Chapter Text
Polished silverware glinted a blinding white from the sunlight filtering through the parlour windows. Rose eyed her untarnished butter knife set daintily by her plate without really seeing it. The aroma of fresh baked bread wafted to her nose from the assortment of decadent pastries before her, none of them touched. Fresh flowers set at the centre of the table emitted a fragrance she would usually find pleasant, but today it invaded her lungs and settled at the pit of her stomach like a giant, sickly sweet slug. It twisted at her insides, turning them over and squeezing her chest.
Rose forced a breath past her throat anyway, lace crumpling in her fists as her fingers worried the skirt of her dress under the table. Flaxen hair tumbled past her shoulders to brush its ends at her waist, the silky locks rough where they touched her skin as if they were made of straw. The delicate golden necklace around her neck felt like it was made of lead, weighing her down and tightening around her throat.
“They’ll learn their place, those ridiculous peasants,” continued her father, buttering his croissant as if they were speaking of nothing more important than the shape of clouds in the sky. “They have no right to be making such demands. Our nation is in a difficult time after aiding America with their revolution, we hardly need one of our own right now.”
“A momentary phase, nothing to worry yourself over, dear,” said her mother with a solemn nod. The woman looked immaculate, as if she’d walked straight out of a painting. “The foreign affairs have inspired the peasants to fight against the natural order. They will come to their senses and cease their nonsense soon.”
Each word that fell from their lips dropped into her stomach like a stone, sinking down to feed the squirming slug. She pushed her plate away.
Her father sighed, rubbing at his temples. “All the same, the common people are restless. We’d best keep our heads down and not attract attention to ourselves for a while. With how poorly the king is keeping a handle on things, they are bound to do something reckless sooner or later and I would prefer if we do not get caught up in it.”
And at last, she could remain silent no more.
“But father,” said Rose, jerking her head up, “don’t you think that the Third Estate has a point? What would be so wrong in allowing them more votes in proportion to the size of their faction?”
“Oh, dear, no, Rose! If the Third Estate were given even the barest of inches, they will take a whole yard. They’ll get ahead of themselves and we will lose control of the situation before you know it. No, no, we must never give in to their demands, it will go straight to their heads.”
“But what about the taxes, father?” she pressed, weeks of barely contained silence cracking the dam of social restraint. “Surely you can agree that it is hardly fair? Why are the poorest of France’s people made to pay tithe when they cannot even afford to buy bread? People are starving—”
“Preposterous!” her father thundered, brows furrowing and eyes narrowing. “Groundless exaggerations! Who has been telling you such lies?”
Rose started, abruptly aware she had crossed some invisible line.
“N-no one,” she said, casting her mind around for a way out as she tucked a wayward strand of golden hair behind her ear to stall. “I just….”
“Are you not hungry, dear?” her mother asked, glancing pointedly at Rose’s untouched plate. “If you’re not feeling well, you should take some air for a while. I’m sure the sunshine and fresh air will make you feel better.”
Throat closing up, Rose could only nod. A redheaded servant girl came forward to collect her plate as Rose excused herself and got on her feet, avoiding everyone’s eyes. Turning from the lavish table, she left the parlour, trying not to look like she was fleeing it.
“Oh, and don’t forget your hat, dear!” her mother called after her, “We can’t have any freckles now, can we?”
The fresh air didn’t make her feel better.
Rose crossed her ankles, tucking them under the iron wrought bench as she settled into it. She sighed, eyes dropping to the flower bush in full bloom by her armrest, roses of pure white glowing like snow. The day was beautiful, the air crisp and cool against her skin. The hem of her dress had been made damp from walking across lush green grass laden with morning dew, her lace shoes in her hands so she could feel the earth beneath her feet. Mother would scold, but for now, the brilliant sun shining down that warmed her face and made the roses seem even whiter were the only things in her world.
A smile tugged at her downturned lips as she gazed at a lone, white blossom, later to bloom than the others. Its petals were just barely beginning to curl outwards, revealing its creamy, delicate centre.
Perhaps she did feel a bit better after all.
“That was a close call back there.”
Whipping around in her seat, Rose turned to catch the eye of the redheaded servant girl from earlier as she emerged from the verandah and into the sunlight, hands reaching for the sky as she stretched her back. Her auburn hair appeared almost pink in the bright light of the sun, the shade reminiscent of azaleas. Cracking open one cerulean eye, several shades darker than Rose’s own sky blue, Alix grinned.
