Soft cobalt, like ever-encroaching dawn or forever twilight, the walls hold every moment of illumination with warmth and color. Edged with gold, the painted paneling provides several layers of color and texture. A treasure in and of itself. The music chamber peels back a leaf of time, and the salons of the Baroque live once more.
The floor is jeweled with white, Italian marble -- its veins silver, threading throughout -- and each square has been painted with gold and fitted in a seamless pattern. Seating areas are arranged at the four cardinal points, each one a collection of period chairs and sofas. Small tables are unobtrusively placed amid these areas -- and upon them rest antique tools. The vast center space of the chamber is left open, but at center-back rest the Baroque-era harpsichord and a piano. In opposite corners, focal points for two of the seating areas, are two standing harps of differing sizes. Above, a depiction of music spans across the entire ceiling.
After I parted company with my hosts, I wandered the castle...
No, that's not exactly how it happened. First, I waited for them to leave the great hall together -- I counted the space of five seconds and then followed after them. I did not want them to think I was going to be the puppy at their heels all night. And once in the stairwell I realized I forgot to ask one important question...
Which doorway led to their bedroom...
It is not something I wish to walk into. How embarrassing...
So, there I was standing on stone stairs after going up and down and wondering which door to choose. Deductive reasoning, it could not be the first floor -- and I know it is not the fifth floor, that is where I am staying...
I closed my eyes and prepared my speech...
...And now I am sitting at a harpsichord. I wish now that I had learned to play. Maybe... maybe this is what I can do with all of my time...
Valan smiles and his eyes shimmer with it gold and green behind a golden veil of hair...
Piano lessons...
The keep is old, but not so quiet. Well, no one asleep would wake, but clearly the floors are walked by those who take care of it. Those who keep things running. Who keep the walls warm, the harpsichord tuned, the blankets and coverlets in every room fresh.
The tinkle of the harpsichord is not likely to add to any wafting sounds. These walls could handle anything once. Now sound is the sole challenger to its walls. That, the keep can withstand.
But, Valan, there are voices. Laughter. From somewhere. Drifting around you and the pedals you touch.
There is an immediate rise of color. Laughter. And ears seek to know whom. His hosts? I will have to tell you, Edward, how I saw them. The Beautiful Ones who could not keep their hands apart from one another. Is it male? Is it them?
His fingers play a song of no tune, just random notes. He does not even know chopsticks. He turns upon the bench and stands. Laughter. From where is it coming...
...I will follow it...
Now here's a game. Something of interest. Something to keep me from thinking of you dodging bullets, ami. I wish you would call...
In his crimson and his suede. With his hands tucked in pockets of suede coat. With garnets at his throat. Valan moves supple, silent. Ears pricked for the sound, his eyes distracted by the baroque salon around him.
As your fingers quiet upon the keyboard, so does the sound. There is but silence in the music room. Keen ears might pick up voices on another floor and the sound of fresh linens being snapped...
C'est etrange...
Now it is silent...
The room is only dimly lit... there is no party, no gathering in this salon. And now I miss you. Je m'ennuie de vous, ami. C'est le plus long que nous avons ete separes depuis cette semaine. I wonder, suddenly, if anyone has ever played The Blues on a harpsichord...
Suede sighs as Valan sits at the harpsichord again, and fingers move over the keys. A strange thing, Jazz and Blues on the harpsichord. A twelve-bar blues piece. Not elaborate -- he only knows how to "hammer" something out not how to "play". That's something else.
And I need a cigarette. And I need wine. Maybe a servant will pass by and I can motion with my hand, play a king, make a request...
Apportez-moi le vin, apportez-moi une cigarette, apportez-moi mon homme...
The laughter begins again, a mist between the tinkles. A man's gentle amusement, a girl's trippling chuckle. Between the spates of giggles, a rustle and gentle purr.
But you think it, and it happens.
"Good evening," comes Fabrice's voice, an almost sigh there. He found you. Thank goodness for the harpsicord's tinny noises through the floor. He comes with a tray, his feet brusque against sweetly polished floors.
"I am sorry to disturb," Fabrice explains, "...your room is prepared, Sir, I can take you there if you wish." Upon the tray he sets down on a low table are a few bottles in crystal decanters, scotch and brandy, plus two splits of wine, red and white. Such the eucharistic offering. All he is missing is the water.
Fingers hover above the keys. And even though his fingers tremble a little, Valan is smiling. The harpsichord has a spirit. Did she play you better than I, old instrument? Did she wear a dress that swallowed her?
And then the voice...
Gilt-green eyes lift and sparkle, and the half-smile turns to a broad grin. Warm, wide. "Bon soir, ah merci..." He stops himself. "Thank you, Fabrice," he says in heavily French-laden English. And he rises, bag in hand. "Ah this is just what I was wanting," his English, though correct, comes in starts and stops quite un-Anglican. "And... oui..." he motions with his hand, smile slanting as he reminds himself: English, Valan, English, "... yes, I would like that, thank you..."
The room...
And maybe I can convince you to stay a little while with me. Something to drink...
A nod from the young man who looks not put off or confused by your accented English. Fabrice nods, bending to pick up the tray again. "I will bring this for Monsieur," the last said like a native.
