When gentle, idealistic Frenchwoman Violette Marnier finds herself on the wrong side of a fierce English Queen, she understands her fate is no longer her own. Her crime one of love, or something like it, her only consolation lies in hidden messages...
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Violette notices each day has a certain cadence, a rhythm that's almost musical. The mornings begin with the fears and terrors that invade her heart blending into the strains of dawn over the green. They eventually subside into a kind of calm and wait for the arrival of Amelia, who is such jovial company that it feels she is not in a prison but meeting a friend for tea. It helps that the slightly plump serving-girl with a sweet face and fondness for desserts always finds a way to smuggle treats to Violette. Amelia never speaks of the other ladies she waits upon, but Violette knows by the girl's behaviour that they're in a better position than she. Smuggling the food isn't just a fondness for the petite French woman wasting away in a dreary room, it's Amelia's way of righting at least one of the wrongs she sees daily.
To meet a young woman---a servant, no less--- of such principles, it does Violette's heart good. She is always left asking herself if, in a different world, she would show Amelia kindness or treat her as the other ladies must?
Amelia is always plump and rosy, but it seems no matter how she wishes to follow suit, Violette is fading as if being starved to death. No fattening fried dough rolled in sugar keeps her gown from hanging in an almost ghastly way. She was never large, but the places that showed her curves to her advantage are just gaping bits of dirtied fabric.
After Amelia leaves, Violette spends time writing letters to her sisters, to friends she believe may help her, and even to the lover who abandoned her to this fate. She misses him, which is outrageously stupid, and she knows it. Still, a girl of her age with nothing but quiet hours and too much passion inside can turn the Devil himself into a romantic hero.
Deep down, she still believes her love--whether an English Lord or Spanish pirate--- will rescue her. There are two truths Violette has learned thus far from both life and fiction: women will show one another no mercy, and the noble nature of love conquers all obstacles. If not, it dies trying without regret.
After she is finished writing her letters, she fights off the loneliness. None of her long ramblings ever gets a reply. Still, she knows they are being read. Occasionally, they are answered in the form of things Violette mentions needing desperately. What she needs more than anything is the sense she is not alone, and things will be alright. That wish is never granted.
In the late afternoons, she visits with Father Antoine. Violette is not particularly devout, but the company does her soul good nonetheless. He is a calming if ancient presence, and the only one she can trust with the letters. He warns her that most in her situation are forbidden to communicate with their loved ones, and her paper and ink may be taken away if she is discovered writing far more mundane things than favourite passages and reflections upon Scripture.
Still, he takes the letters with a frown and promises they will be delivered. There is no one in England to intercede with the Queen on Violette's behalf, and without that, she will grow older than the trees in the dismal room.
Most importantly, Father Antoine is the one who brings books. Sometimes they are thin, the kind girls like Amelia hide in their aprons. Other times, the weight tells Violette they are somber and meaningful. She doesn't care much. It isn't the stories that appeal, though it passes the time to read them. It is the mystery of the sender.
Lately, the underlined passages have become less flirtatious and more like courtship. Springs of lavender and pressed rose petals are inside the volumes, and she nearly squealed with delight when the last arrival included a silver compact with a cake of pressed powder. The silver even looked real, and the powder smelled of a Spring garden. It doesn't matter to her if there's any value in the item or where it came from. The smallest things to bring back youth and life to her withered heart are now ones she'd trade jewels for.
After Father Antoine's departure, Violette is almost too excited for evening prayers and dinner. It is not Amelia who visits her, but a brusque man sent to keep watch. He doesn't care about Violette one way or another, and there is no conversation. Nevertheless, she is always aware of his presence, and she imagines she can hear him breathing on the other side of the door as she washes and changes for bed. She is not overly modest, but the fear the guard can see her or hear her makes her tiptoe, her body flushed from top to bottom with the awareness that her privacy is not what is befitting a lady.
The sounds of Violette's life are somewhat muted by the voices who offer some kind of melancholy refrain. She would swear it to be the voices of the nuns, offering prayers at compline, the obligatory lights-out for the Sisters each night. Yet, Violette knows the Queen has done her best to lock up and obliterate any rivals to her religion in the same way she is punishing rivals to her beauty.
Still, the mournful and somewhat desperate choir of prayers for the soul to be saved should Death visit in the night ring in Violette's ears.
The small lantern and the admirer's haunting words, delivered by those who write them to please others, get Violette through the night. She sleeps little, but when she does, she dreams of things that would shame her to confess as sins.
The books are always dark, about madness and demons and even blood-drinking Lotharios who seduce pretty virgins. Between the words and the darkness, sometimes punctuated by moonlight, Violette forgets reality. It is a beautiful thing.
Her heart breaks when she sees dawn approaching. It is no wonder there is only fear and darkness in the lightest hours of the day.
The truth is the most frightening thing to confront, and the price for allowing the mind to escape is a brutal return.
It is a chilly morning in October that is the most brutal of them all. The sound of hammers and nails not far from the window are what brings Violette's blood to ice, not the temperatures that drift from Autumn to Winter each night.
She is afraid to cast even the tiniest glance down to the Green. Violette knows what she will see. It is too much to fathom.
The terror of what her mind could never unsee is stronger than any imaginary blood-drinking demon sent to corrupt her.
(Author's Note: Word count on the first draft of this chapter, 1122 words.)
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