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Here in the castle of Livonie, I am bored. My great hall is laid out for a welcoming feast, prepared to meet the half-Viking comte de Manistique and his entourage. I have been sitting in my throne, waiting for their arrival, for an hour. How they haven’t made it to my castle gate by now, Dieu seul sait.
I shift in my seat yet again. Last night’s... excursion with Owen has had its consequences. Oh, I can walk just fine, but sitting down for any length of time is a torture of small pains. Camille leans down next to me and whispers, “Would you like another cushion, Mademoiselle?”
“No, I don’t think that’s necessary, Camille,” I murmur back. I grit my teeth. My posture changes again, now leaning back, trying to put the weight higher up. I dimly register the members of my court glancing expectantly at the great doors at the end of the hall. My mind is wandering elsewhere.
With great difficulty, I suppress a yawn. Last night did not yield much rest for me. I must have fallen asleep eventually, because Camille had to wake me up, but for hours and hours into the night I was plagued with – oh, osti, not again...
My desperate attempts to think of something else achieve nothing. In my mind there arises the image of les guidounes in the brothel, casually flaunting their bodies in the whorehouse’s warmth despite the freezing cold outside. A certain heat begins to bloom inside my own body. I blink my eyes, and for the split second between closing and opening I see clearly the scene of one whore eagerly eating out another, I hear the noises of pleasure and exertion, my sex aches traitorously at the vision – then it passes. Viarge Marie, if les yoopers don’t arrive soon I might have to—
Finally, the blast of trumpets comes from beyond the doors. All my court stands to attention. I do my best to sit upright, wincing. Camille looks at me with concern, but I wave her off. This is not the time to appear undignified. Two servants take up station at either door as my herald quickly steps through, letting the portal fall shut again behind him. He raises his voice.
“Mademoiselle Princesse, Mesdames et Messieurs, it is my honor to introduce Jean Caron, comte de Manistique!”
First to enter is a man in purple finery, tall, broad at the shoulders. His beard alone probably has more hair than some of my courtiers. His entourage files in behind him, but I can’t get a good look at any one of them. The wild colors of their clothing blend together. Purples, reds, greens, blues, yellows, every color imaginable, in strange and unusual patterns. By contrast, the colors of my court’s clothing seem dull. Even my own dress, beautiful baby blue, isn’t as impressive as it used to be. I welcome the distraction as he comes before my throne and drops to one knee.
“Mademoiselle Princesse,” he says in heavily accented French, “it is an honor to meet you in person. It is only my regret that my skill in your language is not as you deserve.” His tone of servitude gratifies me. It makes me feel a lot better, especially since the last few months have seen me firmly under my mother’s thumb. It’s nice to be reminded that I’m still at the top of the social order.
“Rise, comte,” I answer him. He gratefully pulls himself up to his full height. How he makes it through regular sized doors, I will never know. It must be hell on his back or his skull. “Your skill with our tongue does you credit,” I add. “Your tutor must have taught you well.”
“She certainly did, Mademoiselle Princesse.” He beckons forward a woman in a plain red gown, tastefully trimmed with white. She curtseys. “My wife Annette, Mademoiselle Princesse,” says the count. “Her family comes from West Michigan. I am very grateful for her assistance on our pilgrimage.”
I nod absentmindedly. For just a moment I caught a glimpse of something in the retinue behind him, something I would like a closer look at, but for the life of me I cannot find it again. Then the comte’s words catch up with me, and I fix my gaze on him again.
“You are on a pilgrimage?”
“We are, Mademoiselle Princesse,” he replies. “Our destination is the Cathédral Saint-Antoine in Detroit.”
I nod. The Cathédral has been an object of awe for good Christians across the Great Lakes for decades – it makes sense that the yoopers of the Upper Peninsula, having converted fairly recently with the help of the Ursuline Order, would want to see it with their own eyes. A snort escapes me. They wanted to see it before they became Christian, too, and every time their raiding parties were beaten back by Michigan’s proud soldiers. Every noble child learns about the days before the Vikings were reduced to a few scattered tribes on the shores of Lake Michigan.
“I wish you luck on your journey, monsieur comte,” I say. It is the expected thing, but the earnest manner of this earl has quite taken me. I find myself legitimately invested in seeing him safely to Detroit. “Before you depart, will you enjoy my hospitality?”
The comte’s bow scrapes the floor. “It would be my proudest honor, Mademoiselle Princesse. But before you offer anything, there is one other member of my family I would like to introduce to you.”
