Chapter Text
Part 1
“Ladies truly are the dolls of maids. All these buttons are for my amusement. If I undo the buttons and pull out the cords, then, the sweet things within, those sweet and soft things…” – The Handmaiden
Madeleine steps out of the car, clutching her travelling case with white knuckles. Her legs are stiff from the long drive, first through the hills of Auvergne, watching the sun slowly set, and then through the gate and up along the winding, forested driveway, trees growing denser and darker above the narrow road.
The Château de Lioncourt looms ahead of her, a huge, imposing mass of stone growing from the middle of the forest. Tall Gothic arches spiral up towards the twilit sky. The castle mirrors the mountains she can see in the distance, rising against the darkness.
Slowly, she climbs the tall set of stairs and steps under the ornate colonnade to approach the door. It’s huge and ancient, wood carved with howling wolves and hunters on horseback. After hesitating for only a moment, she raps on it.
It swings open to reveal a tall woman holding a flickering oil lamp, who has clearly been waiting for her. She eyes her coldly.
“Marguerite Thibault, the new lady’s maid,” Madeleine introduces herself in English, with a curtsy.
The woman looks her up and down, lips pursed. “I am Antoinette Brown, housekeeper,” she says finally. “Follow me.”
Without another word, she turns on her heel and disappears into the foyer. Madeleine follows, letting the heavy door swing closed behind her. The lights have already been turned off for the night, and the glow of Antoinette’s oil lamp casts long shadows that dance through the darkened hall, making the space seem impossibly vast.
Madeleine follows her around the foyer, catching glimpses of the room as the lamplight catches on a long, spiraling staircase and a glistening chandelier. Her shoes click on the marble floors, echoing in the huge chamber.
They reach a door leading to a narrow stair, a twisting, stone passageway meant for servants. On the second floor, Antoinette stops in front of a nondescript wooden door.
“This is where you will sleep.”
It’s tiny and austerely furnished, nothing but a small cot and a side table with a single candle. Madeleine steps inside and places her travelling case on the bed.
Antoinette follows her into the room, approaching a door on the opposite wall. “Your room adjoins the Lady de Lioncourt’s suite.” She opens it, moving slowly so as not to make a noise, and Madeleine peers over her shoulder.
It reveals an ornate dressing room, with delicate, mahogany furniture gathered around a ceramic wood-burning stove and tall windows that look out into the night. “That leads to her bedroom,” Antoinette whispers, pointing to a door, “and her toilet is to the left.”
Madeleine nods silently, heart in her throat, and steps back to let Antoinette close the door.
Antoinette eyes her again, chin raised haughtily. “She has not been able to keep a handmaiden since the death of Marquis de Lioncourt,” she says. “We will see how you do.”
“Oui, madame,” Madeleine says, looking down at her shoes.
Once Antoinette leaves the room, Madeleine returns to the door, opening it a crack to look again into the dressing room. Her head swims as she takes in the carved chaise and matching chairs, the brocade curtains and the Turkish rugs.
Soon, this will all be hers.
She strips off her clothes until she’s dressed in only her shift, and climbs under the covers of the cot, blowing out her candle.
Only days ago, she was in the Maison d’Enfants in Paris, sticking a gin-soaked finger between a crying baby’s gums.
Their little Maison is not just a home for orphans, but a training ground for pickpockets and petty thieves, of which Madeleine is one of the best. It functions as one leg of the operation smuggling stolen goods ran by Maître Armand de Romanus.
Santiago had swept into the room with panache. It wasn’t unusual for him to visit the Maison, although Celeste and Estelle came more often. This time, however, he pointed to Madeleine specifically. “Madeleine. I need you.”
“For what, Monsieur?” she asked, handing the baby off to one of the other girls.
Cloak swirling around him, he took a seat at the rickety kitchen table and crossed his long legs.
“You have not heard of the family de Lioncourt, I suppose? I thought not. The Marquis was once the founder of our noble organization. He kicked the bucket in a hunting accident about a year ago – very tragic, of course – leaving behind his daughter, now a wealthy heiress, and his, ah…” he gave a wicked smile, “…consort.”