"You are on the fifth floor, Sir," Fabrice explains, letting you know the basics. "If you wish a meal brought to you, I am to tell you that the kitchens are open at your leisure and will prepare for you whatever you choose. They are known for a few specialties, however," Fabrice says, turning to the side to lead on, "...which I can detail for you, if you like."
Even though I shall not keep the kitchens open on my account, I do want to hear you tell me... all about it...
The satchel is over his shoulder, and he is pivoting toward you. His smile is summer to this land of constant winter. "I would like this... Je voudrais ceci beaucoup," Valan murmurs.
And he is beside but slightly behind you. "You are from France, yes?" There is a soft laugh, "I should have asked, yes?" Valan looks back and forth from you, to the way ahead. The harpsichord and its laughing ghost left behind...
"Do you also work at Chinon...?"
Ah, an allowance. But rules are...we do not fraternize with the lords guests.
Well, unless asked. Then everyone fraternizes.
"Oui, I am, but I have never been to Chinon," Fabrice says, feet marking well-spaced time. He strides along the music room's floor until he passes the archway into the hall. All the while, he balances his tray.
"I am from Nice," he explains, "...I have been here for...three years." A relative newcomer...and already serving guests.
His suit is crisp, though it is well into early morning. How Fabrice must have hated to find it and put it on. But, yes, it was already starched, in a closet.
"Here, upstairs, Sir," Fabrice's head motions at the end of the hall to the stairwell.
"As for specialties," he begins, something to chat about on the walk, "...for evenings, the Welsh Rarebit is a delight. There is also pheasant and pears for this time of year. Additionally, there is beef and lamb stew available, with our own bread. It is brown and crusty for the stew. All of our game is caught in nearby areas, Sir, so you know." And he does not seem finished.
Ah well, I will not tell...
"Bordeaux," Valan says, and he follows you up the stairs, step for step. "But I lived mostly in Tours... well, until recently. I have moved to London," Valan pauses, grinning, "You are a very long way from Nice. Nice to Scotland." Gilt-green eyes widen a little. "An adjustment, oui?"
But then comes the menu...
And I am suddenly hungry. My throat is tight and yet I am hungry. That pheasant and pears. "Do they have anything for dessert? Some pudding for the autumn season? This with the brandy..." and his voice trails off, transforming into a winding smile, even as he winds the stairs along with you. Yes, this is how I want to spend my evening...
"Certainment," Fabrice responds, navigating the curved stairs expertly. The drinks barely move in their containments. "Fig from England, fruit cookies. There is brandy-soaked pudding as well," he explains, the dim light casting flickering glows on the crystal.
"I believe there is late mutton available, and pochettes of hen with wild mushroom in cream for the top. Teas and coffees at your leisure." There. Specialties done. "But of course, they will make whatever you like, Sir," he clarifies, coming to a halt on the next landing. "Here, Sir," he motions, shifting tray to one hand while he opens door with the other.
"Tours is nice," Fabrice tacks on, once done with the important parts. "I hope to go home for Yule festivities." Spoken like a true Hugenot.
"France for Christmas," and suddenly I remember... Mon Dieu, it is approaching! What will I do for Edward, "... I think I shall try to do the same," the voice, the smile that comes with it is bright. "You still have family there, in your Nice?" Someone special, perhaps.
Not that I'm asking for myself, mind you...
And he is by you, and then moving past you, his hand sliding against the doorway, opening it farther... stepping within...
And what sort of voices shall I hear in here? Shall I hear laughter...
The ringing of my phone...?
"I think... oui... the brandy-pudding... and that shall do it for me. It is already so late..."
For some. For me, it is only midday...
"Mater, Pere," Fabrice explains, escorting you down a quiet hall, clearly apartments. "Family. We are from there. Thank you," he murmurs for the door.
"This is called the Lady's floor," Fabrice says, "...so do not be surprised when someone refers to it, Sir, that way." A tossed in wave at keeping station.
"You have sitting room and bedroom, a full bath and dressing room ensuite. If you need anything, there is a button near each nightstand, or you can call. I will serve as your valet during your stay."
And Fabrice comes to a halt near a set of doors that are already half-opened. Someone within recently, and a light is on, spilling a gentle glow.
"I will see to your pudding, Sir," he adds, nodding at the door, "...please..." a request for you to enter.
They see to everything...
To the smallest details...
It is not chance, no... for I know them better than that, though I do not profess to know them well. But I know it is not chance that they have arranged one of my own country to attend me here...
And I smile...
What was thought to be a bedchamber, is instead a hall leading to several chambers. Several doors. It is a labyrinth, and he is Theseus afterall...
Valan moves ahead, hand parting the doors that were already ajar and his satchel comes off his shoulders, preparing to be set aside. "Merci, Fabrice," and the smile is wide and warm again, "it will be a pleasure to have someone from France," comes the lilt of the Loire from him. "My English is not so natural, not so easy for me. It does not come on its own," he laughs quietly, "I have to drag it..."
He turns to you again as you speak about getting the pudding, already half in motion toward the drinks you have carried for him. A moment away from getting the brandy that rests there on that tray.
Posted by rowan at May 06, 2003 09:08 PM
