the heart, a pang of anxiety—that speaks less of attraction than of fear. But the fear is giddy, the sort one feels looking from a great height at a lovely view. It is the fear of falling, of something beautiful becoming cruel.
‘You, mademoiselle,’ he murmurs, ‘are a stranger here. A stranger amongst strangers, without chaperone or guards. Has no one ever told you to be wary of men you don’t know?’
She swallows nervously. Men you don’t know. And briefly she is there again: a carriage window smashed, dark figures laughing. The vision fades quickly but the terror remains, her heart pounding, her chest tightening. She takes in a small, anxious breath, and the scent of Leander Sterne—wool and vetiver oil and something wilder, almost akin to soil—fills her lungs. ‘Are you warning me not to trust you, monsieur?’
‘Exactly so,’ he replies, and he straightens his back. A long pause—as if he’s waiting for her to do something more: to slap him, to demand an apology—and then, when she doesn’t, he smiles fleetingly, as if she has done something marginally impressive. ‘It’s almost noon. Shall we?’
He starts walking towards the east, a path that Genevieve has yet to take. His stride is so much longer than Genevieve’s that she must run to keep up with him, gathering her skirts in her hands. Her straw bonnet has been pinned to her head by the maids, and it bobs with her movements, pulling painfully at her scalp. She cannot remember the last time she was required to walk faster than a trot. Before—before, in the south as a girl, she ran constantly when she believed no one was observing, lurching through corridors and orchards, splashing through creeks, tumbling down hills. Together, Claire and Genevieve would become so muddy and red-cheeked that it was impossible to tell which of them was the lady and which was the servant. And when they returned home, the tutor would click his tongue as Genevieve sat down at the desk for her English lessons, saying, What would the comte say? Claire, it is your duty to keep mademoiselle out of trouble, and instead you pull her into it. They were lucky Claire did not get caned for her lady’s transgressions. They were both indulged by the gentle household of the comte’s family estate. Once they arrived at Versailles, expectations would grow far more demanding, and their days of running were relegated to memory.
But Genevieve is not at Versailles, or at the estate. She reminds herself of this as she lurches through the maze, staring at the dark monolith of Leander Sterne’s back. A stranger amongst strangers, he had said. And he is correct—she is not safe here, she must remember this always.
‘What are you bidding for, mademoiselle?’ Sterne says abruptly as he walks. His voice startles her; it is eerily quiet here, the rustle of the wind and the soft tread of their feet against the gravel the only other sounds.
‘Pardon?’
‘In the auction. What did you write on the invitation? What are you bidding for?’
‘The letter said, My heart’s desire. So that is what I wrote.’
‘Yes. It’s strange, isn’t it?’ he says.
‘What is strange, sir?’
‘It is an unbelievable promise, surely? And yet you have believed it. We all have—all of the guests who have come.’
Genevieve also finds that strange. She finds it strange that when she tries to recall the time after the burning of the letter—the journey here, that is—the memories are slippery and uncertain; she finds it strange that, since her arrival, she has felt an unwavering conviction that the impossible promises made in the invitation are true.
But then again, in Genevieve’s mind, so many impossible things have already occurred in this decade of revolution. Time itself is being rewritten, after all. Consider the new government in France carving out the day and reconstructing it, decreeing that there are now a hundred minutes to an hour, ten hours to a day, thirty days to each month, the year divided into perfect mathematical segmentations. The nation is now free from the tyranny of the old gods, and gone is the Janus of January, Juno of June. The months are literal and exacting, in spring, Floréal for ‘flowering,’ in summer, Thermidor for ‘hot.’ Meanwhile, in England, Genevieve’s safe harbour, men also cry out for liberty, riot for food in the streets, light their houses with gas instead of candles. Amid these changes Genevieve stands spinning in place, like a dancer in a music box, watching it all with terror and awe, wondering who she is now supposed to be.
