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It is not proper for a lady to travel unaccompanied. Genevieve ought to protest for that reason, but the sorrowful creature within her revels at the thought of further solitude, with fewer distractions from the past and safeguards from danger. She is in France, after all—what better location to punish herself than the site of her original sin?

Besides, the Auctioneer’s tone—while pleasant—permits no argument. She can hardly return down the mountain.

‘Very well,’ she says, and the Auctioneer smiles—a smile so large it almost seems to split his face in two, like a turtle opening its beak. One of his teeth appears to be made of polished turquoise, a vein of gold running through it like a crack in the enamel.

As her attendants leave, horses whickering, Genevieve stares up at the looming faces of the stone cherubs and feels as much trepidation as awe. She has only the clothes on her back, her fan, and her waist pouch, which has nothing in it save another ginger lozenge and a ribbon for her hair. But what mistake can be worse than those she has already made? For five years now, she has lived in the Brambling House swaddled like a babe: wrapped safely in the arms of the English countryside, in her grandfather’s affections, in her meticulous routine. She has done all she can to live well and peacefully, yet still the past grows hungrier and louder. She cannot sleep, cannot ride in a carriage, cannot go out after dark without seeing a figure in an amaranth dress out of the corner of her eye. Something must be done.

‘May I show you inside?’ the Auctioneer asks her.

Genevieve ought to reply with thanks, with a curtsey, because that is what Versailles etiquette would demand. But she finds all words lodged in her throat, her knees stiff as a doll’s. Instead she nods, ashamed by her own silence, and follows him into the foyer.

The ceiling is towering, and the floor is pastel-pink marble polished to a mirror’s sheen. The grand staircase ahead, railed with golden balustrades, bears witness to a chandelier so massive it is astonishing it could be hung in the first place: a chaotic cascade of fractious crystals that seem to have no sense to their arrangement at all, neither symmetrical nor consistent in size. Beneath this behemoth stand three women in scarlet dresses and aprons, so exactly resembling one another in their fair colouring and soft features that they can be nothing but triplets. When they see Genevieve, they fall into a line of identical curtseys and breathe, simultaneously, ‘Mademoiselle.’

‘These shall be your maidservants,’ the Auctioneer says. ‘Jonquille, Violette, and Lys.’

‘A pleasure to meet you,’ Genevieve says, peering desperately between them in an attempt to find some distinguishing mark. They are all beautiful, staring at her almost unblinking, their lashes only fluttering on occasion with the speed of butterfly wings.

In England, the servants at the Brambling House have been employed for generations. Their family names are carved into a stone by the entrance to the kitchen gardens; the cook makes stew in a pot her great-great-aunt received as a wedding gift. They treat Genevieve and her grandfather with familiarity, even affection, as well as respect. These three women are not like that, evidently. They remind her of the servants in France, who had been deferential but cold—listening, always listening. Information was the currency of the palace, and there was no worse sin in Versailles than to be poor.

‘Your schedule.’ The Auctioneer hands her an envelope near identical to the invitation she had originally received: cream paper, red seal. Before she has time to open it, he continues. ‘Your maids shall show you to your rooms. Afterwards, you will be free to spend the morning exploring the Château along with the other guests. At noon, the bell will call for you to return to the foyer. There, I shall accompany you to the courtyard, where the course of the auction shall be explained. Have you any questions, mademoiselle, before I leave you be?’

‘Certainly,’ Genevieve says. ‘I fear, monsieur, that the more you explain, the more questions I seem to have.’

He laughs. ‘That is to be expected. All shall be revealed in time. Au revoir!’

He bows and spins purposefully away, going to speak to the footman beside the door before Genevieve can offer protest. She stares at his back, perplexed. She could cry out to him, take him by the sleeve. Demand further courtesy than this, berate him for the flippancy with which he has abandoned a guest. Has he no shame?

But she does not do so. She suppresses her irritation, squashes it like a bug beneath her palm. She will not draw attention to herself; she knows she mustn’t: she is Genevieve de Vienne, daughter of a comte, and her patience, her courtesy, is her sole armour against the madness of the world around her.

