Beauty’s Kingdom (Sleeping Beauty #4)(51)
Author: Anne Rice

“I understand,” Tristan hastened to say again.

“Lord Stefan?” Beauty looked at him expectantly.

“Yes, my queen,” Lord Stefan said. His voice was low. He swallowed. “I am your grateful servant.”

“Be certain you do understand.”

“Yes, my queen.” His voice was barely audible. But she would settle for it. “My queen, I’ve had years to think on this, years to suffer over it, years to dream of a moment such as this.”

Beauty nodded. She smiled.

“You may go, my lords,” she said. “On the third night, at dusk, Prince, have your slave ready for us. The Lord Chamberlain will appear with us bearing the sacred oils for the anointing.”

They were on their feet, both of them, bowing to Beauty.

“And what of this grave Egyptian cat here?” asked Beauty pointing to Becca.

“I shall give her over to Lord Gregory, my queen,” said Stefan without so much as a glance at Becca. No affection there obviously. “Unless Your Majesty wishes me to do something else to make future arrangements for her. She’s served faithfully and well for two years.” He clearly didn’t want to say more or reveal more and he was not going to look at Becca.

“I shall see to her then. Leave me.”

Beauty turned again towards the window. She loved the play of the sun on the furnishings of the room—on the ornate silver vessels on the sideboard, on the mirrors in their gilded frames, on the polished wood of the bed, the chairs, the table.

Slowly her eyes fixed on Becca, who at once glanced down, though it was plainly obvious she’d been studying Beauty.

How cool and unruffled she appeared, her breasts heaving just a little.

Then slowly Becca looked up, and unbidden spoke in a deep cold voice, her eyes burning as she stared at Beauty.

“And now shall I be your harsh and secret mistress as well!” She sneered.

Beauty was silently stunned. She marveled. But she held the girl’s gaze effortlessly.

“Don’t be a fool, my girl,” said Beauty calmly.

At once Becca looked down and the fingers of her right hand began to tremble.

So that is all it takes, thought Beauty, just that little show of strength and dominance and she is undone, is she?

“I know your game,” said Beauty in the same calm voice. “I know what your service to Lord Stefan has been like. You were given a chance when we took the twin crowns to declare whether you chose to remain. And choose to remain you did. But you were your master’s secret mistress then, his secret tormentor. And obviously for all the latitude allowed you by your lord, you didn’t teach him to love you or to need you.”

The girl made not a sound, but her face changed completely. Her eyes grew bright and then narrowed and her lips moved and then she bit her lower lip but nothing else about her changed.

“Yes, my queen,” she whispered. It was a low fearful whisper. A terrible sadness came over her face as she stared at the floor, or perhaps at Beauty’s slippers.

“Well, now that the unique conditions of your life have changed,” said Beauty, “I give you another chance to leave the kingdom. Is that what you want? I’ll see that you’re dressed, paid out, and gone before dusk. Or would you have another night or so to contemplate your decision?”

Silence. The sun was moving high in the sky and the entire chamber was filled now with light. The mirrors were sheets of reflected gold. And a great starburst of light emanated from one of the jeweled goblets set out on the sideboard.

“No, my queen,” said Becca. “I need no further time to decide. Forgive me.”

“You’re in my hands as you were before?” asked Beauty. She drew her eyes away from the sparkling goblet and looked at the girl.

“Yes, my queen, inalterably, forever.”

“Ah, now that is a tone I like,” said Beauty. She made it a point to be polite. She took no exultation in the girl’s miscalculation. “Ring the bell there for my attendant.”

The girl obeyed, quickly pulling the long embroidered sash that hung beside the bed, and then she returned to her former position. There was a bloom to her cheeks. And a small blue vein throbbed in her temple. Her hands were definitely trembling.

“My queen,” she whispered, her head bowed, her dark smoky eyebrows drawn together in obvious distress. “May I speak?”

“Yes, you may, but be wise when you do,” said Beauty.

“I am so sorry that I have offended you.”

Well, I know precisely why you did and what you thought, Beauty mused to herself. But she said nothing.

“I beg to be restored to your good graces.”

