The Moon and the Sun by Vonda N. McIntyre

burst
    into
    tears of
    anger
    and
    relief.
    “She
    forbade
    me to
    see you
    —”
    “Sh
    h, Mlle
    Marie.
    Our
    fortunes
    have
    changed
    .”
    Odelette
    held a
    threadb
    are
    nightshi
    rt, plain
    thin
    muslin,
    not at all
    warm.
    “Into
    bed
    before
    you
    catch
    your
    death,
    and I
    have to
    send for
    a
    surgeon.
    ”
    Mar
    ie-Josèp
    he
    slipped
    into the
    nightshi
    rt. “I
    don’t
    need a
    surgeon.
    I don’t
    want a
    surgeon.
    I’m just
    cold. It’s
    a long
    walk
    from the
    Fountai
    n of
    Apollo
    when
    your
    dress is
    soaking
    wet.”
    Od
    elette
    unpinne
    d
    Marie-Jo
    sèphe’s
    red-gold
    hair,
    letting it
    fall in
    tangled
    curls
    around
    her
    shoulde
    rs.
    Marie-Jo
    sèphe
    swayed,
    too tired
    to keep
    her feet.
    “Co
    me,
    Mlle
    Marie,”
    Odelette
    said.
    “You’re
    shiverin
    g. Get in
    bed, and
    I’ll comb
    your
    hair
    while
    you go
    to
    sleep.”
    Mar
    ie-Josèp
    he
    crawled
    between
    the
    featherb
    eds, still
    shiverin
    g.
    “Co
    me,
    Hercule
    s.”
    The
    tabby
    cat
    blinked
    from the
    window
    seat. He
    yawned,
    rose,
    stretche
    d
    hugely,
    and dug
    his
    claws
    into the
    velvet
    cushion.
    One
    leap to
    the floor
    and one
    to the
    bed
    brought
    him to
    her side.
    He
    sniffed
    her
    fingers,
    walked
    on top
    of her,
    and
    kneaded
    her
    belly.
    The
    feathers
    softened
    his
    claws to
    a soft
    pressure
    and a
    faint
    sharp
    scratchi
    ng
    sound.
    He
    curled
    up,
    warm
    and
    heavy,
    and
    went
    back to
    sleep.
    “Pu
    t your
    arms
    beneath
    the
    covers,”
    Odelette
    said,
    trying to
    pull the
    covers
    higher.
    “No
    , it isn’t
    proper
    —”
    “No
    nsense,
    you’ll
    die of a
    cold in
    your
    chest.”
    Odelette
    tucked
    the
    covers
    around
    her chin.
    Odelette
    spread
    Marie-Jo
    sèphe’s
    hair
    across
    the
    pillows
    and
    combed
    out the
    tangles.
    “You
    mustn’t
    go out
    anymor
    e with
    your
    hair
    poorly
    dressed.
    ”
    “I
    wore a
    fontange
    s.”
    Marie-Jo
    sèphe
    yawned.
    “But the
    sea
    monster
    knocked
    it
    loose.”
    She lost
    track of
    what
    she was
    saying.
    “You
    should
    see the
    sea
    monster.
    You will
    see it!”
    I’m
    still too
    excited
    to go to
    sleep,
    Marie-Jo
    sèphe
    thought.
    Then, a
    moment
    later,
    Odelette
    laid her
    heavy
    braid
    across
    her
    shoulde
    r.
    Marie-Jo
    sèphe
    had
    already
    dozed,
    and had
    not felt
    Odelette
    finish
    her hair.
    Odelette
    blew
    out the
    candle.
    The
    smoke
    tinged
    the air
    with
    burned
    tallow.
    A
    shadow
    in the
    darknes
    s,
    Odelette
    moved
    toward
    the
    window
    .
    “Le
    ave it
    open,”
    Marie-Jo
    sèphe
    said,
    half
    asleep.
    “It’s
    so cold,
    Mlle
    Marie.”
    “W
    e must
    get used
    to it.”
    Od
    elette
    slipped
    into
    bed, a
    sweet
    warmth
    beside
    Marie-Jo
    sèphe.
    Marie-Jo
    sèphe
    hugged
    her.
    “I’
    m so
    glad to
    have
    you
    back
    with
    me.”
    “Yo
    u might
    have
    sold
    me,”
    Odelette
    whisper
    ed.
    “Ne
    ver!”
    Marie-Jo
    sèphe
    did not
    admit,
    to
    Odelette
    , how
    close
    she had
    come in
    the
    convent
    to
    repent
    of
    owning
    a slave.
    She did
    repent.
    The
    argume
    nts had
    convinc
    ed her
    and
    guilt
    now
    troubled
    her. She
    had
    underst
    ood in
    time
    that the
    argume
    nts were
    meant to
    persuad
    e her to
    sell
    Odelette
    , not to
    free her.
    The
    sisters
    thought
    Odelette
    ’s
    abilities
    too
    refined
    for the
    work in
    a
    convent,
    and
    would
    have
    preferre
    d the
    money
    her sale
    would
    have
    brought.

    I
    must
    free her,
    Marie-Jo
    sèphe
    thought.
    But if I
    free her
    now, I
    can only
    send her
    out into
    the
    world, a
    young
    woman
    alone
    and
    without
    resource
    s. Like
    me, but
    without
    the
    protecti
    on of
    good
    family
    or a
    brother,
    without
    the
    friendsh
    ip of the
    King.
    Her
    only
    resource
    is her
    beauty.
    “I’ll
    never
    sell
    you,”
    she said
    again.
    “You’ll
    be mine,
    or you’ll
    be free,
    but
    you’ll
    never
    belong
    to
    another.
    ”
    A
    phrase
    of
    music,
    exquisit
    ely
    complex
    , soared
    in and
    filled
    the air
    with
    sorrow.
    “Do
    n’t