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‘Answers, mademoiselle,’ Missah says in fevered excitement. ‘They must be within. I will map the maze and discover a way out—not only from the hedges, but from the Château itself.’
She recalls Leander’s earlier warning. You should not ask questions that can never be answered.
‘You must come to the banquet, monsieur,’ Genevieve tells him. ‘The schedule demands it.’
‘I shall, of course, but the night is young, and I feel certain answers lie within.’
‘You will become lost.’
‘I have never met a puzzle I cannot conquer,’ he replies, smiling. ‘Fear not, mademoiselle. If I cannot find the centre within the hour, I will return.’
She fears he will not, but what can she do to stop him? He does not permit her another moment to plead—he strides into the maze. And then he is gone, and Genevieve can do nothing except pray for his return. She has little hope of it. She has little hope of anything, really, except that this evening she might see Leander again.
Seventeen
On the eastern side of the labyrinth, where the gardens greet the cliff’s edge of the mountain’s cruellest slope, the Company has built a stage.
The musicians on this stage number about a dozen, and they play a curious mixture of instruments. Some of them Genevieve recognises, and many she does not. There are violins and oboes and an ivory-cased fortepiano, but green-liveried servants also pluck at long wooden boards arrayed with silver threads; a harp so enormously large it requires three players at once; and a device in a wooden case that consists of a series of glass bowls, pierced through with strings, which the musician spins in place to create an eerie ringing. The song produced by this orchestra is lovely, if strange: a haunting, languid minuet that transitions from movement to movement with the measured grace of a water clock.
The area in front of the stage has been cleared and laid with marble tiles for dancing. From a canopy above this dance floor dangles thousands of tiny, glowing lanterns the shape of caterpillar cocoons, bathing the area in golden light. Westward, pressed against the labyrinth hedges, are banquet tables that recall those of the night before, heaving with food of every extraordinary kind, servants ready and waiting to fill the plates of guests. Genevieve, who has eaten so little these past few days, feels her stomach groan in protest; she finds herself drifting, inexorably, to a rack of lamb scattered with pomegranate seeds, still steaming. Standing watch over the meat is a little statue of a marvellous bird, its neck extraordinarily tall, its wings small and tucked into its body. As Genevieve approaches, the bird’s head stoops over the lamb, and from its mouth outpours a gush of wine-rich sauce.
She wishes to eat. Oh, how she wishes to eat; and even now, the footman on duty is reaching for a plate to give her a cut of the lamb. She raises an uncertain hand to stop him.
‘Another dish, mademoiselle?’ the man asks. He gestures to another plate, where slices of aubergine have been filleted and moulded to make anatomically correct hearts.
‘No.’ She glances around desperately, thinking to delay her inevitable surrender. Perhaps something to drink would be less damaging?
Nearby, there is a small fountain running with a toffee-coloured liqueur that smells sweetly of almonds. She takes a small glass when she is offered it and sniffs at the liquid curiously. The orchestra plays; the servants stand to attention. It is only then that she truly realises: there are no other guests present but herself.
Panic seizes her heart. She knows why Missah is absent, but where is Madame Kramarov? Where is Leander? Then she notices a figure at the corner of the labyrinth, behind the banquet table. A tall man, obscured by shadows. ‘Excuse me,’ she says to no one, made irrational by her distraction. Of course she is distracted. She is enchanted by him—always enchanted—this strange man who haunts her and delights her in equal measure.
She weaves between the tables and reaches the hedges; then there is a hand on her arm, and she is being pulled round the corner and out of sight of the servants. The movement makes her almost spill her glass of liqueur, and she desperately tries to right it.
‘Have you drunk any of that?’ Leander asks her, snatching it from her hands.
‘Is that how you greet me?’ she says, incensed. ‘I am dressed so beautifully, and that is all you can think to say?’
Leander smirks and tips the drink out onto the grass. He is wearing a black coat, and it seems as if he is being half swallowed by the encroaching darkness. Genevieve can see only the strong lines of his pale face, the white-blond of his hair, and the occasional glint of a gold button.
He hands her the empty glass. Genevieve looks down at it with a moue of distaste.
‘I did not have any of it, if you must know,’ she says curtly. ‘And certainly I will not have any now.’
His eyes flit over her dress. ‘You do look. . . No matter.’
Genevieve places her hands on her hips. ‘You are permitted to compliment me, Leander.’
‘And encourage this behaviour? I’d rather not.’
He is irritable this evening. She does not mind. His appreciation is clear enough in his gaze alone.
‘Are you hungry?’ he asks her.
‘Of course,’ Genevieve replies.
He reaches into an inner pocket of his jacket. What he produces looks hardly edible at all: a handful of black mushrooms, dark as soot, trumpet-shaped with ruffled heads that curl inwards on themselves as if trying to hide.
‘Do you intend to poison me?’ Genevieve asks him.
