Chapter 37
I spent anhour each night waiting in the marriage chamber, hoping Nicolas would come along. Last night I’d spent two, and this morning I felt the repercussions of that extra bit of missed sleep. Drool caked my cheeks, and my hair was a nest that required two handmaidens and a bath to resolve.
“Your Majesty,” the youngest of my handmaidens said, curtsying deeply before producing a familiar pot of white paste. We’d come around to the vanity now, and as Winnie worked my hair into large ornamental braids, this maidservant searched for her chance to shine. “Shall I apply your makeup? It will be the last time some of the courtiers see you before the tour—”
“No.” I watched Winnie’s handiwork. “I don’t partake.”
The girl’s smile faltered. “But Your Majesty, all the noble ladies—”
“I saidno,” I said, sharpening my tone. “It makes my face itch.”
Florence perked up from her seat, lowering the book in her hand. “What exactly is in that paste?”
“Ceruse and vinegar, my lady,” another handmaiden answered.
“Might we have a moment alone, Your Majesty?” Florence asked. “Winnie may stay.”
I nodded. The handmaidens exchanged confused looks before departing. Florence waited until the heavy doors were firmly shut before she spoke again.
“That girl just tried to put white lead on your face,” she remarked.
Winnie stepped forward. “It’s perfectly normal to wear ceruse, Lady Florence. It’s been used for generations. Perhaps not in Pontarena or warmer areas, but here, it’s an indicator of status.”
“That doesn’t make it safe.” Florence stood and brushed her skirts. “Lead is poison. It may not be swift as hemlock, but it is harmful, nonetheless.”
I continued to gawk at the hand that had acted on its own. Ice settled in my veins. “Poison?”
“Indeed. It seeps through the skin, accumulates in the body. It can cause all manner of ailments.”
“N-no, yes, I have read about it,” I interrupted. Somewhere, I had. And if I’d put together that ceruse was only a variant of lead, I would never have worn it. “Gods, how many women…”
The thought trailed off. I recollected the symptoms of lead poisoning as described in some text I couldn’t remember the name of: in adults, it could bring about headaches, fatigue, irritability, nausea…memory loss, abdominal pain…
“Stillbirth,” I said quietly.
“What?” asked Winnie.
My mind raced. I thought of Adelaide, as painted as any fashionable woman, and all the children she’d lost. I thought of Lady Maeve, who’d buried a child only a year before I came to court, who had stopped trying for fear it might happen again. I thought of faces unseen, but ailments known, with all the telltale signs of chronic fatigue that no one could have possibly attributed to the truth.
“Winnie, bring me parchment and ink,” I said.
Winnie narrowed her eyes, but did as she was told, joining me at my writing desk.
Within the hour, I had written nearly a dozen letters. My hand cramped from the urgency of the task, but I had only today to see it through; after this, I’d be consumed with the wedding tour. I wrote to every noble lady I could think of, within and outside of Castle Altaigne, and when I could not think of a woman to match the location, I addressed it simply “to the Lady of” whichever duchy or keep I had in mind.
One letter received particular care, sealed with extra wax.
“Send these off,” I said. “It is a matter of urgency. Don’t leave it to a courier; employ the falcons for this task.”
Winnie bowed, taking the bundle and hurrying off. Florence watched her go, then leaned next to my desk.
“So, you’ve all been putting poison on your faces all this time?” she asked incredulously, as if the thought had only just caught up to her. “Nowonder Gallae is so miserable.”
“Some Hadrian nobles do it, too.” I massaged my hand, looking out the window. “I only hope it’s not too late.”
There was some considerable fanfare about the final supper to be taken at Castle Altaigne before the wedding tour. The jester was more boisterous than ever, and I finally found the humor in him. His presence was more tasteful, now that he wasn’t the follow-up act to an execution, and the music was equally pleasant.
Nothing particularly unusual had been found on Angharad, but Quinn must have searched her rather rigorously by the way she made eyes at him ever since. With no trace of poison or weaponry, Florence had no choice but to chalk it up to Angharad’s tendencies as a gossip, and she urged me to keep a distance from my friend.