“Consort?”
“Louis de Pointe du Lac. Maître is taking care of him. You and I are concerned with the heiress, Lady Claudia de Lioncourt. Du Lac is just her guardian; it’s Claudia’s fortune.”
Madeleine sat on a low wooden stool, mind whirling, as Santiago explained his plan. He would install Madeleine as the Lady’s handmaiden and himself as her vocal teacher. Together, they would convince Lady Claudia to marry Santiago and run away with him.
“And then, once we’re safely away from the Château, I will inter my lovely new bride in an asylum for hysteria, leaving us to enjoy the Lioncourt fortune.”
Madeleine agreed easily, thoughts filled with aristocratic gold. And now, less than a week later, she’s sequestered inside the Château de Lioncourt, ready to begin the most important heist of her life.
She’s torn from her thoughts by a sound from the neighboring room. It takes her a moment to realize it’s a woman crying out.
Before she can think twice, she’s on her feet and inside the dressing room, crossing the chamber and opening the door to the Lady’s bedroom.
In the huge, four-poster bed is a small, curled form, tossing and turning under the bedsheets. She lets out another cry. Madeleine moves towards the bed, placing a hand gently on her narrow shoulder.
“My lady? Lady Claudia, wake up.”
The body stiffens beneath Madeleine’s hands, and then Claudia opens her eyes. They’re deep and warm, round with the confusion of sleep.
“Who…?” Claudia whispers.
“Marguerite Thibault, my lady,” Madeleine says, matching her low whisper. “Your new handmaiden.”
Claudia stares at her for a moment, looking her up and down, and then moves to sit up. Madeleine pulls her hand away and takes a half step back to examine her new employer.
Claudia is dressed in nothing but a delicate shift, falling off her shoulder to reveal her collarbones, and a silk bonnet. She’s a slight figure, deceptively youthful for her age. She rubs the sleep out of her eyes with one small hand.
Santiago should have told her that she was so beautiful.
“Sorry for waking you,” Claudia says finally.
“It’s no trouble.”
“Margot – can I call you Margot? – will you stay with me until morning? I have awful nightmares…”
Madeleine blinks, shocked at her neediness. She sounds like a child from the Maison. “Of – of course, my lady.”
Claudia moves across the bed and pats one hand on the mattress next to her, gesturing for Madeleine to join her. Madeleine hesitates for a moment, and then sits lightly on the edge of the bed.
“Don’t be shy,” Claudia says.
Heart racing, Madeleine slips under the covers. The silk sheets are warm from the heat of Claudia’s body. She turns to face her, and finds Claudia staring at her, nose inches from Madeleine’s.
“Goodnight, Margot.”
“…Goodnight, my lady.”
Claudia shifts closer to her, close enough that their bare legs brush under the covers. She closes her eyes, and within minutes, she’s drifting off to sleep.
Madeleine had expected an entitled heiress, not this young woman imbued with strange, childlike innocence. She stares at her, trying to memorize her face. Her cheek is flushed, lips slightly parted to reveal a hint of white teeth and a whisper of warm breath that gives Madeleine goosebumps.
She is going to destroy this girl’s life.
Madeleine wakes in the morning to find Claudia already up, arranging her hair at her dressing table. She sits up in bed, hot with embarrassment.
“I’m sorry for sleeping in, my lady. Would you like help with that?”
“I do my own hair,” Claudia says coldly. Although she’s still dressed only in her shift, she seems more put together than the night before. The aura of naivete is gone, replaced by a wall raised between her and Madeleine. “Go get yourself dressed, and then you can help me with my toilette.”
“Oui, my lady.”
Madeleine goes to her tiny room and dresses herself quickly in her simple woolen gown. She takes a moment to take a deep breath and get into character. She is a humble handmaiden, nothing more.
She returns to Claudia’s chambers and finds her closet. It’s a huge room, lined with floor-to-ceiling mirrors and rows of gowns in every imaginable fabric and color. Madeleine turns around, taking it all in, and then steps closer to run the delicate silk and lace between her fingers. This will be hers.