He beckons to someone behind him, and begins to speak. But his words fail to register with me. I am too busy looking into the face of an angel.
Her hair is a deep auburn, long, curling and waving down past her neck. Her dress is a riot of color, all shades and hues coming together to form a tapestry of wonder. Her movements are delicate without being fragile, feminine without being girly, otherworldly, perfect. My heart skips a beat as she rises from her curtsey. My gaze rises once again to meet the face I saw behind the comte, the one I caught only a glimpse of. Her lips are apple red. Her eyes are emerald green. Her cheekbones are dotted by freckles, serving only to make the whole impression all the more beautiful. Distantly, I hear the comte stop talking, and notice my mouth is hanging open in awe.
“Sorry... could you repeat that?” Before the man can speak, the angel pipes up with a voice like flutes and birdsong.
“I am Mary Caron, Mademoiselle Princesse. Le comte is my father, eh.”
“...Oh. Good, good.” My eyes can’t seem to focus on anything but her. Every time I try to pull them away, they drag themselves back. Treacherously, they try to fall past her neckline, and only a tremendous effort keeps them in place. “In that case,” I continue, “it would be my delight to offer you and your family a feast. As you can see,” I gesture at the tables lining the hall, “the places are already laid out.”
“We cannot thank your generosity enough, Mademoiselle Princesse,” the comte says. Tabarnak, how is it that a man’s voice can suddenly be so irritating? But I keep my composure.
The feast passes by in what feels like minutes. The comte and his wife on my right hand are pleasant enough company, I guess, but what really makes the time fly is their daughter on my left. I could listen to her heavenly voice, that musical accent of hers, for hours on end. My wine glass is emptied, filled up, emptied again. My heart is hammering within me. When the feast is over and Marie must depart with her family, I cannot suppress a groan.
“It saddens me that you cannot stay longer, monsieur comte,” I say as his company begins exiting through the great doors. “Is there no way for you to remain longer?”
“Yah, we must be off, Mademoiselle Princesse.” He looks around the hall, his eyes lingering on the tapestries lining the walls, on my throne at the head. His expression becomes thoughtful. “On the other hand... A few more days would do no harm, if you will permit us?”
“It would be my pleasure to host your company for a while longer, comte,” I reply, trying and probably failing to keep the relief out of my voice. I notice Camille off to the side tilt her head questioningly. “You and your family may sleep in my castle. Ma Camille will arrange quarters for you. Your retinue may find lodgings in the town.”
The comte smiles and accepts my offer. That settled, I wait until he has exited to tell his followers the news and scurry off towards my own chambers, Camille in tow. My evening routine is punctuated by sighs as I recall the angel Marie, see her in my mind’s eye. Even the hated peaux are no match for her. My Camille helps me out of my dress and into my nightshirt without a word. This, I vaguely recognize, is unusual. Her face when I question her about it betrays nothing.
“Just thinking, Mademoiselle. Oh, that reminds me,” she adds, pulling out a letter from her pocket, “this arrived during your feast.”
“Ben.” The letter has Owen’s signature across it. In it he talks about how last night was the best of his life, how deep his love is for me, how much he desperately wants to see me again, on and on and mère du crisse is it dull. The physical reminders of last night are nearly gone. I can picture his face fine, but the rest of his body is... vague, nothing more than a shape. Even that much makes me cringe. Only the dimmest recollection of the brothel’s interior remains. Instead, the scene turns to an image of Marie...
Oh. Oh. I freeze, letting the letter drop from my hand. The imagined Marie’s dress has fallen away, to be replaced with—
No, no, no no no no no. I shake my head until it aches. This is not the direction I wanted this to go! That’s not natural! All I feel for her is a desire for friendship! Nothing more!
Camille’s hands are suddenly planted on my shoulders. Her cold touch only makes me realize how much my skin is burning, but the feeling is soothing nonetheless. The image fades away, not completely, but enough to let me get a grip on myself.
“Merci Camille,” I murmur. She pats my shoulder. Her silence fills a void that I cannot resist filling. “I... think that I had better write back to Owen. It was never going to work out.”
“Are you sure about this, Mademoiselle? In the last few days you have seemed happier than you have been in a long time, with him.”
“I am sure. As long as la Reine has her eyes on me, I could not be with a man.” I do not tell her the second part of that thought: And I’m not sure I even want to. Instead, I slump on the table and add, “Fetch me paper and a quill, please. When I am done I want it sent to him immediately.”