The young attendant Tereus appeared, who had become Beauty’s favorite of late, the boy who knew just how to make all things pleasant for her, and how to fulfill her wishes. A freckled boy with tousled strawberry-blond hair, he did not possess great beauty, but was profoundly appealing with his sweet smile, ruddy cheeks, and his natural tendency to protect and support the Queen in all matters great and small. And others did speak of him all the time as “delectable.”

“Tereus, send a messenger to the village and to Prince Dmitri. Ask the Prince to come to my chambers here. Tell him when he arrives that he is to take this girl under his authority.”

She wondered if the girl understood the implications of this summons.

Only two nights ago, she’d seen Prince Dmitri, resplendent in his glistening tunic of Baudekyn, attending to his duties as the minister of the Place of Public Punishment. She’d seen his fierce scowling face and swift gestures as he spanked a quivering slave boy furiously towards the Public Turntable. She’d heard his strict and menacing voice as he’d pulled the boy up to look into his flinching eyes. “Play games with me? I’ll see that every ounce of rebellion is purged from you!”

The Captain of the Guard, on the sidelines, had been the picture of admiration. “He’s a terror,” he confided to Beauty. “He’s perfect. He descends on them like a windstorm!”

“Yes,” Laurent had said as he stood idly by with Alexi and Lady Eva. “A windstorm of blows and carefully chosen words. And words do mean so very much in the proper training of slaves.”

“Everyone, from the whipping masters to the lowliest grooms,” Alexi had said, “to the humblest villager and the greatest lord, is in his thrall. He’s made of mundane punishments a nightly pageant.”

Becca, though her hands trembled and her eyes were glazed, gave no indication that she knew what awaited her. But then, thought Beauty, she is very clever, clever enough to know I share Lord Stefan’s inclinations. She knows. And therefore likely she had heard and seen much. And perhaps she is resigned to it.

“I’m giving you to Prince Dmitri,” Beauty said. “And only when he tells me that you are chastened and tuned to a new song, will I summon you back to Court.”

“Yes, my queen,” the girl whispered. She started to say something else but stopped.

“Pray, continue,” Beauty said. “Say what you will while you have the chance with me.”

“My fault is one of bitterness,” the girl said. Her voice was thick now, quite a change from her iron tone earlier. “I am guilty of resenting my former master.” This was a shocking admission yet it came easily to her as if some faith in the truth of her words guided her. Her forehead was creased with an anguished frown.

“I know,” said Beauty. “I understand quite completely. And that’s why I gave you an opportunity to reaffirm your decision for the kingdom. Trust in me that the kingdom will not fail you.”

Tears. The girl could hold them back no longer. But this reply had taken her aback. She was unsettled.

“Come here to me, Becca,” said Beauty.

Becca approached on her hands and knees and Beauty received her with tender gestures, pressing the girl’s face gently into her lap. She stroked the girl’s thick fair hair—so like her own—and her flawless naked back. “Come,” she said softly. “Kiss me.”

At once Becca obeyed, rising up on her knees and offering her mouth to Beauty. Her kiss was firm, not yielding, an unhurried offering of intense fervor. And Becca’s long hair mingled with Beauty’s hair.

“Such a reservoir of devotion to be drunk from this precious cup,” said Beauty. She smoothed Becca’s hair back from her forehead, and the girl’s eyes fixed on her, as if deliberately inviting reprimand.

“Yes,” the girl whispered. “Oh, yes, my beloved queen, and he never wanted it! Never asked for it, never—” She stopped, ashamed, and broke into silent sobs. She closed her eyes and waited, it seemed, for what might come.

Such anguish.

“I know, my darling. I understand.”

There was an air to Becca of utter silent submission—submission to the moment, submission to Beauty, submission to the kingdom, but, more significant, submission to her own nature, her own soul.

Gradually, she opened her eyes. A deeply probing expression came over Becca, and she searched Beauty’s face.

“If only I might take my time myself with you,” said Beauty. “But there are others now waiting on me, more decisions to be made, audiences to be given. Don’t take lightly your time in Prince Dmitri’s hands. Don’t be so foolish as to waste what he offers you. I deliver you to him with love of you, my dear, as certainly as I have delivered your master to Prince Tristan. You understand?”