Evangeline Baudelaire

A candle, its light so fine - but Evangeline knew that here where the salons were bright, gilt reflecting off the finery, where maidens giggled and men tipped their glasses with a raise of the brow, her interest waned. There was no thrill in it, she thought, her skirts rustling as she wandered from salon to salon, greeting this person and the next, exchanging pleasantries. Outside, Paris slept, and how Evangeline wished she could wander then. Into the wilds of the fields, the dark comfort of the forests, where there were trees that whispered, and skies where constellations twinkled in a dance that Paris' streets had never known.

A waltz was in the air, she saw Queen Marie spinning upon the floor, her skirt like flowing champagne, the diamonds in her ears twinkling. The queen wore modest gowns, compared to the ladies of the court, and though her appearance wasn't as striking as some, Evangeline thought she seemed serene in her simplicity, like the moon. Louis, Dauphin of France, danced too, his smile polite and measured. A studious man, Evangeline thought, he had a keen sense of wit, one that she appreciated whenever she spoke with him.

Evangeline retreated to the edge of the dance floor, a flute of wine held in her fingertips. The dancers took no notice of her, there were others to gossip about, the new ambassador from Spain and his pretty wife, the one with the cupid bow lips and the blue dress, that revealed a glimpse of her ankle. A chuckle sounded from beside her, and Evangeline glanced up. Chevalier Humbert tipped his hat in greeting, offered his hand for her to take. "May I have this dance, Mademoiselle Baudelaire?"

Something about him reminded Evangeline of a cat. It might have been his smile, with how it seemed to curve, or the manner with which he held himself, his head slightly tilted in polite interest. She curtsied, took his hand. "Oui, Monsieur, though I confess this dance isn't my strongest."

Evangeline had danced with him before, Humbert was graceful, his steps light. A man, Louis had told her, who fought in a great battle some years ago; won himself his rank as Chevalier. Evangeline never bothered to inquire on which.

"I must admit I'm surprised that you haven't been swept up yet by another gentleman." Chevalier Humbert took gentle hold of her waist, guided her as he spoke, a whir of skirts and the glimmer of light.

In 1740, on a clear, crisp morning Evangeline Baudelaire sat in Queen Marie's chambers, fingers sifting through embroidery threads as the woman herself looked out the window. A serene, almost forlorn air surrounded her as she did so. Evangeline imagined, had she been but a painter, that this was a moment worth capturing - Queen Marie, draped in satin, hair done up in a coif. Lively yet serious. For all her regality, the queen appeared distant today, like an abstract work, and Evangeline set down her threads. "Your Majesty? Are you quite well?"

"Quite, Evangeline," Marie turned, blinking as if realizing she wasn't alone. And then her smile returned, gentle. Tired. "I was merely thinking," she spoke, waving a hand, "of Paris, how it changes, from season to season. It makes one consider what'll come next. I suppose this weather puts everyone into pensive thoughts."

Paris had this strange, intangible hold. Evangeline remembered when she first saw it, how vast the city had been, how tall its structures; how the streets appeared like ribbons unfurling. Fires blazed, the stink of humanity everywhere as carriages rambled past. Evangeline supposed she'd found it tolerable at some point. There were parts she could grow accustomed to, like Queen Marie's gentle smiles and the sense of quiet dignity, Prince Louis' well-meaning politeness or Humbert's faint warmth. She supposed, that in this place, she had found company of sorts, even though that odd tingle in her chest which called in strange unfamiliar voices urged her elsewhere.

Perhaps, it was nostalgia for the southern parts of France. Perhaps not.

"Shall I fetch a maid for some tea, then? Or coffee, Votre Majesté? Something to ease your fatigue."

Queen Marie nodded. "Tea would be wonderful, Evangeline, with a spoon of honey. And biscuits, do not forget the biscuits."

"Yes, Your Majesty. I shall be quick." She gathered her skirts, curtsied, and made for the door. Evangeline knew the layout of Queen Marie's wing well, the grandiose hallway outside the queen's quarters, with its intricate architecture and candelabras. At times like these she thought she might've been more of a mouse scurrying among feet, unseen, unheard. Queen Marie had little reason to truly keep Evangeline by her side, there were plenty of maids and handmaids, courtiers in line waiting for the opportunity. Yet she did, and enjoyed her company.

She stepped down the marble staircase. The kitchens weren't far, a pair of guards acknowledged her with faint nods.

In many ways, Evangeline Baudelaire, royal attendant and harpsichord virtuoso of the French court, could be perceived as rather peculiar, strange even. She seldom left the royal grounds. And even then, it was mostly for visits to select theaters, salons or to accompany Queen Marie on the occasional stroll about town. There was a delicacy to her features, yes, which brought many suitors, a poise to her stance that made even the King turn his head in admiration. It was impossible not to notice her presence, though the fanciful gowns and ribbons she wore appeared more like a burden to her, than anything else. She would smile. Bow politely. And disappear back in her quarters, where, the rumors said, she practiced the harpsichord with inhumane precision, that bordered on frightening.

Her origins, naturally, were of interest: a family struck by tragedy. It was well-known that her father, her brother and mother had perished in a fire that took up their ancestral Baudelaire estate, and only Evangeline, the youngest, survived unscathed. Survived and came into the palace, quickly rising in esteem among the Queen's attendants, who all noted how Evangeline spoke little of her family, of that night. Perhaps, it was simply too painful, they'd all say.

Evangeline sat before the vanity in her quarters, fingers carding through long, black locks of her hair in silence. Her eyes glimpsed the reflection in the mirror, pale face, raven hair. On the table before her was a small saucer filled with nuts. Evangeline took one and popped it into her mouth. In all simplicity, the taste was better than anything she had at those lavish dinners hosted by the King and Queen. Her gaze drew across her chamber. The curtains remained drawn - the rays of the sun often gave her an ailment - and she enjoyed it far more this way. It was quiet. And Evangeline enjoyed the silence more than anything. The harpsichord... perhaps a practice would be good, yes.

Her skirts rustled as she rose, a faint scent of night-blooming jasmine and pine wafted from Evangeline, as she moved. Slowly she lifted the lid of her harpsichord, crafted of fine mahogany. She'd had this one for but a year, a gift from Queen Marie. Evangeline touched the keys, her fingers trailed over smooth ivory.

The dreams that visited her during the night were of the strangest kind. Evangeline rarely recalled them, as if something about her mind prevented her from doing so, but in fragments they'd remain. Of an autumn forest, with trees that stretched out toward the skies, a harvest, the circles of flowers on grass. Evangeline didn't know why, but she'd often awake in the middle of the night, with a yearning so deep in her heart that she could cry.

The dreams. They were something strange. Evangeline hadn't quite spoken of them to anyone, non, that would be unwise. As she began playing a soft, pleasant tune on harpsichord, she wondered whether others dreamt the same.