The Moon and the Sun

Yves continued his exploration of the heart and the lungs. At the top of the chest, beneath the upper ribs, the highest lobe of the lung resisted his probe. He exclaimed wordlessly and pulled the lobe farther into view.

“This is unique.”

Marie-Josèphe glanced from the gutted sea monster to her brother, to Innocent, to His Majesty. All of them stared at the unusual lobe of the lung. The color differed, and the texture. A tangle of blood vessels covered its surface.

Only Count Lucien paid no attention to the carcass. He paid his attention to the King, gazing at his sovereign with hope, and relief, and love.

Yves lifted the unusual structure and cut it free of the normal lung.

“You have found it,” Louis said. “What else could it be?”

* * *

Marie-Josèphe hurried up the Green Carpet after Yves, holding her drawing box tight against her chest, protecting the record of her brother’s discoveries. Yves strode along before her. Far ahead, His Majesty’s deaf-mutes pushed his rolling cart at a run, and Pope Innocent’s chair carriers struggled to keep up. Count Lucien’s elegant grey Arabian trotted beside them. Early mist swirled at their heels. Yves might keep up with them, but Marie-Josèphe never could. She broke into a run, glad she was not wearing court dress. Ten paces ahead, Yves paused and waited impatiently. Torches gilded the chateau, cast shadows across the gardens, and haloedYves’ hair.

“Hurry, or we’ll get no sleep at all—you do want me to attend His Majesty’s awakening?” He smiled, teasing her.

She looked at the ground, embarrassed all over again for failing him yesterday.

They climbed the back stairs to the attic and their tiny apartment. As they ascended, a young courtier muffled in cloak and half-mask passed, creeping quietly down. He ignored their salute, as if the mask made him invisible.

Yawning and stretching, Yves disappeared into his bedroom to nap for a few hours.

Odelette and Hercules slept soundly in Marie-Josèphe’s bed, cuddled together, warm and safe. Marie-Josèphe put aside the temptation to join them in their comfortable nest.

If I fall asleep now, she thought, I shall never wake in time to rouse Yves. Besides, I’ve not done a moment’s work on the dissection sketches.

In Yves’ dressing room, she lit tallow candles and settled herself at the table to begin the painstaking task of redrawing the sketches with pen and ink. As she arranged the papers, she found the equation she had scribbled and scratched out. Her thoughts wandered to the problems that fascinated her, the description of God’s creations—God’s will, perhaps—in precise terms. She wrote a second equation for predicting the motion of rustling leaves; she saw that it would not work, either, even when she added the effect of gravity.

This is as difficult a problem as predicting the actions of my dear leaf-rustler Madame! Marie-Josèphe though, amused.

She rubbed out the equation, and turned her attention to Yves’ drawings.

At six o’clock, Marie-Josèphe put several finished drawings away and slipped into her room to change clothes; she and Odelette must attend Lotte; they must all help Madame dress; they must gather in the antechamber outside His Majesty’s bedroom and join the procession to Mass.

I mustn’t fail my duties to Mademoiselle, Marie-Josèphe thought. Not two days in a row. I must attend Mass—

She had promised to attend last night; she had forgotten.

Odelette’s soft breathing was the only sound. Hercules slipped in through the open window, leaving the curtain a handsbreadth open; he stretched and yowled, demanding breakfast. Gray morning light from the west-facing window woke Odelette. She blinked, her long lashes brushing her cheeks, beautiful even a moment out of sleep.

“Have you sat up all night, Mlle Marie?” Odelette whispered. “Come to bed, you can rest a little while.”

“It’s time to get up,” Marie-Josèphe said. “Help me change my dress—and you must do my hair. Mademoiselle wants you this morning.”

Sitting up, Odelette cried out. She drew her hand from beneath the covers. Blood smeared her fingertips.

“Quick, Mlle Marie, before I stain the bedclothes—”

Marie-Josèphe flung open her storage chest, snatched up a handful of soft clean rags, and took them to Odelette.

Odelette thrust the pad between her legs to soak up her monthly flow, then curled miserably beneath the blankets. She always suffered terribly from her monthlies.

“I’m so sorry, Mlle Marie—”

“You must stay in bed,” Marie-Josèphe said. She put Hercules beside Odelette and stroked his soft fur, the tabby stripes of two textures, till he gave up asking for his breakfast and snuggled warm against Odelette’s sore back. “In bed, with our bed-warmer.” Odelette smiled, though her lips trembled. “And I’ll send you some broth. You must drink it, but share a little with Hercules.”

“Mlle Marie, you must wear a towel today.”