“Mais oui, Mademoiselle.” How do you start this kind of message? Cher Monsieur... no. Mon chéri Owen... no. I settle on “Mon ami” and move on. I have received your letter. I am truly honored to be the subject of such words and passions, but it is to my regret that I cannot meet you again. My nights with you will always be treasured memories—blatant lies, but he doesn’t need to know that—and I will look on you always with fondness. But to continue our love would be foolish. If la Reine were to discover us, the consequences to you would be terrible, and I could not forgive myself for allowing them. You will grow to love another. This is my farewell to you...
Lies, all lies. If my mother found out, Owen would probably be locked away and confined to his father’s estate, but that’s not my problem. I’m more worried about what she would do to me if she realized I was back to my “wanton behavior”. I finish writing and seal the envelope, theatrically kissing it and leaving some of my lipstick on the surface. That ought to keep him from writing back. I really cannot afford any more evidence of our affair than this.
Camille takes the letter from me silently. When she is gone, my head crashes back into the table. Dieu glorieux, I am tired. I am uncomfortable. Even when I collapse onto the bed and drag the blanket over myself, there is no rest for me. My hand, acting on its own without my conscious input, tries to wander. I roll back and forth, unable to sleep, unable to dismiss the thoughts that have been plaguing me all evening. The internal heat returns with a vengeance. My mind’s eye sees that Marie, that yooper angel, naked, beautiful, beckoning. She calls to me in her musical voice. I try, feebly, to remember what l’Ordre says about women laying together. There had been one time, when two of mother’s servant girls had been caught, back before I was sent to Livonie, and there had been a lot of words I didn’t understand then but do now...
On the other hand... she’s not actually in the bed with me. Surely there is no harm in indulging fantasy for one night? Just to get it out of my system? And then on Sunday I can confess, and do my penance, and all will be right again. Mets-en. I know it’s a massive rationalization. I don’t care.
My core pulses in anticipation. Laying on my side, I pull up my chemise and slip a hand beneath mes bobettes. I hadn’t realized just how wet I am. My jaws are shut tight, but even so a noise escapes me as a finger traces the length of my folds. I close my eyes and, before I can consciously try to imagine Marie before me, she is there. The finger finds my clit. The phantom angel falls to her knees and sticks out her tongue. I rub desperately at my snatch, arching back and forth, my legs pressing together, my breath growing ragged. La petite mort is near. Marie’s eager face in my imagination sends me over the edge, and with a squeal that I only barely manage to suppress in time with a hand I shower her in my climax. In the real world, my shaking body explodes, covering my fingers in slick and giving mes bobettes a stain that may never wash out.
I continue working away until, having erupted twice more, my arm is exhausted. The twitching, though not at an end, calms. My eyelids grow heavy. Through the fog, I think: That didn’t help anything. But at least, as I drift off to sleep, the vision of Marie has put on her dress once again. I don’t know what I would do if it had stayed off...
I awake to the sound of Camille’s polite rapping on the bedpost. Pleasant images drift away as I sit up. In the light of morning, the intense passions of the night before are insubstantial. I no longer hate myself for... for having thoughts about another woman. A moment’s weakness, that is all. After breakfast, I will talk with the comte and explain to him that, in fact, the sooner he reaches Detroit the better. It will be over.
In the meantime, I sit patiently in my chair as Camille tends to my hair and makeup. She says something I do not quite catch, distracted as I am by examining myself in the mirror. I run a finger through my hair. I become aware that she has stopped working and turn to face her. She tries again.
“Mademoiselle, what do you think about Mademoiselle Caron?” The blood begins to color my cheeks, but I know my expression betrays nothing.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that when you first saw her, you were staring for the better part of a minute, Mademoiselle.”
“You must be mistaken,” I say. “I only wanted to get a good look at her. She seems about my age, don’t you think?”
“In fact she is a year older than you, Mademoiselle,” she quietly replies. In response to my quizzical look she adds, “I asked while leading them to their quarters. Which reminds me, Mademoiselle, breakfast should be ready by now.”
Anyone less well acquainted with my Camille would not notice the subtlety in her manner, but she has been my maidservant and friend since childhood. That change of subject was not a coincidence. “Camille,” I say, “you’re thinking about something. Don’t you think you had better tell me what it is?”
She considers her options for a moment. Then: “I don’t think you really want me to say it, Mademoiselle.”
“I do, Camille. Lorsque le maître le demande, le serviteur doit obéir.”
