Daughters of the King (Completed)

05 | Charme

"Rare as is true love, true friendship is rarer." — Jean de La Fontaine, 1621-1695

Celeste

MY FATHER IS BENT over the table with vacant eyes, cards strewn about him from the night before, which comprised screaming matches, bets and many street women that I am sure have now evaded his memory.

The room reeks of liquor, brandy and sweat.

André Fabron crosses the room to perch himself on the chair next to me as I practice my watercolour paintings. As a young man only in his twenty-second year, he is Papa's youngest business associate. I have heard many remarks that he is cunning and talented. That if he had not been to a poor common family, he could have been the most prosperous nobleman in France.

Though I am in my twelfth year and have learned to ensure my survival, André often visits the apartment after one of father's misguided escapades. Every time I hear horse's hooves clattering up the path to our apartment, I rush to the window in excitement, gazing through smudged glass panes to watch his determined gait.

"Bonjour, Mademoiselle Dubois." Monsieur Fabron grimaces at the sight of Papa drooling into his torn blouse, his spittle the colour of blood from his fist fight the night before.

A gust of cool night air had roused me when Father returned from the street the night before. He had brought with him one of his young prostitutes. White powder painted her prominent forehead, and crimson rouge smeared her plump cheeks. When my father had noticed me staring at them as they consumed a bottle of wine and a loaf of bread, he had ushered me over with a sharp wave. Then, his palm had flown across my cheek, sending me back into the cool silence of my bedchamber.

I raise a hand to my face, wondering if André can discern the reddish bruise that has appeared on my cheek. I used some of the white paste left by one of father's female companions to conceal it, though the pale colour refused to blend into my tanned skin.

From the pain saturating Monsieur Fabron's blue gaze, I know he notices the disfigurement.

"What happened?" His question confirms my fear.

"I fell."

"Is that the truth?" He frowns, loosening his cravat as he paces to the other side of the room. When he passes my father, I notice his fingers tighten into a fist.

I nod, but I cannot meet his gaze.

I am embarrassed that he, a young, intelligent business man, is witness to the spectacle of my drunken father. André is the antithesis of Papa—he cares for propriety and kindness. He would never engage in the reckless pursuits that my father often takes part in. He would never treat me with violence.

"Did you bring the novels?" I ask him as he gives me the water, desperate to distract from the subject of my inebriated father and the bruise marring my skin. "The ones you spoke of the last time you visited us?"

"I have brought you something better." He smiles wearily, producing a worn satchel.

"Better than books?" I pretend to frown. There is little in this world that can rival the beauty of a well-written novel.

André laughs, his beautiful blue eyes slanting. He peels back the cover of the satchel to reveal an assortment of coloured candies.

"Merci," I smile, unwrapping the colourful coat of one candy and popping it into my mouth. The taste of orange and peppermint rolls down my tongue and into my belly. I do not tell him I would have much preferred a book, to do so would be insolent. I have not eaten in a day and so the candies can serve as a kind of sustenance to keep me sane.