Chapter Eleven: The Girl from Brambleford

Previously: La Vicomtesse Sanglante

 

"Godwin, send my regrets to Miss Adela Stoneleigh," Mireille instructed after dinner. "My cousin and I are bound for Valemont on family business. My journey to Wintervale will have to be delayed."

 

"Warm wine before bed?" Edith offered. When both Godwin and Mireille shot her a look, she hastily added, "For you, my lady, not me."

 

"None for me," Mireille declined, shaking her head. "But Thibault may like some, along with a hot bath. He smells of the road."

 

Edith nodded. "Yes, my lady."

 

Mireille turned back to her seneschal. "My cousin will remain here when I'm in Wintervale. I will be granting him access to one of my accounts, but keep an eye on him."

 

"Gladly," Godwin assured her. He looked at her, concerned. "Is everything all right, my lady? You've seemed unsettled since his arrival. Shall I have Sir Adrian send him away?"

 

Mireille shook her head again, hands on hips. "When I left Valeronne, I never expected to see him again. And now he's here, and the family matters I thought died with my father have risen from the grave."

 

Godwin smiled understandingly. "Family can be a gift and a curse, my lady. Perhaps the journey to Valemont will bring the two of you closer."

 

She shrugged, yawning. "Perhaps. Good night, Godwin."

 

"Sleep well, my lady."

 

Mireille climbed the stairs back to her cold, empty chamber. Alone, she shed her gown and jewels, readying herself for a bed she wasn't actually going to use. Just when she was about to save and exit the game, she summoned a screen to check on her cousin. And right away, she wished she hadn't.

 

Thibault was already in bed with Edith, of course. He was holding a goblet of wine, and they were both laughing.

 

As Mireille closed the screen and repeatedly blinked to cleanse the image from her mind, all she could think was, At least he's the only one drinking.

 

***

 

Mireille didn't fast-forward the long journey to Brambleford, at least not right away. She and Thibault took two carriages. She rode in one with Thibault, while Edith and her other maids rode in another. They were protected by the guards too old to be summoned for war, not that they were in any real danger. The Duchess of Valemont kept clean, safe roads, with numerous patrols and checkpoints. Her soldiers were ordered to hang bandits as soon as they were caught.

 

It was a beautiful day in late summer; they left early in the morning and traveled with few stops at inns along the way. They crossed the Whitewater, Willow, and Lark rivers. They stayed at the Old Ram, the Spotted Hound, and the Dancing Fox. They drank ale and listened to bards, and after doing that a few times, Mireille got bored and reached for her bracelet.

 

Because most characters didn't care about the Viscountess du Maurier, Thibault was not a character they usually interacted with. In the canon lore, he died young and in poverty after being cast out. There was little backstory on him. Despite that, for such a bland character, Thibault seemed deeply insightful. She wondered if his character was evolving right before her eyes.

 

And why not? she asked herself. I changed his fate, as I changed so many others. The King of Avenholt acknowledged cousins he was happy to ignore. And now, Adela, Alys, and Rowena are bound for the North. Prince Vladimir of Orsyna is about to marry a penniless nobody from nowhere. That's not their canon. No wonder the simulation is scrambling to adapt.

 

Or perhaps...Thibault is really just the computer in disguise, playing a prank on me.

 

The thought chilled her. His gaze was so eerie, his voice unnerving. And yet, Mireille was drawn to him. For a character based on so little, he knew so much. Despite being a complete stranger—and a hologram, no less—he understood her a little too well.

 

Because he is me, she told herself, watching him stare out the carriage window. He's just a bunch of recycled parts of me. His eyes are my eyes, his skin is my skin, his voice is my voice deepened and roughened. In dreams, a person is everyone. Is that truth the same for simulation chambers? Have I simply surrounded myself with holograms of my nature?

 

She shifted uncomfortably as her mind settled on the most perturbing thought of all.

 

Am I just... alone?

 

***

 

Brambleford was a small village on a cliff overlooking the Western Sea. Surrounded by vast fields of green, it had an apothecary, a stable, a tiny inn called the Drunken Friar, and a few other shops. At the northernmost edge of the village, the ancient stone Abbey of St. Osric loomed.

 

"What a place to grow up," Mireille murmured, straining to see out the window as their carriage pulled up. "There's barely anything out here."

 

"Perfect place to hide a bastard," Thibault admitted. "At the edge of the world, in the middle of nowhere."

 

They were greeted by an elderly nun, Sister Beatrice. Her white hair peeked out from under her veil as her robes dragged against the cobblestone.

 

"Welcome to St. Osric's, my lady," she greeted cheerfully. "The Abbey thanks you for your most generous contribution."

 

The "most generous contribution" in question was twenty crowns she transferred from one of the accounts Godwin didn't know about. It was nothing to her, but a small fortune to them. Mireille was willing to donate more, but Thibault advised against it, saying it would raise questions.

 

"And I thank St. Osric's for allowing me this visit," Mireille said, smiling.

 

"I trust your journey was not too strenuous, my lady?"

 

"Not at all. My servants are getting us settled at the inn. Is Mother Superior available?"

 

"The Mother is not available just now, but she did leave instructions," Beatrice assured her. "You're here to meet Miss Margaret, are you not?"

 

"Yes," Mireille said, resisting the urge to correct the nun's pronunciation.