“Bien sûr, Mademoiselle. I think you see Mademoiselle Caron the same way you did Chrétien.” I stare at her in shock. “I think you are falling in love, Mademoiselle.”
My eyes glaze over, staring into the distance. Camille’s hand waving in front of me barely registers. Her voice comes to my ears muffled, distant, as though through several walls. Then, suddenly, my head lands face-down on the table with a thud. I wave off Camille’s supporting arm and sit there for a while, mind working furiously.
That can’t be right. That can’t be the divine plan for me. L’Ordre is very explicit about its opinions on women lying together; surely if He intended that He wouldn’t have laid down that prohibition? But then again, why did my heart beat faster when she came into my sight? Why couldn’t I get her out of my head? For that matter, why did les peaux at the bordello stick in my head? Why would He do that to me?
Tabarnak, I think. She’s right. I felt that way when I first saw Chrétien at that ball, felt some of it when I met Gilbert. My head bangs on the table. Damn damn damn damn damn...
A thought occurs. Slowly, without lifting my head, I turn to look at Camille, her face still a mask of worry. With an effort I raise myself to a better sitting position. Searching her expression, I can find nothing but legitimate concern.
“You do not think less of me for it, Camille?” Her face turns from worry to injury.
“How could I, Mademoiselle? You, who I have served from childhood? You, whose schemes I have played an intimate part in and helped bring to success?” She opens her arms. After a moment’s hesitation, I rise and embrace her. My face is buried in her shoulder as the tears begin to fall. She coos, “Nothing you could ever do would diminish my loyalty to you, Mademoiselle. Dieu bienfaisant has decreed this for you. I will help you through it.”
“What do I do?” I manage between the sobs. Camille runs her hands soothingly down my back. “How am I supposed to live if I cannot have my love?”
“Hush, Mademoiselle. I don’t think you need to worry too much about that.”
The sobbing stops, but I continue whimpering, breath coming in gulps. She pats my shoulder. When I finally feel strong enough, I relax my grip on her and pull back a little.
“What do you mean by that?” She smiles knowingly.
“You know how I told you I saw how you were looking at her?” I nod. She goes on: “I saw how she was looking at you, too.”
It is midday now. Per Camille’s suggestion I have invited the comte and his family out on a ride, bringing with me only her and those of my mother’s guards that I must bring everywhere with me. They ride respectfully but watchfully behind, keeping an eye on me. By luck or God’s hand, the riding order has wound up with the comte and his wife leading, Camille behind, and me next to Marie in the rear. I still do not quite understand Camille’s plan, but she has assured me it will be clear when the time comes. In the meantime, I get to be in the company of the most beautiful woman I have ever met.
“So there I am,” she continues in her melodious voice, “everyone’s staring at me, and then my brother says ‘yah, she’s got a point,’ and before I even know what’s going on they’re cheering my name and half of them are shaking my hand.” She mimes a cheering crowd, grinning.
I nod, fascinated. Even if I had been able to leave my castle on a daily basis, I would never have thought of using my rank to get free drinks for an entire bar. And I may never tire of hearing Marie talk about her family. I hate my sister, but Marie’s siblings all seem like good people to hear her talk of them, generous and kind and fun and most of all not in competition with her for parental affection. It seems to me that my mother could take lessons from the comte’s family. And as far as Antoinette...
Our conversation is interrupted as Camille’s horse suddenly rears up in front of us, causing her to scream. It takes off into the woods, quickly followed by my guards. The comte glances at me before dashing off behind them, beckoning for his wife and us to follow. I go to fall in behind Madame Caron, then stop. Marie and I are alone. Was this Camille’s plan all along?
“Come on,” I say, slipping off my steed. Without a word Marie follows my example. Our dresses aren’t the best attire for running off into the woods, but they will have to do. I grab her arm and pull her into the trees, away from the direction of distant hooves. Before long, the noise has died away, and we find ourselves beside a stream. The sunlight coming down between the snowy trees catches Marie’s hair in just the right spot to make my heart skip a beat.
Panting, she looks at me with an odd look in her eye. “What was that for? Hadn’t we better go catch up with your maidservant?”
“No need.” I sit down on a conveniently unsnowed rock, gesturing for her to come beside me. “Camille knows how to control a horse. If she wasn’t the one who got it to spook in the first place, she’ll have certainly calmed it by now.”
“Oh.” We sit there in silence a while, listening to the bubbling of the creek. I pick up a pebble and, with a sideways glance at Marie, toss it into the water. The tiny plink! as it lands sets me at some kind of ease. She turns to me.