She takes a deep breath and turns back to the servants.

‘Forgive me if I seem out of sorts.’ She offers the ladies a small, friendly smile. ‘This is all very new to me, you see. I have never been to an auction before, let alone one so. . . unusual.’

None of them seem inclined to smile back. Their porcelain-doll faces are expressionless and perfect, eyes glazed and hands kept folded softly behind their backs. One of them—Jonquille? Lys?—says, ‘Very good, mademoiselle. May we show you to your rooms?’

‘Of course,’ Genevieve replies, and she picks up her skirts to ascend the steps.

Leander Sterne awakens in a shallow grave.

His mouth is full of dirt and something squirming. Worms, he supposes. He commends his mother for her creativity. He spits them out, gasps a lungful of mud-stale air, and scrabbles at the hollow of earth he has found himself in. Chunks of the ground above him tumble down into his eyes and hair. Daylight streams in, accompanied by veins of brilliant blue sky.

It is his own fault, he knows, for sleeping in the first place. But he had wanted to pass the time more quickly before the auction started, and sleep seemed the best way to do it. It seems his mother did not appreciate the rush. Perhaps, in his hurry, she perceived a slight.

He stands from the grave and clambers out, brushing dirt from his coat and trousers. Within a few minutes, he knows, the Château will correct the mess, and he will be as clean as if he slept upon a feather bed. He looks around to orient himself: The west gardens, he thinks, near the bathing pond. A lynx sits on the branch of a nearby chestnut tree, its tail swishing back and forth, as regular as a clock ticking. The Château has forgotten to provide it with eyes, and it watches Leander with empty sockets. As he passes, the lynx snarls, displaying teeth of faceted diamonds.

Leander can’t remember when he came to the Château Reverie. For him, memory is a privilege to be earned, not a right. His mother indulges him on occasion, dripping reminders of his past onto his tongue—like honey from a beehive, just before the sting. But he forgets as much as he remembers. At least, he thinks he does.

Usually, he is not permitted to attend the auctions. Or perhaps he is and his mother removes his memory of them afterwards—there is no way for him to tell. Regardless, Leander knows little of what occurs at those events, spending the days asleep or locked away in a room the Lady has reserved for him: the library, if he has been good, or the cellar, if he has not. To be here now in the presence of other guests—to take part in the cruelty and the pageantry of the auction—is novel for him. And novelty is exciting, as much as Leander can be excited by anything.

The main building of the Château appears, surrounded by servants: some scrubbing the foundations with handkerchiefs, others dusting at statues with fistfuls of peacock feathers. He can’t see any guests yet, but surely there must be some already here, perhaps taking refreshment inside or resting in their rooms. All that he knows of the auctions he has been told by his brother, Orestes. According to him, the first day is always the calmest, as it’s the day when people are too ignorant to be afraid. On the first day, the Château thrums with its own anticipation, sensing the drama to come. The Company’s servants operate like clockwork; Orestes sits in his study with his chess game and prepares the movement of the pieces; none of them knows what secrets the guests will bring, but then again, why should they? As always, Lady Reverie herself has chosen whom to invite, and this auction will end as all others have. The worthy rewarded. The dishonest punished.

As Leander walks towards the entrance, he hears his mother’s voice. It is impossible to know whether the sound is a stray memory or her voice directly in his mind. It is a game of hers, to speak in the present and pretend it is from the past. Go, then, she tells him. Enter the auction. Attempt to win your heart’s desire: attempt to win your liberty. When you fail, my son, your bones will make me another mountain. Your blood will be its rivers and your teeth its jagged peaks.

Leander rolls his eyes at a stone cherub peering over the door. It smirks back at him.

The foyer. A peek of a white skirt and satin slippers at the top of the steps—another guest, he supposes. She’s gone before he can see her. His brother stands with his head turned at an improper angle, peering over his back like an owl, regarding the marble floor.

‘Leander,’ Orestes says, turning his head up towards him, his spine making an audible creak like a rusting hinge. He does not look surprised, but disappointed, perhaps. ‘I thought you would be sleeping.’