“What are you doing in there?” Claudia calls from the other room.
Madeleine starts, surprised out of her thoughts. “Sorry, my lady!” She finds a gown of violet silk and pulls it off the rack, returning to the bedroom.
Claudia stands, stepping into the gown, and then turns her back to Madeleine so she can do up the long row of buttons. Carefully, Madeleine slips each silver button into its hole, closing the gown over the fabric of her shift. Claudia stands perfectly still, like a dressmaker’s dummy, clearly accustomed to having other people dress her.
“Where are you from, Margot?”
“Paris, my lady.”
“Do you have family there?”
“Non, I am an orphan,” Madeleine says truthfully. “I was raised in a Maison d’Enfants.”
“I’m an orphan too. I was adopted from America.” Claudia shifts slightly, and Madeleine’s fingers pause for a moment before returning to her buttons. “You probably know my father is dead.”
“…Oui, my lady.”
“Everyone’s heard of the tragedy of Lestat de Lioncourt,” Claudia says, an odd hint of bitterness in her voice. “I still have Louis, of course.”
Done with the buttons, Madeleine lowers her hands. “Monsieur de Pointe du Lac? He and your father, they were…?”
“They were lovers,” Claudia says simply, turning to face her. “Is that a problem?”
Madeleine almost laughs aloud, thinking of her own adolescent fumblings with girls at the Maison. Instead, she ducks her head demurely. “Of course not, my lady.”
“Good. I’m going to breakfast, please make up my bed.” Without another glance at Madeleine, Claudia sweeps out of the room, wafting floral perfume behind her.
Madeleine stares after her for a moment, shocked at the privileged presumptuousness of the heiress, so different from the girl of the night before. She does as she says, tucking in the soft silk sheets and spreading the brocade duvet across the huge bed. As she goes to leave the room, she pauses for a moment in front of Claudia’s vanity.
Sitting on the table is a delicate string of pearls.
Madeleine runs a finger over them, feeling each smooth stone. She can’t resist taking them out of their case and holding them up to her own neck. They’re cool against the skin of her breast.
Someday soon, she will stand perfectly still and allow a handmaiden to dress her. She tucks her hair behind her shoulders, watching her reflection in the mirror and imagining, for a moment, the Lady Madeleine.
After breakfast, Madeleine finds Claudia in a sitting room on the first floor, writing letters. It’s a small space, furnished only with the desk, a few chairs, and a lovely pianoforte. The walls are decorated with French paintings, and hanging above the desk is a large board of pinned butterflies, framed by tall windows that look out onto the rose garden.
“This room was my father’s study. It’s exactly as he left it,” Claudia says, without looking at Madeleine. “Sit. We’ll go for a walk once I’m finished here.”
Madeleine holds her tongue and obeys. She sits near her, folding her hands in her lap and looking out at the roses. After a moment, Claudia holds out a piece of paper. “Will you read this to me?”
Madeleine takes it, staring down at the letter. The ink swims before her eyes, an unintelligible scrawl. She swallows, heart in her throat. She can feel Claudia’s eyes on her.
“Well?” Claudia says.
“Uh,” Madeleine glances at her, and then back down at the letter, feeling near tears.
“You can’t read?”
Madeleine bites her lip, staring down at the letter miserably. “…No, my lady.”
“Not at all? Even French?” Claudia writes something on another piece of paper and hands it to her. “Can you read this?”
The ink forms a single, short line, completely unreadable. “No.”
“It’s your name,” Claudia says.
Madeleine sucks in a breath, trying to hold back her humiliation. Before she can respond, there’s a knock on the door.
“Come in!” Claudia calls out, and it opens to admit the housekeeper, Antoinette, looking visibly flustered.
“My lady,” she says with a curtsy. “Why has the menu changed for this evening?”
“Louis requested oysters for our guests.”
Antoinette bristles, heat rising high on her cheekbones. “Lestat – I mean, Marquis de Lioncourt would never eat seafood on a Thursday. My menu is exactly as he preferred it.”