“Mademoiselle,” she says, “I don’t think you brought me here just to throw rocks into a stream.”
“...No.” Plink! “There... there was something I needed to say.” Plink! I gulp down my apprehension. I trust Camille, even this far, but now I come face to face with Marie my body seems to rebel against the thought of confession. Despite the shade and the cold air, I am burning. I swallow again, feeling the blood rush to my cheeks. “I... tabarnak... I think I love you.”
There. It is said. The brief gasp from Marie fills my world with fear until, with a smile, she places her hand over mine.
“You have no idea how happy it makes me to hear that, Mademoiselle Princesse.”
“Violette.” My uncovered hand plants itself on her shoulder. I can feel her lean into the new pressure. “With you, I don’t want to be la Princesse. Just Violette.”
“Alright then,” she whispers. “Violet. My Violet. How’s that, eh?”
“C’est parfait.”
I look into her eyes and see my own reflection smiling back. Then, deeper, a twinkle. At the same time, we grab each other’s heads and press our lips together for a long kiss. When we finally surface, I feel strangely calm – then I fall back into neediness as she turns me around and embraces me from the back. Her arms around me awaken my aching core.
“Marie, ma Marie...” The begging in my voice surprises the tiny rational core of me that remains, an island in a sea of passion. Crisse du calisse, is that all it takes? “Will... will you stay with me? I don’t think I could stand it if you went off with your family.”
“Oh, Violet,” she whispers. Her grip tightens. “I don’t think I could stand it either.” The feeling of her breath in my ear is heavenly. Without orders from my brain, my body gently writhes under her touch. “In the morning I will ask Father for permission to stay. He shouldn’t be too hard to convince.”
Marie’s hand brushes my cheek. To my own surprise, I am whimpering. To judge by the feeling of her own body behind me, she can barely restrain herself as well. But... not now. Love will have to wait. My guards and her parents could be here at any moment. Hating every moment, I pull myself away from her touch and stand, suddenly shivering in the cold. Mon Dieu, what I wouldn’t do to have her warmth beside me again...
When we find our way back to the party, in the same spot where Camille launched her distraction, we are greeted with tones of worry. The guards quickly help us into our saddles before resuming their station at the rear. Marie’s mother is nothing but apology for leaving us alone, with no thought for our own safety (as though it was ever in doubt). Her father is looking at us a little strangely, but I don’t dwell on his expression, because Camille’s knowing grin is tinted with questioning. I wink at her. Her smile opens wider. After a little while longer riding in the woods, I suggest we head back to the castle, which the comte gladly agrees to. The ride back is filled with furtive glances between Marie and me. If anyone notices, they say nothing.
How she managed it I do not know, but when I retire to my quarters for the evening Camille has gotten my mother’s guard away from his post. A note sits on the floor where he was standing, explaining that he will not be back tonight. I am familiar enough to recognize Camille’s handwriting. Bravo, ma Camille.
“What news, Mademoiselle?” She ambushes me with the question as I step through the chamber door. It takes me a moment to marshal my thoughts and respond.
“She says she loves me,” I say, hearing my own voice crack as the enormity of the statement hits me. The corners of my vision start to blur. In an instant Camille is behind me, one hand on my back, guiding me to the sofa. Her gentle hands massage my shoulders as the sobs return. My stomach aches. “Camille, how do I do this? How in God’s name am I supposed to hide this?”
“Well, no risk of pregnancy, for one thing, Mademoiselle.” The statement is put so matter-of-factly that for a moment I stop shaking. I open my mouth to speak. All that comes out is a wail as I once again bury my face in my hands and let the tears flow. Camille’s sigh behind me is barely audible.
She does not stop rubbing my shoulders. After a while, as the crying dies down, I hear her softly singing a children’s lullaby. Maybe I should be insulted, maybe I should be nonplussed. I don’t know. Right now it’s soothing, and maybe that’s all I need. My breath slowly steadies. The shaking stops. My faint nausea doesn’t resolve itself, but it does weaken. I rally myself enough to thank her for the kindness. She assures me that she could never dream of doing differently. Then, suddenly, a knock at the door makes me freeze up.
I look up at Camille’s face. The grin tells me everything. I look down at myself.
“Don’t let her in!” Panicked, I stand from the sofa and rush through the door to my bedchamber. Before shutting the door, I regain my sense enough to hiss, “You may bring her into the study. But don’t tell her where I am until I say!”
