Goddess Read Online Free

through the Spanish hills in search of adventure.
    The performers arrive that evening. Their carriages pull right up to the door and the child waits and watches closely as the groups of girls, boys and old men climb down, stretch, glance around the forecourt, and sweep upstairs to their chambers. One man, a pudgy mountain of a fellow with thin ankles, screams at the footmen, the drivers, the bumpy road, the blinding rain.
    Julie watches as he strikes a porter around the head. ‘My wig is ruined!’
    ‘Forgive me, sieur.’
    ‘Let me past, you oaf.’
    D’Aubigny appears, offers an arm. ‘Here. Let me help you.’
    ‘Get your hands off me.’ The stranger shoves him away.
    Julie watches closely—if Papa has had a few ales, this could get interesting.
    But no. He bows. ‘Welcome to the Grande Écurie, sieur.’
    ‘My God,’ says the mountain. ‘I thought we were performing at the palace, not in a stable.’
    ‘A stable was good enough for our Lord.’
    ‘He didn’t have to sing.’
    The rain keeps splattering—the horses, the cobblestones, the fat man’s silk stockings.
    Julie tugs at the sleeve of a ballet dancer. ‘Who is he?’
    ‘Nasty piece of work,’ the dancer whispers. ‘You stay out of his way, dearie.’
    ‘Is he a singer?’
    ‘Aye, God help us. An haute-contre .’
    ‘A what?’
    ‘It’s a high tenor voice—almost like a woman’s.’ The dancer bends down so his face is level with hers. ‘His name’s Duménil. You won’t forget what I told you? Stay away from him.’
    ‘I won’t forget.’
    She never does.
    One carriage arrives after all the rest, just on supper time. It carries a woman, alone. Comte d’Armagnac rushes out to welcome her, to offer his hand. She walks past Julie, past the musicians and the dancers, smiling graciously. Julie stares after her. They all do.
    ‘Who is she?’ she asks.
    ‘She is our star in Heaven, that’s who,’ says a man with a drum slung on each hip. ‘Le Rochois. Our Marthe. Blessed be thy name.’
    ‘Never heard of her.’
    ‘You’re too young,’ he says, though he doesn’t look more than fifteen himself. ‘If you knew anything at all about music, you’d worship her like the rest of us.’
    ‘Truly? She sings?’
    ‘She doesn’t just sing. She consorts with the angels.’
    ‘Now you’re exaggerating.’ But Julie’s eyes dart to the door through which Le Rochois has vanished.
    ‘Perhaps a little. But you’ll see. Or at least you’ll hear. If you’re lucky.’
    That night, Julie tucks her skinny body in between the orange trees, where the King and d’Armagnac and—most fearsome of all—her father will never see her. The King and his brother Monsieur arrive, surrounded as always by women and feathers and tiny dogs, trailed by courtiers and architects and distant cousins. Julie barely notices. She’s seen the mistresses and the sycophants and the royal brothers many times before. Instead, she watches the show.
    Afterwards she wonders if she really did hold her breath for the entire three hours, but doesn’t recall breathing at all and her lungs hurt like blazes so maybe it’s true. But who could possibly breathe in the presence of such glory, such beauty, such fire and misery and power?
    Power. She feels it swirling through her veins like quicksilver.
    The machinery, the trees, the thunderbolts and silks and feathers and King don’t matter. She sees none of it. Only the faces, the tongues of the singers—the spit in the corners of their lips, the teeth at the back of their mouths when they reach for a long note—their eyes flashing at the audience, their feet striking the newly shaved pine, their painted faces white in the torchlight. They are all that matter. They are everything. Music is, theatre is, Le Rochois is—everything.
    Majesty is on stage, not on the throne.
    She sees that now—the truth.
    She knows. Decides. She will possess that power. She will make others feel this wonder, glimpse this Heaven. One day.

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