La Magie

In. Out. In. Out.

I take a small step out of my bedroom. Carefully. Silently.

My mind, always the contrarian, flashes back to my mother catching me at age eight with a smeared face and handfuls of Kouign Amann hiding in our kitchen dumbwaiter. But, as I creep towards her drawing room, I know that a sore behind is a better punishment than the one I would reap if Madame Riche was to see me creeping along her foyer late at night.

As my caretaker, the Madame is my North Star. She instructs me in the way that I, as a high society lady, should smile, walk, and breathe. Ever since my mother died, Madame has become my family. She is sharp-tongued and strict, but, somehow, she remains kind and nurturing. I have never had a reason to doubt her, but recently, I feel as though she is hiding something.

It all began on the full moon last month. I slipped out of my bedchamber in search of a maid and a spot of tea when I heard murmurs in the drawing room. I thought myself mad at the time, assuming it was just remnants of my dreams, but once I returned from the kitchen, I ran into a maid who silently shrieked at the sight of me.

“Mademoiselle Charlotte! You must return to your room at once.” She whispered fiercely. “The Madame is in a meeting.”

A meeting? It was almost midnight.

“A meeting at this hour? Who could she possibly be entertaining? Is she planning some sort of coup?” I internally laughed at the thought of Madame brandishing a musket, but then quickly calmed as I remembered her countenance towards violence. I quickly smiled at Genevieve and turned back towards my rooms, cringing at the picture I had created in my mind: a young Madame, blood-soaked and smiling with her musket standing over Emperor Napoleon the First’s body. My dreams were unkind.

In the following weeks, I kept a close eye on the goings on of the estate. Madame had always run a tight schedule, so it was easy to learn when she would be occupied: her morning strolls after breakfast lasted forty-five minutes, her social hours in the city were always early afternoon, and she consistently partook in a late-night sherry in her chambers. One lucky afternoon, the Madame made a grave mistake in leaving her correspondence unattended – I had never used a letter opener with more skill than yesterday (something akin to fire ran through my veins as I surgically opened her words).

 Her letter to my aunt left me wanting, as she spoke in what seemed to be a sisterly code, but it was clear that there would be another “meeting” tonight. I felt the excitement in my bones; I planned my route to the drawing room all day. I knew there had to be more to Madame’s life than society’s gossip and the marriage market. I constantly find myself hoping for something greater, but I know the notion of adventure is only a dream. Although my studies have highlighted lives, experiences, and plains I have begun to crave, my quiet life in Bretagne has always felt both suffocating and comforting.

I took a stabilizing breath and stepped forward, my eyes adjusting from the dark hall to the light from the lampshades in the drawing room. Madame lay with an open book in her lap, eyes closed, mouth open. Rushing past her I situated myself in between the bookshelf and corner table, camouflaged by the hideous tablecloth that she insists on draping over every object in her house. I sat quietly, making sure to give blood to my feet and ankles. The grandfather clock in the foyer then chimed, rousing Madame from a dream that I can only assume was not for my maidenly ears. She arose and straightened her skirts calling for Roundsman, our valet, to replenish the tea for her impending guests.

I watch as he arrives with tea and begins to move around the furniture. My breath catches in my chest. I silently pray to the God of the First Church (led by the priest who has a wandering eye) and hope that Roundsman does not dare to move my hiding place. My prayer is answered when he rearranges only the eastern side of the room, placing the furniture in a very specific shape, a star. My breath again changes its rhythm. It is one thing to read that your ward dabbles in darkness, but it is quite another to realize it is true.

She swiftly walks towards the loveseat and whispers while tracing a design on the arm. I cower in my space as the couch lengthens and expands, as arms extend from the tall shape, two feet, and the back of a head begins to form. The couch, nay, the man straightens and rocks his balding head from one shoulder to another. He begins muttering in a baritone, Parisian French that has me wishing I could hear from great distances. He then turns his head towards Madame and greets her warmly. She smiles and begins to traipse around the room whispering to other pieces of our furniture. After some time, she finishes, looking at our loveseat (the bald, tall gentleman), our vase (a shapely young woman), our armchair (a rather handsome young man), and our ottoman (a small girl, no more than fifteen).

I sit unblinking as they sit on our other, inanimate furniture and begin to have tea as though this was just another afternoon. I feel as though my eyes have finally opened, but I cringe at what I see. Feeling my heart break, I sat, unable to move or think as she lovingly caressed the face of the man next to her. I had never seen Madame move with such reverence. She sighed and the others chatted away, content. For hours, I watched as the teapot replenished itself, treats flew from plate to person with no aid from the patrons, and stories were told excitedly. I learned the names of the children: Marguerite, Phillipe, and Marie Louise, respectively. The more I listened, the more confused I became. They told stories of horseback riding, picnics, trips to the modiste, and Phillipe’s studies. It all seemed normal until stories of soaring through the skies and disillusioned neighbors were giggled at. I began to feel guilty, as though I were intruding on a very intimate reunion.

“Madame, it is almost midnight,” Roundsman spoke quietly, reverently. I kept silent as Madame’s body language transformed, her spine straightening and shoulders rolling backward in her proud fashion.

“Very well. Thank you, Remy. Would you return the tea to the kitchen so I can say goodbye?”

“Of course.” I watch as he gathers their plates and cups and loads them into the cart. No one speaks, and I fear that they can hear my heartbeat.

“Amelie, I do hope that you enjoy your life. I hate to see you so forlorn, my love.” I suddenly feel faint. Who is this man? Why does he speak to Madame like this? Does she love him?

“Bastien, I miss you all fiercely, but I do have duties that keep me afloat. I have Charlotte to look after and train, I commune with the ladies I meet with for tea, and I keep the estate running. I promise I do remember what a gift my life is.” She sighed and straightened.

My eyes followed her around the room as she gently kissed the head of the small girl, her transformation swift and silent. She floated from one person to another, lovingly interacting with them before transforming them back into the furniture I have always known.

I sat in my hiding place, a hundred thoughts running through my mind as she stood staring at what was once her company. She took a long breath and exited the room swiftly with her head bowed – everything in me fought to comfort her.

I rose quietly from my corner. With silent steps, I crept forward, pointedly ignoring the possibly sentient furnishings, and tiptoed towards my chambers.  The door closed behind me with a click, and I finally felt like breathing was possible. I felt the world collapse with and around me with a new nightmare of Madame, my lifeline, hanging in the city center surrounded by fire. I lower my head and weep. France does not take kindly to witches.