With Camille’s gesture of acknowledgement, I close the door as quietly as I can. I turn to the bed. Oh, well done Camille, you minx. Arrayed on the blanket are a few items I haven’t seen in seven months. A short chemise of blue, the hem covered in expensive embroidery; the really nice pair of bobettes and a bra, the black ones with the gold and silver thread detailing all over; and, neatly laid out, a pair of solid black stockings. She has to be making a statement with all of these, right? This is what I wore when I... when I made love for the first time, with my Chrétien. My mind works as I pull off my nightshirt and sous-vêtements.
That night, I lost my virginity. I gave it freely to a man I believed was my soulmate. The thump of my plain chemise hitting the wall in a ball punctuates my thoughts. That night, I wanted so desperately to prove my mother wrong, to show her – well, show myself, really – that I wasn’t her pure little princesse, that I gave myself to someone whose name I didn’t even know until then. I still remember the month of mourning I put myself through after he left me.
Not of his own will, no. I frown as the undergarments I wore all day come off and join the nightshirt in a pile in the corner. If Chrétien had his way, he and I would be married. And for telling me this, I expelled him from my presence. A fit of madness came over me and I sent him away, never to see him again. Last I heard, he was off in the Maritimes fighting Redcoats. That was months ago. No word has come since. The bobettes come on, a little jerkily. I have to tug to get them all the way up. I have grown... larger, since I wore them last.
And now I am preparing to give myself again, not to any man but to my darling Marie. Camille has a sick sense of humor, I tell myself. This bra definitely doesn’t fit anymore. Somehow I manage to get it on. It’s not like it will stay very long. Over it falls the embroidered chemise. A glance at the mirror tells me just how much I have changed. Once, the shirt was just about enough to cover mes bobettes, which would tastefully show underneath by virtue of being darker fabric. Not anymore. I sigh. I hope this is good enough for her...
Last to come on are the thigh-length stockings. In fact, they barely come up to the knee. The garters are going to have their work cut out for them. Sitting on the bed, pulling up the socks, I notice a tiny piece of cloth and a note, laying there on the sheet. The cloth smells like vinegar. The note’s only words are, “No need for this.” Below the words, a semicolon and half a circle form a winking face.
It actually earns a giggle from me. Camille may be sick, but she’s funny.
Well, I’m ready. I take a deep breath in an attempt to calm myself. It doesn’t work. My heart pounds. The fire within has come back, weak right now, but soon it will burn me from the inside out. I feel the wetness below mes bobettes. Oh, God, how have I managed to wait this long?
I call to Marie that she may enter and hurriedly try to get myself into an appealing position on the bed. What actually happens is that by the time she opens the door, I am laying back awkwardly, caught in the middle of changing poses. “Bienvenue dans ma chambre,” is what I try to say. But the words catch in my throat. My mouth hangs open.
In the candlelight, her red hair becomes flowing flame. As the door closes behind her, she pulls her arms out of the multicolored dress and lets it fall to the floor, stepping out of the puddle of fabric like a goddess newly born. I am stunned. A squeak escapes me as she smiles and steps forward. She must have left her shoes in the study, because from her toes to the hem of her chemise, hovering just above her knees, her legs are bare. Below the nightshirt, the darker shape of her bobettes are just visible. She comes before me. She kneels beside the bed. From this angle, the view of her breasts, covered as they are, is perfect. I cannot manage a word. What do you say to an angel?
“I am here, Violet.” There is worship in Marie’s tone. I look down at my own body. How can someone like her find anything to approve of, much less love, in someone like me? I don’t deserve it. But before that line of thought can go much further, my body has overridden my mind and rolled off the bed to kneel before her. She embraces me just below the arms, whispering, “Are you ready?”
I still cannot speak. Instead, I nod. She pulls off my chemise and sweeps her gaze lovingly down my body. The blood in my cheeks must be turning me scarlet. Before I can act, she swoops down and lays a kiss on my sternum, raising a gasp from me. Suddenly she is all over me, pushing me back into the bed, her lips pressed to mine and her hands roaming across my skin. Even if I wanted to resist, I couldn’t. I melt into her touch. My own hands tug earnestly at her nightshirt. I want it gone. Another moment without the feeling of her skin on mine would be worse than an eternity of Hell.
She takes the hint. Her ministrations stop for just long enough for me to pull the chemise over her head and throw it away before she falls on me again, kissing, brushing, now grasping the lip of mes bobettes and pulling them down my legs as I squeak in delight. She stands above me and prepares to remove her own. I stop her by grasping her leg tightly. She looks down, confused.
