Read Online The Shadow Queen A Novel by Sandra Gulland - Free Book Online
Authors: Sandra Gulland
Ads: Link
felt sick at the thought that the kindly woman might have perished—but then gasped with foreboding. Had Gaston sought shelter with her ?
DAYS LATER, I woke to bells ringing. I fumbled open the shutters. The morning light was bright, the air cutting and cold. And there, far below, was the street, its cobbles dislodged. A muddy boat sat stranded. People were clustered around a bonfire at the corner, a man and a woman dancing on the stones as a boy played a fiddle.
And then I saw him, his lilting walk. He was with a tall, thin boy. “Gaston!” I screamed.
“Gaston?” Mother pressed behind me, weeping for joy.
I cried out again, and this time he looked up.
The boy, his companion, disappeared down an alley, fast as a whippet.
“Don’t move,” I yelled down. Don’t. Move.
CHAPTER 13
G aston winced as we embraced him. “You’re bruised?” There was an ugly welt on his cheek. “What happened!”
He pressed his forehead against mine.
“Where does it hurt?” He was favoring one arm.
“Men,” he stuttered with difficulty. “Mill.”
I caught my breath: I recalled the face of one of the roughs Gaston had won against, recalled his threatening look as he’d slunk off with his companions. “It was that gang of boys, Gaston, wasn’t it.”
He mimed their tight fists, a kick.
“I’m so sorry!” I raged at my stupidity. He’d been attacked—and it was my fault. I’d set him up to play against strangers, knowing they would think him dim, knowing they would lose. I’d played them for fools and taken their money, not thinking of their outrage. Not thinking that it was not the knightly thing to do. And then I’d abandoned Gaston to chase after a foolish dream. Merci Dieu, he hadn’t been killed! “Who was that boy you were with?”
“Friend,” he sang.
No matter how I questioned, that’s all he could reveal. Clearly, he’d been looked after, but how he’d managed to survive would have to remain a mystery.
WE HEADED DOWN the rue Vieille du Temple. Deep gashes in the street were filled with stagnant water, rich with the stench of waste. The sky was dark from the fires set to cleanse the air with smoke.
The drink shop at the corner of the rue Vieux Chemin de Charenton was filled with refuse, the kegs ruined. Dogs growled over meat rotting in a butcher’s shop. We passed the mud-filled trimmings shop where I had seen my princess in what seemed like another lifetime.
A shoemaker was piling his ruined wares in front of his shop. He pulled out a pair of men’s red-heeled boots that he thought might fit me. (Me of the big feet.) “Made for a courtier,” he said, “once upon a time.”
In such heels, I felt like a giant. With a playful cry, I hefted Mother up over my head and carried her screeching down the street like a performing muscleman. Gaston giggled and clapped. He was with us again; he was safe. We had emerged into another world, pestilent and wrecked, yet joyful with deliverance.
A CROWD WAS gathered on the quay, staring at the now-placid river, its banks piled with garbage.
“God have mercy,” Mother whispered, signing herself … for half of the Pont Marie was gone.
I stared incredulously at the gap. How many houses had fallen away? Twenty? At least. I thought of the lives lost, thought of all the men, women, and children who had tumbled into a watery grave as they slept. I thought of the fortune-teller, Madame Catherine. Dead now.
Carriages of the curious passed by, their eyes wide with wonderment. A somber group of masked men in hooded cloaks and swinging large brass crosses cried out that the flood had been a sign of God’s displeasure, a punishment for our sinful ways. Nearby, a stand was doing a brisk business selling hot chestnuts and beer. Already, carnival stalls were being set up in preparation for Mardi Gras. Not even devastation could stop Parisians from reveling in Fat Tuesday, the festival of indulgence before Lent. No: for Mardi Gras there would be nothing but
DAYS LATER, I woke to bells ringing. I fumbled open the shutters. The morning light was bright, the air cutting and cold. And there, far below, was the street, its cobbles dislodged. A muddy boat sat stranded. People were clustered around a bonfire at the corner, a man and a woman dancing on the stones as a boy played a fiddle.
And then I saw him, his lilting walk. He was with a tall, thin boy. “Gaston!” I screamed.
“Gaston?” Mother pressed behind me, weeping for joy.
I cried out again, and this time he looked up.
The boy, his companion, disappeared down an alley, fast as a whippet.
“Don’t move,” I yelled down. Don’t. Move.
CHAPTER 13
G aston winced as we embraced him. “You’re bruised?” There was an ugly welt on his cheek. “What happened!”
He pressed his forehead against mine.
“Where does it hurt?” He was favoring one arm.
“Men,” he stuttered with difficulty. “Mill.”
I caught my breath: I recalled the face of one of the roughs Gaston had won against, recalled his threatening look as he’d slunk off with his companions. “It was that gang of boys, Gaston, wasn’t it.”
He mimed their tight fists, a kick.
“I’m so sorry!” I raged at my stupidity. He’d been attacked—and it was my fault. I’d set him up to play against strangers, knowing they would think him dim, knowing they would lose. I’d played them for fools and taken their money, not thinking of their outrage. Not thinking that it was not the knightly thing to do. And then I’d abandoned Gaston to chase after a foolish dream. Merci Dieu, he hadn’t been killed! “Who was that boy you were with?”
“Friend,” he sang.
No matter how I questioned, that’s all he could reveal. Clearly, he’d been looked after, but how he’d managed to survive would have to remain a mystery.
WE HEADED DOWN the rue Vieille du Temple. Deep gashes in the street were filled with stagnant water, rich with the stench of waste. The sky was dark from the fires set to cleanse the air with smoke.
The drink shop at the corner of the rue Vieux Chemin de Charenton was filled with refuse, the kegs ruined. Dogs growled over meat rotting in a butcher’s shop. We passed the mud-filled trimmings shop where I had seen my princess in what seemed like another lifetime.
A shoemaker was piling his ruined wares in front of his shop. He pulled out a pair of men’s red-heeled boots that he thought might fit me. (Me of the big feet.) “Made for a courtier,” he said, “once upon a time.”
In such heels, I felt like a giant. With a playful cry, I hefted Mother up over my head and carried her screeching down the street like a performing muscleman. Gaston giggled and clapped. He was with us again; he was safe. We had emerged into another world, pestilent and wrecked, yet joyful with deliverance.
A CROWD WAS gathered on the quay, staring at the now-placid river, its banks piled with garbage.
“God have mercy,” Mother whispered, signing herself … for half of the Pont Marie was gone.
I stared incredulously at the gap. How many houses had fallen away? Twenty? At least. I thought of the lives lost, thought of all the men, women, and children who had tumbled into a watery grave as they slept. I thought of the fortune-teller, Madame Catherine. Dead now.
Carriages of the curious passed by, their eyes wide with wonderment. A somber group of masked men in hooded cloaks and swinging large brass crosses cried out that the flood had been a sign of God’s displeasure, a punishment for our sinful ways. Nearby, a stand was doing a brisk business selling hot chestnuts and beer. Already, carnival stalls were being set up in preparation for Mardi Gras. Not even devastation could stop Parisians from reveling in Fat Tuesday, the festival of indulgence before Lent. No: for Mardi Gras there would be nothing but
Similar Books
