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He is born just before Candlemas. A snowstorm rages around the castle, but she does not hear it over the pounding of her heart in her ears, can not feel the cold that seeps through stone walls over the pain of childbirth. The Maestro (everyone calls him the Maestro; he had used his Christian name on their wedding day and not a time before or after) holds her hand through the agony though she nearly crushes his fingers, and after eighteen hours, they hand her a small, squirming bundle so she can peer at him through exhausted and half-lidded eyes.
Her son is beautiful.
Tiny, to be sure, and a bit red in the face perhaps, but beautiful nonetheless. Already there are small tufts of dark hair across the boy’s head, and the eyes that blink up at her as she brings him to her breast were of softest gray. There has not been a more beautiful sight in all her days.
She names him after both of their fathers, as she and the Maestro had agreed, but it was her papa’s name that the child would bear first -- perhaps the highest honor that a poor English fisherman could have achieved, being the namesake of the firstborn son of a renowned opera singer and seamstress. It was the highest honor she can give, at any rate, for her papa had been in the grave for several years and will never know of his grandson’s grand debut.
She must return to her duties, soon; the Prince (the older one, not his son born just five years before her own) will insist upon it, but for now, she is content to stay and do nothing but bask in the light her babe brings into her life.
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She can afford to hire a nursemaid, of course -- she is not a servant in the way of the majordomo or head footman, but an artist and a skilled one at that. She knows how much her services are worth. Of course she can hire a nursemaid, but she chooses to keep her son at her side. She sings to him in his cradle as she pins and presses and cuts and threads, her foot rocking the bed gently as she works. He is her pride and joy, just as he is the Maestro’s, but her work allows her more freedom to take care of their child.
As he grows older, she finds that he is fascinated by the tools of her trade. Both trades, in fact. He loves what goes into the garments she creates: velvet, silk, brocades, lace; the gilded buttons and clasps, the delicate embroidery that winds across cuffs and down lapels. He loves to watch gowns and suits come to life on her forms, the intricate drapery of fabric, in every color known to the earth.
At the same time, he watches breathlessly each time she applies paints and powders to the smooth dusky canvas of her skin. She’s had years of practice to learn the tricks. She spreads gold leaf and kohl and bright rouge across her skin, and he begs her to let him try. She laughs and makes up his own face to be as pretty as her own.
Her son is beautiful. Her pretty, pretty boy.
He will grow up to break hearts, she already knows; dark hair and gray eyes and a smile that speaks of both mischief and delight. He climbs into her lap and asks her to sing for him, and it is all she can do to hold him tight and keep her own heart from bursting with love.
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He gets older. Children do that, of course, but it feels like she blinks and he is half-grown, nearly as tall as she is. He still has dark hair (though it has spread to his chin and cheeks, just the beginnings of fuzz) and gray eyes and a bright smile, and now he has the beginnings of muscles and the awkward gait of someone not quite grown into their body.
She teaches him much of her trade, for he still finds cloth and lace and ribbon fascinating, and his clever hands, while not yet masterful, make splendid finery from mundane pieces. He sings, too, but it is not his passion, not in the way that fashion à la mode catches his heart. Not just a tailor, he says, but a costumière -- clothing and hair and makeup all at his command. Her eyes shine with pride as she watches him work.
He gets older, and she wants to give him some independence, to let him learn other aspects of trade: buying, selling, the fine art of the barter. She sends him with the next group of servants to go to the village; it is not far, and under their watchful eye, he will be safe. She gives him a kiss and a bag of gold, and waves as he rides off.
It is that night that the sorceress appears.
There is no pain, of that she is grateful. As her bones turn to wood, her flesh to painted plaster, all she can think of is her son, and she prays that he is safe. It is not until the witch’s words that they will be forgotten by those outside that she tries to weep, and finds she is unable.
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Years pass, as they do. She sits inside the dusty, crumbling castle and she dreams. She sleeps now more often than she wakes, but still she can dream.
She stays in solitude in one massive, gilded bedroom. The Maestro cannot climb stairs, and she does not risk them for fear of slumber hitting her while she moves. The others visit when they can, but they have their own miseries, and too often they forget her, sometimes for weeks. She does not blame them. What use is she, now?
She dotes on Frou-Frou, changed as she has been (and truly, who lays a curse upon a dog? People are monsters, but dogs have always been innocent), for she needs something, someone to hold on to, something to pull her back from her dreams, because dreams hold dark hair and gray eyes and she does not want to leave the only place she can still see her child.
The mademoiselle comes to them. The girl is kind and brave and it makes her want to wrap her arms around the girl, for she is reminded of another child who saw the world with such delight. She watches as the mademoiselle grows to love their crumbling castle, their growling, snarling master. She sees them, in tiny glimpses, start to find peace in each other’s company.
No good things may last, however.
She hears the sounds of battle even from her isolated tower. She hears the shouts and shrieks of an angry mob and though she is still so tired, she risks the stairs, because if she cannot see her own child she will still protect the ones who live under her roof and whisper secrets to her in the night. She makes her way towards the battle just as three men charge towards her, threatening her and a majordomo in the form of a mantle clock.
She dismisses two, villagers she has seen before (although a lifetime ago), but the third has dark hair and gray eyes and a smile turned angry and cruel. He advances towards her, this boy-turned-man in clothes far too drab for one so brilliant.
She cannot hurt him. She would never hurt him.
She calls upon what little magic the sorceress left her instead. She wraps them in satin and velvet and lace; powder and ribbons flow from her like a maelstrom. If she must end, let it be by his hand, and let him shine as bright as she remembers. Let her make him who he once was.
The two villagers flee from her creation (simple creatures who do not understand fashion!), but he smiles, his face lighting up as he turns to leave, her voice following him down the stairs.
Pretty, pretty boy...
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It is too easy to fall asleep. She thinks she hears the Maestro calling out to her, but she is so tired, and she wants nothing more than to dream.
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She wakes in a cloud of satin and velvet and lace. She has hands, a face, a pulse. She pulls the Maestro to her, kissing his poor, brutalized mouth, weeping tears that had been frozen for half a decade.
The courtyard is quiet chaos. The villagers pour into the area, no longer rioting and eager to find loved ones no longer forgotten. Those who had been cursed with her rejoice as they shake off the transformation and its effects, allowing humanity to sweep into them. She watches the celebration with a smile as a hand lays onto her shoulder, soft and hesitant.
She turns.
“Hello, maman.”
He gives her a shy, almost frightened smile. He is worn from the battle. His dress is torn and burnt, the bottom hem ragged under his feet. His wig is askew. His powdered face is streaked from sweat and tears alike.
As she sweeps him into her arms, her darling boy with his dark hair and gray eyes, she knows only one thing.
Her son is beautiful.