“Can I?” They are my first words since she stepped in. She theatrically withdraws her hands and lays them gently on my head, smiling.
“Your wish is my command, ma Princesse.” Ignoring the callback, I straighten up, bringing my head level with her groin, and grab the bobettes at either hip. I could pull them down softly, gently, letting her savor the sensation as the fabric rolled down her skin. But avec Dieu comme témoin I cannot stand to take it slow. To the accompaniment of her sharp intake of breath I yank the panties down in one go, clearing her knees and letting them fall the rest of the way. Her sex lies, glistening, before me. Without thinking I bury my face between her legs, lapping at her folds with a burning intensity, desperate to taste her arousal. Her moans above me only drive me deeper, renewing my urgency.
The tiny part of me which, somehow, remains rational thinks: Is this how Owen felt? The rest of me thinks, to the extent a collection of passions and desires can pass for thought: More. I whine as Marie presses her hands to the back of my head, pulling me in for one last grind, before pushing me off again. The fog behind my eyes dies down ever so slightly. Breath ragged, she grabs me under the arms and drags me to my feet.
“Where,” she manages between gasps, “did you learn that?”
It is some time before I can answer. “Experience... from the other side. Doing what felt right.”
“Ha, ‘felt right.’ It sure did,” Marie giggles. Her head drops as she begins to laugh, a hissing sort of noise at first but soon a full-body exercise. I join in the laughter too, and so I am caught off guard when she suddenly pushes me, gently but firmly, onto the bed. She clambers on top of me, her skin close to mine. The only thing between her boules and mine are our bras. My arms reach up to unhook hers, but they fall back when I feel her fingers slide into my opening. The moan I let out fills the bedchamber as she begins to flex against my inner walls. Then she withdraws and places a pair of slick-covered fingers on my lips. My tongue lashes out of its own volition.
Without a word, I understand what she wants from me. I pull her hand closer and suck on her fingers, reveling in the texture. Dimly, I feel her other arm reach under me and begin messing with my bra hooks. My body arches to give her more room. She leans down to my ear.
“Do you like the way you taste?” My noise of affirmation is muffled by the fingers still between my lips. Reluctantly, I allow her to pull the hand away. She looks at it with a sultry expression. Osti, her smile is so fucking hot. “Maybe it’s time I got a chance.”
She sits up, ignoring my mournful groan as her body heat is replaced by the cooler air of the room. Her bra comes off with a single quick motion and is hurled away. The words almost about to form catch in my throat, leaving me to make a strangled noise of awe. She pulls me up, deftly unhooks my own bra, and throws it away before pushing me back down, rotating me so that my head rests on the pillows. I take the hint and sprawl my legs out onto the bed. My core is throbbing. Marie lays beside me, curling a leg around one of mine. We share another deep kiss. Her hand gropes at mes jos.
“So soft,” she murmurs, burying her face in my neck. The tiny sucette she bites into my skin barely registers. I am in heaven. Her accent thickens as she adds, “I love you so much, Violet. I really do.”
“Merci, ma ange,” I breathe back. I sigh deeply as she begins to travel down my body, planting kisses every few inches across my skin. She spends a moment at my breasts, licking and suckling at one of my nipples, before moving on. My belly receives a loving caress as she passes over it. Then she is upon my thigh, lips pressed against me, skillfully avoiding my flower even as she sweetly lavishes attention all around. I express my irritation. Finally, with a grin and her eyes on mine, she sticks her tongue out and slowly, agonizingly, drags it from the bottom of my folds to the top. She lets the sensation sink in for a moment before pulling away.
“Tastes good.” I keep my eyes on her as she licks her lips. My whimpers of disappointment seem to have no effect. She looks directly at me, but does nothing to relieve my desperate need. Finally, when I just about resolve to get up and do something myself, Marie suddenly leans down and kisses me, keeping me pinned with a hand on my belly. I moan, satisfied, into her mouth. “You’re so cute when you’re needy, Violet.”
“I’d rather you just help,” I whine. She smiles.
“Bien sûr,” she responds. Her breath wafts over my face. It smells like... mint, but this close to the smell of her body it becomes something new and entrancing. I watch as she turns around above me, bringing her head over my crotch and, more interestingly from my perspective, her womanhood right above my face. As I watch, a droplet of arousal drips from her folds into my waiting mouth.
