wrote with. I tried to control my shaking, then settled back on my heels and continued reading the entire fusillade of pages.
But regardless, they must be telling the tale . . . they must be, for no one comes. No childrenâtheir blood heart-stoppingly fragrantâtap upon the door to be let inside. No workmen come to repair the stones that have begun to list. My parade of servants, with their starched aprons and caps: somehow they dwindled while I failed to pay attention, until one day no one came when I rang the little golden bell. I yawned in my bed, with its tapestries wrought by the finest French artisans, and awaited the tea that never came.
I slept again, and then rose, my throat acid with anger, crusading down the hall to strangle whatever maid had neglected her service . . . but as I walked I realized I couldnât remember the maid, couldnât think of her eye color or the shade of the hair tufts that escaped her cap. Who was my last ladyâs maid?
And no one was in the kitchens at all; a thick layering of dust covered the pots and kettles that had been in hourly use. The gigantic brick hearth contained a stubble of wood ash, which I bent to and found cold. Outside, I raced to the stables and there was nary a horse and nary a stable hand and nary a smithy. The wooden stalls didnât even smell of horse any longer. All the smithâs tools were scattered by the forge, as if he had intended to work again and had simply stepped away.
I went outside again and stared at the gardens; nothing grew in order. There was a tangle worthy of some fairy-tale thicket a prince must work his way through. The topiary had grown outlandish and lost its borders; one could no longer detect that these had been deer, wolves, and rabbits playfully rendered in bush. I peered through the filthy window of the potting shed where previously seedlings had been moved from pot to pot by the diligent gardener, or his son as he grew, or the sonâs son as he grew, but this time the crockery held nothing but air.
Back inside, I walked room to room. Furniture was missing! An entire estateâs worth of vases decorated with hand-painted goose girls; voluptuous ottomans; curved couches that could hold six or seven women, including their ample skirts; rugs that had been knotted by virgins who grew blind for it; the lamps that had cast a gentle glow over all the people who had attended my ballsâthe nobility who traveled great distances to see Madame Arnaud againâoh, it was all gone! And in their stead, a covering of dust as thick as my own hair spread across a pillow. Although the wing in which I kept my bedroom still retained its furnishings, the rest of the house was bare.
I combed the manor: I was the only living soul there. And I went back to my bed and gazed upon itâhow long had I slept? I must have been in a fog, a delirium of that which I drank, because I never noticed the house emptying. How does an entire household vanish while one dozes?
And if they had sold or burned my furnishings, why did they leave my wing intact? Were they frightened to wake me from my strange sleep with the dragging of bureaus and armoires?
I spent an entire day in marvelment. What had happened, and why was I untouched? If they all left me, knowing what they knew of the doings in my household, why had they not murdered me while I slept?
Perhaps they had tried.
That night so very long ago, as I went to my bed fearful I might sleep another century or so, I found a great surprise as I peeled back the bedclothes. I hadnât noticed when I arose that morning, but I had slept with a knife. It was a maidâs knife, the kind she tucks into her apron pocket for opening letters or cutting twine. Someone had tried to murder me: feathers poked up from holes in the mattress. As enraged as I was at the thought of a knife plunging between my ribs, I was equally furious that she had ruined the work of Louis Des Anges, the premier
But regardless, they must be telling the tale . . . they must be, for no one comes. No childrenâtheir blood heart-stoppingly fragrantâtap upon the door to be let inside. No workmen come to repair the stones that have begun to list. My parade of servants, with their starched aprons and caps: somehow they dwindled while I failed to pay attention, until one day no one came when I rang the little golden bell. I yawned in my bed, with its tapestries wrought by the finest French artisans, and awaited the tea that never came.
I slept again, and then rose, my throat acid with anger, crusading down the hall to strangle whatever maid had neglected her service . . . but as I walked I realized I couldnât remember the maid, couldnât think of her eye color or the shade of the hair tufts that escaped her cap. Who was my last ladyâs maid?
And no one was in the kitchens at all; a thick layering of dust covered the pots and kettles that had been in hourly use. The gigantic brick hearth contained a stubble of wood ash, which I bent to and found cold. Outside, I raced to the stables and there was nary a horse and nary a stable hand and nary a smithy. The wooden stalls didnât even smell of horse any longer. All the smithâs tools were scattered by the forge, as if he had intended to work again and had simply stepped away.
I went outside again and stared at the gardens; nothing grew in order. There was a tangle worthy of some fairy-tale thicket a prince must work his way through. The topiary had grown outlandish and lost its borders; one could no longer detect that these had been deer, wolves, and rabbits playfully rendered in bush. I peered through the filthy window of the potting shed where previously seedlings had been moved from pot to pot by the diligent gardener, or his son as he grew, or the sonâs son as he grew, but this time the crockery held nothing but air.
Back inside, I walked room to room. Furniture was missing! An entire estateâs worth of vases decorated with hand-painted goose girls; voluptuous ottomans; curved couches that could hold six or seven women, including their ample skirts; rugs that had been knotted by virgins who grew blind for it; the lamps that had cast a gentle glow over all the people who had attended my ballsâthe nobility who traveled great distances to see Madame Arnaud againâoh, it was all gone! And in their stead, a covering of dust as thick as my own hair spread across a pillow. Although the wing in which I kept my bedroom still retained its furnishings, the rest of the house was bare.
I combed the manor: I was the only living soul there. And I went back to my bed and gazed upon itâhow long had I slept? I must have been in a fog, a delirium of that which I drank, because I never noticed the house emptying. How does an entire household vanish while one dozes?
And if they had sold or burned my furnishings, why did they leave my wing intact? Were they frightened to wake me from my strange sleep with the dragging of bureaus and armoires?
I spent an entire day in marvelment. What had happened, and why was I untouched? If they all left me, knowing what they knew of the doings in my household, why had they not murdered me while I slept?
Perhaps they had tried.
That night so very long ago, as I went to my bed fearful I might sleep another century or so, I found a great surprise as I peeled back the bedclothes. I hadnât noticed when I arose that morning, but I had slept with a knife. It was a maidâs knife, the kind she tucks into her apron pocket for opening letters or cutting twine. Someone had tried to murder me: feathers poked up from holes in the mattress. As enraged as I was at the thought of a knife plunging between my ribs, I was equally furious that she had ruined the work of Louis Des Anges, the premier
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