Page 119 of The Thirteenth Child
If all that life boils down to is our choices, obviously I need to start making better ones.
And so…I’m leaving, healer. You’ve been right on so many fronts tonight. There is a war brewing, and—apart from my debonair looks and standing at court—I am no different from any of the other young men who have come to the capitol to train, to protect, to do something good with their lives. Perhaps they will rub off on me.
Until we meet again, Just Hazel.
(I pray we meet again.)
—Leopold
Chapter 42
The Nineteenth Birthday
“Happy birthday, Hazel!”
As I entered the dining hall, Euphemia burst from behind a tall potted fern and threw a handful of sparkling confetti on me. She flung her arms around my waist and spun me in a hug so exuberant I nearly lost my balance.
“How did you know?” I asked, brushing off the stiff brocade of my gown. Flakes of golden tinsel fluttered to the ground, a cheerful mess that made me feel guilty knowing someone else would have to clean it up.
Euphemia tugged me into the hall without giving the debris a backward glance. “What do you think?”
The table’s usual austerity had been replaced with festive banners and rosettes swagged along a tablecloth of garish pink lace. Riotous blooms sprouted from a dozen vases set between platters of sweets. There were trays of pain au chocolat, towering stacks of kouign-amann and mille-feuille, and madeleines in every shade of the rainbow.
The king’s youngest beamed up at me, obviously pleased to have so surprised me.
I didn’t know how she’d found out today was my birthday. I hadn’t told a soul.
“You didn’t have to do all this for me,” I said, sinking into my usual spot. Bingham set a cup and saucer before me as I placed a napkin in my lap. I offered him a smile of gratitude before taking a large swallow of the coffee.
It wasn’t in fashion at court to drink coffee black anymore—in a fit of tipsy glee Bellatrice had one day declared that the year had already given us too much bitterness—but Bingham had used only the sparest amount of cream and cinnamon in mine.
“Wedidn’t,” Bellatrice said with a careless laugh.
She sat across the table from me, swathed in a gown of citron silk, her sharp gaze softened by the haze of steam wafting from her raised teacup. There were dark smudges beneath her eyes, and she looked paler than usual. We’d both been out the night before, attending a symphony performance followed by a soiree, and hadn’t returned to the palace until well after midnight.
Since Marnaigne’s triumph over his brother’s militia just a fortnight before, Châtellerault had been given over to an endless series of parties and parades, balls and bacchanals, joyfully celebrating the War That Never Was, and Bellatrice, deciding my company was preferable over “that holy oracle,” had dragged me to each and every event.
The biggest celebration of all was scheduled for tomorrow night in the palace ballroom. Baudouin was set to be executed in the citadel’s courtyard at noon, launching a three-day party. Anyone with the right amount of cachet and allure had been invited, and Aloysius had confided to me that the palace was expecting over a thousand courtiers, dignitaries, artists, and other bons vivants to attend.
It seemed impossible to me that my name was on such a list.
My appointment as court healer had thrust me into a dizzyingly high echelon of society. I could walk into any salon in Châtellerault and be waited upon with doting servitude and extravagant deference. My armoires and chests were bursting with dresses and jewelry appropriate for every possible court function, from high teas with the princesses and other noble ladies to council meetings and state dinners.
I’d never felt so far away from the little girl growing up in the heart of the Gravia Forest. There wasn’t a single person from my past who would recognize me. Even my freckles had begun to fade, lightened by exorbitant face creams and Bellatrice’s dogged persistence.
“Of course we did,” Euphemia said, drawing me back to the sugary feast before us. “Papa said tonight’s dinner is all for Leopold.” She made a face. “We couldn’t ignore your birthday.”
My heart skipped out of rhythm, the way it always seemed to when the prince’s name was brought up.
Bellatrice let out a melodramatic sigh. “We absolutely must celebrate the golden son’s return with pomp and fanfare. I wouldn’t be surprised if Papa commissioned a float to carry the decorated hero throughout the halls.”
Leopold’s decision to run away to enlist had shocked the entire palace. He’d opted to serve not as an officer decorated with multitudes of shiny and meaningless medals but as a new recruit. He slept in a tent with other cadets, ate the same rations as everyone else, and carried out his commanding officer’s orders, however lowly.
To everyone’s amazement, Leopold had thrived in the trenches, quickly rising through the ranks, and when the skirmishes ended, he’d stayed with one of the colonels to continue his studies. WhileI knew that Marnaigne kept close tabs on his progress, no one had received word from Leopold himself since he’d left court.
“Does anyone know when he’s meant to make his grand entrance?” Bellatrice asked, squinting down the table, looking for something suitable to eat. “You must have overheard some tidbit while looking after Papa.”
I shook my head. “Only sometime today.”