At the same instant I pull Marie’s hips down to bring her within range, she plunges her tongue into my depths. Our moans blend together. It is hard to concentrate with Marie’s frenzied activity at my other end, but somehow I retain the control to spread her folds wider and reach as deep as I can inside her, pushing my tongue against her walls, tasting her core. Her muscles are starting to pulse now. Her legs are shaking. It takes me a moment to realize that so am I. She begins to rhythmically squeeze my head with her knees, probably not realizing it. Her tongue is replaced by fingers, she spits directly onto the spot where my mound begins to open up. I curl my legs up as, her digits still thrusting in and out of me, she begins to suck on my clit. My whining intensifies. I try to find her own nub, but even though I know where it should be I can’t quite get at it. It doesn’t help that my body’s control is deteriorating rapidly. I settle for an all-around lap around her with my tongue before once again burying myself in her womanhood. The shaking of her legs suddenly ramps up. Before I can react, she screams in pleasure and explodes in orgasm, relieving the pressure inside by spraying all over my face.
On instinct, I open my mouth as wide as it will go. Some of it I catch. The rest goes to heighten the sensitivity of my skin as, still writhing from her climax, Marie reintroduces her tongue to my cunt. The feeling is too much. With a breathy blessing on the Lord I follow her into la petite mort, squirming, grabbing at her skin, pulling her close to me. As she builds me up to a second eruption, I black out.
When I wake, she is laying beside me. I roll unsteadily onto my side to face her. The love in her eyes makes me feel... beautiful. We lay there in silence for a while, gently caressing each other. Then I work up the breath to speak.
“Marie, ma fleur... Where did you learn that?” She smiles softly. Her fingers run through my hair, dislodging it from the bob Camille worked so hard to curl it into.
“You’re not the first woman I’ve made love to, Violet,” she whispers. The confession doesn’t feel like any kind of betrayal, just a matter of fact. “I’ve known what I... wanted... for a very long time. But none of them were like you,” she adds, a little hurriedly.
“And I’ve never met anybody like you.” I place a hand on her cheek. She places one of her own on top of it tenderly. “Marie, what are we going to do about tomorrow?”
“Oh, that.” She stretches her neck a little, an impressive feat when lying on her side. “I’ll just tell Father I want to stay with you.”
“Won’t he, I don’t know, suspect something?”
“If he does, he won’t mind.” That is not the response I was expecting, and it must show on my face, because Marie smiles. “Like I said, I’ve known for a long time. I don’t think Father knows how I feel, not for sure, but he’s always talking about the need to move past the backwards traditions of our Viking ancestors. They were... so very hateful. I learned a lot about their beliefs. Father made sure I knew exactly why his father came to the Church.”
“You... I wish I could be that relaxed about it,” I sigh. “My mother la Reine wants me to marry some foreign prince. There’s going to be a diplomatic meeting about it sometime next week.” A worrying thought occurs. “If your father knows, he won’t tell anyone, will he?”
“He won’t. He might be proud his daughter’s, ahem, in with la Princesse, but he’s not stupid enough to air it out, eh.”
“That’s good to hear.”
“...Violet?”
“Yes?”
“Can I come with you to that meeting?” Marie’s face is, not nervous exactly, but concerned. I wonder if Camille confided in her my fears about marriage. I take her hand in mine.
“Of course, Marie. I would love to have you there for me.”
“Thank you.” She embraces me. There is a hint of fragility in her voice when she speaks again, but no tears fall onto my neck. “Violet, I know the Order says a lot of things. I don’t know how much of it you believe, but I need you to know that nothing you ever do could sully you. You’re perfect, Violet. I love you.”
“I love you, too.” My voice is hoarse as I whisper into her ear and hold her tight. “I want you here beside me, but shouldn’t you be getting back to your quarters?”
She sits up, looking thoughtful. In the increasingly dim candlelight, I look over her figure and once again can’t help but think of her as an angel. She looks at her own body. She looks at me. Her eyes fall to my chest, then further down. The fire inside of me, which seemed dormant a moment ago, begins to burn once again. She looks into my eyes. There is hunger there, a desire that I know very well.
“Yah, I think it can wait,” she says. The music in her voice makes my heart jump. I sit up as she rolls over, lifts one of my legs and pushes her own under it. Our sexes are inches from meeting. She grins. “You want to see something else I learned how to do?”
I am very tired, but very satisfied, when I finally get to sleep. My final thoughts as darkness overtakes my mind are: Camille’s going to have some washing to do tomorrow.