Page 120 of The Thirteenth Child
“I had Cook make chocolate crepes.” Euphemia pointed, clearly eager to begin the feast. “They’re your favorite!”
“Hazel doesn’t like chocolate,” a voice pronounced with great authority.
I froze.
It was Leopold.
I wanted to turn and greet him but suddenly couldn’t make up my mind what to do with my face, my hands.
In the months he’d been gone—eleven months! how had it been eleven months?—I’d read his letter again and again, unfolding the black parchment so many times the edges had begun to tatter and the golden ink had lost some of its shimmer.
But that would never diminish the weight of his words, impressed on my heart.
I pray we meet again.
I’d lost myself in so many daydreams of what the man who’d written that line would be like, for he clearly wasn’t the Leopold I had known. Would he return home from battle triumphant and sure, full of action and determination? Would he be more thoughtful and perceptive, radiating seriousness and deep stoicism? Who was this new Leopold?
I’d imagined our reunion dozens of different ways—crossing paths in a deserted hall; spotting each other on either side of acrowded ballroom only to be drawn together like magnet and steel, our eyes saying all the things our lips could not—but none of them had involved meeting him with his sisters present.
It was better this way, I supposed. It wasn’t as though Leopold was going to return from the front, stride into breakfast, and throw me back into a kiss most passionate, ravishing me in appreciation for all the things I’d opened his eyes to.
Was it?
Just because you made him change does not mean he changed foryou.
I’d told myself that so many times.
But still, a foolish hope burned.
“Leopold!” Euphemia’s face lit up and she pushed her chair back from the table to race across the room, skirts flying.
I turned and saw him scoop her into a twirled embrace.
Leopold had changed dramatically while away from court. He was longer, and leanly muscled. Gone was his head of elaborately pomaded curls, shaved to the close crop of a soldier. I wasn’t sure what the medals and sash decorating his uniform signified, but he no longer wore the standard black issued to every new recruit. His suit jacket was a fine amber wool, showing off his elevated rank.
“Oof, you’re getting too big for this, Phemie,” he said, and they tumbled to the ground in a mess of petticoats, epaulets, and giggles. “Stand up, stand up,” he ordered. “Let me take a proper look atyou.”
Euphemia hopped to her feet, standing tall, her back straight, playing at military precision.
“My, how you’ve grown,” he admired.
“I haven’t!”
“Oh yes, I believe you have. You’re quite the little woman. I fear Papa will have you married off any day now.”
Euphemia let out an elaborate cry of alarm. “I shan’t ever marry. All the boys at court are horrid!”
Leopold nodded with theatrical solemnity. “I daresay they are. That’s why I brought so many friends home with me.” He nodded to the cluster of young men standing behind him in the doorway. Like Leopold, they all wore military suits, though none had nearly the number of medals and badges he did.
“These are my sisters, Bellatrice and Euphemia,” Leopold told them, and they quickly bowed, several of them sneaking surreptitious glances at Bellatrice. “This is Mathéo, Gabriel, Maël, and Jean-Luc. We were all in the same battalion and have continued on at the academy.”
Euphemia waved hello.
Bellatrice shifted back in her chair to study the young officers with catlike interest. “Welcome to court.”
“Did you really fight in the war?” Euphemia asked breathlessly, amazement making her eyes seem even bluer than usual.
“Wouldn’t call it much of a fight,” the tallest of the group said, his eyes darting to Bellatrice, making sure she was taking notice.
