She kept her own head down, watching the gutters and paving stones of Quai des Tuileries instead of her surroundings, pushing modestly through the crowds. Every so often her face would lift; it was only then he'd gain a swift glimpse of her nose, of her chin and lips. Dewy youth, lush beauty. He very much looked forward to seeing the rest of her.
But for now, Basile maintained his distance. He would not be so imprudent as to risk a glance directly into her eyes. It would not do to let her know he was studying her, and besides, there were still too many people about.
Her wig shone beneath the lanterns as well, the powder like none he'd seen before. He was not a man of great fashion, but he knew enough about wigs to recognize that hers was expensive. Definitely human hair, not horse, very fair and almost eerily natural. It wasn't even gray, but instead a glossy, glinting white. Two long, perfect coils spiraled down her back, bouncing like the tassels with every step, most fetching against the blue. It drew a man's eyes upward, to the nape of her neck. To the way the coat hugged the pretty slope of her shoulders.
Ah, the rich. What pleasures were denied them?
And yet as far as he could tell, his demoiselle walked the Quai alone, without a maid, without a footman. Without even a cabriolet to follow at a discreet distance. If she was meeting a lover, she was clearly reluctant about it. Perhaps the man was a toad.
The thought made Basile smile.
Over the clatter of horses and mules and carriages along the boulevard rose the soothing smack of the river pushing at her banks, the occasional echo in galld of the boatmen drifting below. The autumn night smelled of damp leaves and burning coal and steaming fresh manure. The clouds pressed low in the sky, shrouding the jagged points and peaks of the city in wet, misty soot.
The demoiselle slowed yet again. This time when she raised her head, it was to take in the sudden line of trees before her. They had reached the far end of the gardens of the Palais des Tuileries, enclosed by a wall taller than two grown men, the tips of chestnuts and black oaks waving their branches over it like hungry fingers in the night.
She muttered something he couldn't quite hear. It wasn't the first time she'd whispered words to herself, another peculiarity that had snagged his attention away from the pockets of the other nobles who packed the boulevards. It seemed to him that this time she asked herself a question. He watched as she gave a short nod—an answer to herself, no doubt—then strolled on.
The nearest gate to the gardens was yet another half block away; Basile knew it well. It was composed of thick rusty iron bars and a much more formidable new padlock, and sure enough, it was to there that the demoiselle wandered, weaving past a pair of interested army officers without even a sidelong look. The gate was in shadow. She walked close, one gloved hand closing upon a bar, and stood without moving.
Basile drew back to give her space, leaning a shoulder against the nearest lantern pole, glancing around them, considering the moment. It was growing late, and the hordes along the Quai were finally beginning to thin. A trio of merchants clacking their walking sticks strode past, arguing about cards and a woman named Ariane. From the other direction two sedan-chair men huffed along more slowly, cheeks and jowls flushed, the tall black lacquered wood of the box gripped between them beginning to bead with the moisture of the night.
A face peered back at him from beyond the window; kohled eyes, pasty flat skin; the lace curtain was quickly dropped.
When Basile looked again to the demoiselle, she was gone. The gate swung open, very gently, upon its hinges.
He straightened in surprise, then quickly looked around once more. But she hadn't continued down the Quai, and she hadn't retreated back toward him.
The gate still hung agape, a clear invitation.
So Basile accepted it. When he was near enough he discovered that the lock had been broken somehow, the bolt completely bent free of the base. The entire contraption had been dropped to the dirt just inside the gate. Very strange. The girl must have noticed the same thing and let her curiosity—or those voices in her mind—lead her into the gardens.
He'd been here before, of course. He knew all the best dark places of the city. The gardens of the old palace were officially forbidden to the common people who swarmed the streets surrounding them, but thrice a year the gates were opened for parades, and even the lowest of the city filth was allowed a visit inside.
Basile's mouth twisted into a smile.
The place was enormous, acres and acres of fountains and statues and hedges and trees. He'd lose her if he didn't hurry, so he stepped inside, melting at once into the gloom.
There were no torches lit along the neat rows of chestnuts and gravel before him, but he could nearly make them out anyway, the heavy black strings of trunks, the paler paths of crushed rock raked between them. He couldn't see the abandoned palace from here, not even a hint of the roof. There were no torches for it, either.
He stopped to listen. Trees creaking, almost no wind. The city past the walls strident enough, but quiet inside here, an unnatural hush. There would be insects at least, he thought, but heard none.
However—he did hear footsteps. Up ahead, to the right. Light, uneven.
He followed her as silently as he could, and that was very silently indeed.
One of the reflecting pools shone like a flat pewter disc through the nearest break in the trees. Basile found his gaze flicking to it again and again as he stole carefully forward, his eyes repeatedly drawn to that sole slick of light. He avoided a drift of withered leaves by a bench only at the last second, and just as he was inwardly cursing himself, dancing sideways to save himself from that one fateful loud step, a hand closed hard around his throat.
In front of him. And there was no one there.
He brought up both his hands to clutch at it. He felt the air squeezed from his larynx, trapped like a bubble tight inside his chest.
He was lifted high, entirely off the ground. His feet kicked out and met resistance: cloth, a great deal of it, like the skirts and petticoats of a gown. Basile rolled his eyes downward. It was a gown, taupe satin. It stood in the path without a body, without support of any kind. He could see clean down inside it. And beyond that, just beyond—a hat and coat against the base of a chestnut, tossed nearly out of view. A single dropped glove, still on the path.
Spots began to color his vision, bright light at last. He tried to cry out but only managed a wheeze; the grip on his throat did not loosen, but his boots hit the gravel again.
Beyond the spots—orange, blue, yellow—there was now a face gazing up at him. A beautiful face, more beautiful than he'd ever seen. A face from a nightmare, perfect and wintry calm, surrounded by locks of silky, silvery white.
'Good evening,' said the demoiselle in a stroking voice. 'Were you looking for me, sir?'
Basile wheezed some more, and the young woman nodded, serious.
'Perhaps I've been looking for you as well.'
She had an accent. The slightest, slightest accent, not local at all—
He gave up clawing at her hand and took a swing at her instead, but she only leaned back, avoiding his fist. Yet her hold did loosen, just a bit, and he was able to suck in a fiery raw breath. The spots began to pop and fade.
The woman's eyes were absolutely black. The pupils and irises both, and then more, all of her eye, both of them, all black and shining and liquid like the pool, but infinitely, ominously more deep ...
Basile wet himself. He couldn't stop it. He felt the warmth trickle down his leg to his boot.
Voices. There were voices all around them, words he didn't understand, foreign words, English perhaps, and then words he knew: exchanges from earlier tonight, Nadette with the baby in her arms, shrilling don
'No,' said the demoiselle abruptly, and dropped him to the ground. 'You're not the one I want,
after all.'