“Louis wants oysters,” Claudia repeats slowly, “so we will have oysters. Please inform the cook. Understood?”
“Yes, my lady.” Lips pursed, Antoinette turns stiffly and leaves the room.
As soon as she’s gone, Claudia lets out a sigh, shoulders slumping. She runs a hand over her face. After a moment, she takes a deep breath and turns back to Madeleine.
“Come, let’s go for a walk.”
They start in the rose gardens, wandering narrow, shell-lined paths between the flowers. The bushes are monstrously huge, nearly overgrown, towering to Madeleine’s height and blocking her view of the rest of the grounds. She stares up at them, awed.
“These are…”
“We need a new gardener,” Claudia says, walking stiffly ahead of her. “The roses have been here since my grandmother’s time.”
“You want to get rid of them?”
Claudia glances back at her. “What I want is irrelevant. Lestat loved roses, so they will stay.” She quickens her pace, and Madeleine struggles to catch up with her.
“But you’re the Lady of the estate, surely you could…”
“You would think so, wouldn’t you, Margot?”
They reach a narrow iron gate which opens onto a wide lawn, leading down to the forest. As soon as they step out of the garden, the tense lines of Claudia’s shoulders visibly relax. She sets off briskly towards the edge of the lawn, and Madeleine follows her, almost at a jog.
Claudia finds a narrow trail between the trees, slipping into the cool, dark forest. Old-growth monsters loom over them, branches tangling together to let in bare hints of dappled sunlight. The understory is lush and blooming, growing high above the path and dampening the fabric of their skirts. Madeleine hurries after Claudia, leather shoes squelching in the mud.
As they travel deeper into the shadowy world, Claudia seems to loosen, whatever was holding her tightly together within the Château coming unwound. She points out berries and plants to Madeleine, her laughter mingling with the birdsong. As Madeleine watches, she kneels to examine a patch of mushrooms, uncaring about the mud soaking the silk of her skirt.
“They’re poisonous,” she says, sounding delighted by the fact.
“Oui?” Madeleine crouches to look for herself. They’re unassuming, small, round and brown, sprouting from the base of a tree.
“They don’t look it, but they’re deadly,” Claudia says, grinning at her.
Everything around them seems to be in bloom. They gather flowers, Claudia naming each one for Madeleine: yarrow, primroses, wood anemone, a huge patch of marigolds. Having never left Paris, the bright scents and sounds of Auvergne are dizzying, overwhelming her with the sense of pure life.
Claudia finds a patch of bluebells and picks a few. She turns to Madeleine suddenly and leans close, near enough that she can smell her perfume. Carefully, she reaches up to tuck the flowers into Madeleine’s hair, cool fingers brushing against her temple and making her shiver.
“They match your dress,” Claudia says with a smile, eyes warm. Madeleine stares at her, swallowing nervously, throat too dry to speak.
Before she can find words, Claudia is moving away, back down the path. Madeleine stands frozen for a moment, and then hurries to catch up with her, nearly slipping on the damp earth.
As they walk, they occasionally catch glimpses of the distant mountains. Eventually, the forest opens onto a cliff above an alpine lake, nestled in a valley between the peaks. A trail leads down to the water, which glimmers clear and blue, reflecting the bright sky.
Claudia stands on the edge of the cliff and closes her eyes. The wind whips through her hair and gown, and she spreads her arms wide. Madeleine watches her, flowers clutched to her chest.
Claudia turns to her. Her childish delight is gone, replaced by something hard and bright in the set of her jaw and the light in her eyes. “Let’s go.”
“Down to the lake?” Madeleine steps towards the path, but Claudia swoops forwards to stop her with a hand on her arm, making Madeleine freeze.
“No.” Claudia’s voice is cold. “I never go down there. This lake is where my father died.”
“Oh,” Madeleine says, at a loss for words.
Claudia clutches Madeleine’s arm tightly, looking again at the mountains. She takes a deep breath of the piney air, staring out over the lake, and then lets Madeleine go and sets off back towards the castle.