The Moon and the Sun by Vonda N. McIntyre Page A

cry,
    Mlle
    Marie,”
    Odelette
    whisper
    ed. She
    brushed
    the tears
    from
    Marie-Jo
    sèphe’s
    cheeks.
    “Our
    fortunes
    have
    changed
    .”
    Can
    you
    hear the
    singing?
    Marie-Jo
    sèphe
    asked.
    Did
    I ask the
    question
    ?
    Marie-Jo
    sèphe
    wonder
    ed. Or
    did I
    only
    dream
    it? Do I
    hear the
    sea
    monster’
    s song,
    or do I
    dream
    it, too?

    oOo

    A
    dreadful
    racket of
    trampin
    g boots,
    rattling
    swords,
    and
    loud
    voices
    woke
    Marie-Jo
    sèphe.
    She
    tried to
    make it
    a dream
    — but
    she had
    been
    having a
    different
    dream.
    Hercule
    s stared
    toward
    the
    door,
    his eyes
    reflectin
    g the
    faint
    light, his
    tail
    twitchin
    g
    angrily.
    “Ml
    le
    Marie?”
    Odelette
    sat up,
    wide
    awake.
    “Go
    back to
    sleep,
    I’m sure
    it’s
    nothing.
    ”
    Od
    elette
    burrowe
    d under
    the
    covers,
    peeking
    out
    curiousl
    y.
    “Fat
    her de la
    Croix!”
    So
    meone
    pounde
    d on the
    door of
    Yves’
    room.
    Marie-Jo
    sèphe
    flung off
    the
    bedcloth
    es and
    snatche
    d
    Lorraine
    ’s cloak
    from the
    dress
    stand.
    She
    opened
    the door
    to the
    corridor.

    “Be
    quiet!
    You’ll
    wake
    my
    brother!
    ”
    Tw
    o of the
    King’s
    Muskete
    ers
    filled
    the low,
    narrow
    hallway,
    the
    plumes
    of their
    hats
    brushin
    g the
    ceiling,
    their
    swords
    banging
    the
    woodw
    ork
    when
    they
    turned.
    Mud
    from
    their
    boots
    clumpe
    d on the
    carpet.
    The
    smoke
    of their
    torch
    smudge
    d the
    ceiling.
    Burning
    pitch
    overcam
    e the
    odors of
    urine,
    sweat,
    and
    mildew.

    “W
    e must
    wake
    him,
    madem
    oiselle.”
    The
    shorter
    of the
    two was
    still a
    head
    taller
    than
    Marie-Jo
    sèphe.
    “The sea
    monster
    — the
    tent is
    full of
    demons!
    ”
    Indoors,
    and in a
    lady’s
    presenc
    e, the
    muskete
    er
    corporal
    snatche
    d off his
    hat.
    Yve
    s’ door
    opened.
    He
    peered
    out
    sleepily,
    his dark
    hair
    tousled
    and his
    cassock
    buttone
    d

partway
and
    crooked.

    “De
    mons?
    Nonsens
    e.”
    “W
    e heard
    it —
    leathery
    wings
    flapping
    —”
    “W
    e
    smelled
    brimsto
    ne!”
    said the
    taller
    muskete
    er.
    “W
    ho’s
    guardin
    g the sea
    monster
    ?”
    The
    y
    looked
    at each
    other.
    Yve
    s made
    a sound
    of
    disgust,
    slamme
    d his
    door
    behind
    him,
    and
    strode
    down
    the
    hallway
    with the
    muskete
    ers in
    his
    wake.
    “Ml
    le Marie
    —”
    Marie-Jo
    sèphe
    waved
    Odelette
    to
    silence.
    She
    hung
    back so
    Yves
    would
    not
    order
    her to
    stay
    behind.
    When
    the men
    disappe
    ared,
    she
    followe
    d.
    She
    hurried
    down
    the back
    stairs
    and
    through
    the
    mysteri
    ous and
    deserted
    and
    dark
    chateau.
    Gentlem
    en of
    His
    Majesty’
    s
    househo
    ld had
    already
    claimed
    the

partially
burned
    candles,
    a
    perquisi
    te of
    their
    office.
    Her
    hands
    outstretc
    hed, she
    made
    her way
    through
    Louis
    XIII’s
    small
    hunting
    lodge,
    the heart
    of Louis
    XIV’s
    magnific
    ent,
    sprawli
    ng
    chateau.

    Hu
    gging
    Lorraine
    ’s cloak
    around
    her, she
    hurried
    onto the
    terrace.
    The
    moon
    had set
    but the
    stars
    shed a
    little
    light.
    The
    luminari
    as
    marking
    the
    King’s
    pathway
    had
    burned
    to
    nothing.
    The
    fountain
    s lay
    quiet.
    Marie-Jo
    sèphe
    ran
    across
    the cold
    dew-da
    mp
    flagston
    es, past
    the
    Orname
    ntal
    Pools,
    and
    down
    the
    stairs
    above
    the
    Fountai
    n of
    Latona.
    Beyond,
    on the
    Green
    Carpet,
    the
    muskete
    ers’
    torch
    spread a
    pool of
    smoky
    light.
    Mot
    ion and
    a
    strange
    shape in
    the
    corner
    of her
    eye
    startled
    her. She
    stopped
    short,
    catching
    her
    breath.
    The
    white
    blossom
    s of an
    orange
    tree
    tremble
    d and
    glowed
    in the
    darknes
    s.
    Gardene
    rs,
    draggin
    g the
    orange-t
    ree cart,
    slipped
    from the
    traces to
    bow to
    Marie-Jo
    sèphe.
    She
    acknowl
    edged
    the
    gardene
    rs,
    thinking
    , of
    course
    they
    must
    work at
    night;
    His
    Majesty
    should
    see his
    gardens
    only in a
    state of
    perfecti
    on.
    The
    y took
    up the
    cart
    again;
    its
    wheels
    crunche
    d on