#drabbles1

There is no sense, it has been said, in acquiring vast amounts of wealth without also acquiring the means to enjoy it.

The Château d'Emeraude stands as testament to this pledge. Nestled neatly in too many acres to count, it sparkles jewel-like in the embrace of its sculptured gardens, its windows glowing amber in the soft blue twilight. Across the rolling lawns and through the twisting maze of roses and peonies, the echoes of chamber music layers itself softly under the purr of water-fountains and the quiet rumble of voices and laughter; bodies drift across the lawn, walking, dancing, embracing in the dark, wandering in and out of the open veranda doors.

Open doors are a policy here. Even when closed, it’s always worth a knock.

Champagne flows freely in the ballroom, filling outstretched crystal glasses like water, slicking the Venetian tiles like oil. Decorum has very little place at Emeraude – one does not come here to stand on ceremony. One does not come here to be witnessed. The discretion of the host is well-known and well-trusted, if only for the simple reason that he behaves just as badly himself. Daggers at each other’s back nevertheless maintains a sense of ill-gotten trust, one way or another.

He can be found, as he can always be found, in the centre of the room – centre of the room, centre of attention, centre of the world, holding court as though he belongs there (which of course, he does), his smile bright, his voice loud. Marquis René Chevalier, with his dark, dishevelled curls and disarming good looks, has a knack for drawing the eye – he swans through the ballroom as though on a cloud, pouring wine, pouring compliments, stroking arms and hair and egos in equal measure. He laughs with one group, commiserates with another; denounces the royal family and then turns around to exalt them, ever charming, ever smiling. He kisses the hand of a handsome newblood noble, and shakes the hand of his pretty wife – they are enamoured by his eccentricity, and he holds them both to him as he circles the room, one in each arm. He will not sleep with them tonight, but he will allow them to think that he might, and when his name next shows up on the commendations list at the palace they will remember his charm, his efficacy.

He has been climbing the social ladder since the day he realised there was one to climb, and he is so close now – so close to the top. Emeraude is his reward, certainly, and he is devoted to it – it is a glittering testament to his success – but at the same time it is a tantalising reminder of his proximity to the palace.

He is limitless. He will stop at nothing to taste it.

***

“Ambassador! I ask you.”

Downstairs, the festivities roll on into the night. They are still in their youth – the clock struck two only a little while ago – and it will be many hours yet until they begin to die down. René has excused himself, spilling self-depreciating apologies, pleading forgiveness against the mock-anger of his current companions who saw him off with affection. They will discuss him for the next hour, at least – that he has made quite sure of. Now he lounges in an upstairs parlour, settled in a well-padded wingback. He sits sideways, his legs slung over the leather arm, his cravat loose around his throat; his maroon waistcoat has been dropped in front of the carved hearth, where the firelight catches on the skeins of gold threading through the silk like veins. He may go back down; he may not. Either way, he doesn’t intend to button himself back up again tonight. Visitors to Emeraude have all seen him far more debauched than this.

“You heard that, didn’t you?” He goes on, waving a glass of port that threatens to spill down his shirt if he flourishes it any more vigorously. “It wasn’t just me?”

“I w-wasn’t there.” The man in the room with him is doing a very good job of pretending to rearrange the bookshelves. He watches René warily, like one might watch an unfamiliar dog who has been introduced as ‘very friendly, most of the time’.

“Oh, that’s right. Of course you weren’t.” He brings the glass to his lips, draining the last of it, and immediately fills it up again from the decanter on the sidetable beside him. It flows into the glass as thick and sweet as mulberry syrup. “Although, Quill, you know you’re perfectly welcome to hang off my arm whenever you like.”

The man, Quill, doesn’t reply, because he can’t really think of anything worse. Not because it’s René – there is very little he wouldn’t do if René smiled at him and asked – but because the party downstairs is a singular example of his idea of Hell. A small, quiet man with nerves as frail as Iberian glass, he can envisage no more terrible fate than being thrown to the wolves that are the Gaullian nobility. Particularly when none of them understand a word he says.

“Y-you were sss-saying?” He says quietly, hoping to move swiftly on from his lacking presence at René’s frequent revelries. “S-ss-something ab-b-bout an am…amm-mbass-s-sador?”

He dearly hopes the word will not come up in conversation again. It would take him as long to say it as it would for himself to become it.

“Oh, yes, of course.” René stands up smoothly. There is no evidence in his behaviour that he is quite spectacularly drunk. “No, I was talking politics with Raphael Dejardins earlier – you know he’s a vicomte? You never would have guessed, not from the state he’s in downstairs – that’s certainly not his wife’s skirt he’s got his hand inside. Anyway, the rumour-mill is hard at work on the grist – there’s an ambassadorial role at stake at the next soirée, and it would appear I’ve been put forward. It would appear, in fact, that I’m the only name on the list.”

“Oh,” says Quill, rather pointlessly. “Is … is that g-g-good?”

“Mon cher, of course it’s not good.” He swallows the rest of his second glass and abruptly opens his hand, dropping it onto the hearth. It explodes into dust, scattering microscopic shards across the flagstones. Quill takes a hasty step towards the door. “It’s the last thing I need. What I need is to be here – to remain here, where I can assure that my face and presence is going to be remembered.”

Quill is holding a book tight to his chest; he relaxes his arms slightly and glances at the title. Les Liaisons Dangereuses. He wonders if someone up there is playing a trick on him.

“I-it’s a step up, though, is-sn’t it?” He asks, as if he knows what that entails. Realistically, he understands approximately only 60% of what René is talking about at any given time, but it’s easier to pretend otherwise. “It’s t-t-trustworthy. They t-take you suh-s-ssseriously.”

René doesn’t seem to hear him which, again, is not uncommon.

“And Albion, of all places,” the marquis continues with a curl to his lip (as though the word itself sits bitter and heavy on his tongue), glaring into the flames; it sparks some colour into his eyes, which are among the darkest Quill has ever seen, dark enough to be almost black. In the firelight, they flicker a disconcerting gold. “Not that I have an innate dislike for the people, of course, but one can only guess how awful -”

And then, all at once, a smile steals it way slowly onto his face. He turns away from the fireplace and looks at Quill, and Quill is not sure he likes the look of that smile at all.