 

Beatrice nodded. "I have sent for her. Please follow me."

 

The building was older than old, and crumbling in some places. But the floors were scrubbed clean, as were the windows, and Mireille spied several young girls going about their chores with brooms, buckets, and rags. Some older nuns were polishing the statues while younger nuns wiped down the chapel pews. They passed by a room full of nuns mending some old clothes. The nuns were singing a hymn Mireille did not recognize, and despite their humble surroundings, they seemed happy.

 

Beatrice led them to an inner green courtyard where some girls were standing and talking to one another.

 

"Margaret, you have guests," Beatrice called. A tall, plump girl with dark hair turned around and slowly walked over.

 

"Good God," Thibault muttered under his breath. Mireille shot him a look. She thought Marguerite was lovely, like a brown-haired version of Matilda, with pale skin and deep brown eyes.

 

"Margaret, this is the Viscountess du Maurier and her brother."

 

Again, Mireille did not correct her.

 

At the name "du Maurier", Marguerite's whole body stilled. She looked back and forth between the newcomers.

 

"Du Maurier?" she asked in a strong, low voice. "Vous êtes Valeronnais? (You are Valeronnese?)"

 

"Oui," Thibault said quickly. "Nous sommes Valeronnais...tout comme vous. (Yes. We are Valeronnese... same as you.)"

 

As a player who didn't speak Ancient French, Mireille had to stand dumbly by, reading subtitles that appeared before her eyes.

 

The tall girl's head rose and fell. Her shoulders relaxed. "Très bien (Very good)," she said confidently. She turned to Mireille and bowed. "My lady."

 

Finally, Mireille sighed. "It's good to meet you, Mademoiselle Marguerite. Did Mother Superior explain who I am?"

 

To their surprise, Marguerite still had quite a bit of her Valeronnese accent. "She told me that a noblewoman was looking for a new lady's maid. I am skilled in embroidery and household management, my lady. I can read and write in Avenish, Valeronnese, and Calderran, as well as calculate sums. And I have experience raising small children."

 

The du Maurier cousins exchanged looks. For a split second, it was like they were sharing the same thought.

 

She doesn't know who she really is.

 

"I am pleased to hear that," Mireille said, grinning tightly. "How quickly can you pack your things?"

 

***

 

"I spent years dreaming about what that girl looked like," Thibault grumbled, as their carriage rolled back to the inn.

 

"She is lovely," Mireille bit out. "Nothing a milk bath can't cure."

 

"She's so tall."

 

"She's beautiful," the Vicomtesse reiterated. "Did you see her poise, and hear how confidently she spoke? I like her. I look forward to being her sister-in-law."

 

Her cousin was surprised. "Even though she will outrank you someday?"

 

"She's worthy of being a Duchess," Mireille insisted. "You haven't met the ladies I have, Thibault. Most of them are useless. They dream of marrying lords and princes, but spend all their time gossiping over needlework or—for fuck's sake—hawking. They can't be bothered to study languages or how the world actually works."

 

Thibault cocked his head to the side. "Is this about that girl who's going to marry the Orsynian prince?"

 

It was Mireille's turn to grumble. "She doesn't even speak his language. She's a country girl, the youngest of eight children. She's soft and quiet and her favorite activity is embroidery."

 

Thibault snickered. "Some men like that in a woman."

 

"Those same men just handed her the duchy of Wintervale, one of the hardest places to live," Mireille snapped, losing patience.

 

"Good," her cousin replied. "Maybe it will toughen her up."

 

Or it'll break her, Mireille thought. Her guilt made her physically cringe. What have I done?

 

***

At the inn, Mireille ordered Edith to have Marguerite bathed in goat's milk, perfumed with lavender, and dressed in light blue Valeronnese silk. When she went to meet Marguerite later that evening, the once confident girl from Valeronne was now a startled girl from a convent.

 

"I thought I was to be your maid," Marguerite said haltingly, panic creeping into her eyes. She was sitting by the fire. The light of the flames caught the shimmer of her silk gown and brightness of her eyes. Her height seemed to fill the small room. And though she still needed a bit more work, she already had the appearance of a regal noblewoman.

 

Mireille smiled wearily, taking a seat opposite her. "Actually, my cousin is looking for a wife. As the head of our family, I must approve his marriage, and I couldn't have him bringing some useless girl into my family."

 

As always, she was surprised to hear herself speaking the truth. 

 

Marguerite blinked rapidly, as though struggling to process that information. "And you... did not want an Avenish girl?"

 

Mireille clutched her chest. "Heavens, no. I've had my fill of that sort. Besides, when the war ends, my cousin will be returning to our home in Auremer."

 

Marguerite nodded slowly, as though finally coming to terms. She shifted slightly, closing her knees. "Does he... does he even fancy me?" she asked, eyes downcast.

 

"Yes," Mireille said firmly, as though willing it into existence. "You are his dream, the key to everything he wants, and he will be happy by your side. You will have many healthy children together, and you will enjoy a long, peaceful marriage. "

 

She reached for her pause bracelet. "Computer, find a mod where Marguerite doesn't die in childbirth. If it doesn't exist, create one. I want her and my cousin to live happily—and quietly—ever after as the Duke and Duchess of Orvienne."

 

For once the computer didn't push back.

 

"Understood."