Before She Wakes: Forbidden Fairy Tales Read Online Free Page B

mile, and then again we break out of the trees.
    In the clearing, cozied around a picturesque lake, is a charming village from some previous epoch.
    “Le Hameau de la Reine,” says Master. “The private retreat of Marie Antoinette.”
    “The French queen? The one who—”
    Master shakes his head. “We don’t speak of it. Madame was maligned and misunderstood. Here, no one would dare threaten her.”
    I study the simple structures. “I thought she was a party girl. This looks like a farm.”
    “And so it is. Madame had Le Hameau built as a refuge from the constant pressures of court. A place where she could be herself, and see only the people she wished to see.”
    “Are we going to meet her?” I can’t help feeling curious about the woman he’s describing.
    “Yes. Madame is your second task. You must do something that surprises her.”
    My eyes move over his body, and again I consider refusing, just to feel his hands on me. But the way he caught me in the forest…the unexpected attentiveness, almost
tenderness
…it makes me want to please him.
    He steps around behind me and releases my wrists, and again he removes my leash. He gestures me forward, but this time as I walk toward my trial, he follows.
    “What do you mean ‘surprise her’?” I ask. Then add “Master” hastily.
    “That’s for you to discover.”
    He describes the various points of interest as we approach. A mill, a dairy, a house for the queen, a cottage that serves as a boudoir, and a farmhouse and barn. It’s a working farm, with laborers hired from the peasantry to give it an authentic feel. Madame herself milks cows in the dairy, along with her ladies. The grounds are beautiful in their half-cultivated, half-wild state—vegetable gardens, wildflowers, citrus trees, and the small lake around which it all is situated.
    We approach the cottage, where she is most likely to be found—the boudoir, or sitting room. A woman descends the stairs, running her hands over the tops of lavender stalks as her enormous white dress swishes from side to side. The illustrations I’ve seen of the queen all show her with hair arrangements double the size of her head, but today it’s pinned up simply, platinum curls falling softly around her face and neck.
    She smiles as she reaches us, holding out her hand to Master. He raises it to his lips and she purrs, “Bonjour, Leander.”
    So my sponsor has a name. I study his face as he returns her smile.
    The queen turns to me, eyes sliding over my body. “And who is this
petit bonbon
?”
    “A nymphet, Highness. I thought she might amuse you.”
    Lovely pink lips turn up at the corners. “
Merci,
Leander. You are too kind to us.” She reaches for me. “Come inside,
mon chaton
. You’ll take a chill.”
    The temperature is perfect. Idyllic. But I allow her to lead me inside.
    We climb the stairs to the cottage, leaving Leander behind, and the contrast indoors is striking. Instead of continuing the simple charm of the exterior, the interior offers all the luxuries a queen would require. Rich fabrics drape the furniture, windows, and walls. Everything is soft and plush. A low table bears a tray piled high with vibrantly colored confections too beautiful to sacrifice to an action so animalistic and crude as chewing.
    “I think we’re close to the same size, are we not,
mon chaton
?”
    I refrain from pointing out the size of her bust is at least twice the size of mine—though perhaps that has more to do with the machinery of her dress than her anatomy.
    She draws a curtain aside and studies a row of gowns, touching a pink one, now a mint one, and finally pulling a light blue one from its hanger and gesturing for me to join her.
    It takes a full ten minutes—during which time another lady joins us—and six hands to fit the dress into place and see to all its fastenings. I eye myself in the mirror they hold before me, and find that I am festooned like a wedding cake in a gown that perfectly fits me, even