“If it would please the young lady,” she said, bowing with an exaggerated flourish, “may I keep you company as you stare pensively at the flowers?”
Rose hid a giggle behind a delicate hand, scooting closer to the rose bush to make more room. Casting a look around to make sure they were alone, Alix dropped down into the seat next to her.
“Man, I’m beat,” she muttered, stretching her legs out in front of her. “There was a mess in the study this morning because one of the old cleaning ladies tipped over an ink bottle. Your father wasn’t pleased.”
Biting back a wince, Rose lowered her head. “Sorry about that,” she muttered, weaving her fingers together. From the tail of her eye, she saw Alix wave a dismissive hand.
“Nah, not your fault your father is an asshole,” she said, folding her hands behind her head and leaning back. “You still shouldn’t have said anything, you could have gotten into a lot of trouble with your father. And it wouldn’t have changed anything anyway.”
“I know,” said Rose with sigh, reaching up to brush her immaculate bangs out of her eyes. “I don’t know what came over me. If they found out it was you who was telling me of the real goings-on outside ….”
She trailed off, but neither of them needed the sentence finished to know the implications of their unlikely friendship being discovered. That she, daughter to an Estates-General of the Second Estate, a poster example of a young lady of the nobility, associated with a lowly servant girl.
“I was just …. I was just really hoping I could change his mind somehow, make him see ….”
“It’s no use talking to people like your father, Rose,” said Alix, scowling at her fingernails. “They’re too set in their beliefs to listen to reason.”
“I know,” said Rose, shoulders slumped as if she were wearing plate armour instead of a light linen dress. “I just hoped….”
Turning to her, Alix opened her mouth, but paused at the resignation in Rose’s eyes. Her scowl did not cease, but she lost the hard edge in her eyes as she prodded the blonde on the shoulder.
“Sorry, but I don’t think his opinion is ever going to change. Even if it’s his own daughter appealing to him.”
Rose sighed, the corners of her lips tugging upward at the familiar contact. “I suppose you’re right. I just—… I don’t know how much longer I can live like this, staying within these walls and indulging in luxuries while knowing that so many people outside struggle to have enough to even eat. It just feels so wrong.”
“Well,” said Alix, tone taking on a nonchalant air she tilted her head to look up at the wispy-clouded sky, “you could always leave.”
Rose snapped her eyes back up to meet Alix’s, staring at the other girl as if she’d just grown an extra head.
“Leave? You mean, leave home?” she parroted, eyes wide. “But where would I go? I don’t know anyone who would help me.”
“But I do. There are a few places I know will be willing to house you and all so long as you don’t mind hard work. I could help you get out of here, but only if you want to.”
Rose stared ahead, unfocused eyes settling on a pair of butterflies fluttering past. Leave the estate? The repercussions would be catastrophic; the noble circle would be abuzz over her sudden disappearance, mere months after the Agreste boy had done the same. Gabriel Agreste had been disgraced, his textile empire fell to shambles. The scandal threw the noblemen into a panic over their own children possibly running away from home. And like Gabriel Agreste, her father would lose his standing among the Estates-Generals.
If she left home, she would have to leave her family.
She would be on her own.
Could she really do that?
“Sorry, forget I said anything.” Alix jumped to her feet, brushing imaginary dust from her maid uniform. “It wasn’t fair of me to ask that of you.”
“I’ll need a disguise.”
Rose looked up, meeting the other girl’s stare as Alix fixed her with a look as if she’d just grown two extra heads.
After a long moment, Alix blinked. “A disguise?”
“Well,” said Rose, “if I’m running away and don’t want to be recognised, I think that would be a good idea.”
A good idea, but it was more easily said than done.
Tremors ran through her slight frame, travelling down her arms to the tips of her fingers and the cold steel in her grasp. She took another breath, keeping it steady, but the thundering heart in her chest paid no heed. Exhaling in a gush, her breath sent her bangs fluttering in the otherwise still air. Reaching up with her free hand, Rose combed her fingers through her golden hair, all the way down to her waist. There was a lot of it.
Knuckles turned white from her unrelenting grip on the scissors. Its edges pressed uncomfortably into her skin, leaving red indents in her palm. She reached up and gathered her hair at the base of her neck.
Her mother used to brush her hair before tucking her in every night, telling her how it looked like woven sunlight as the bristles ran through the locks.
Rose’s grip on the scissors slackened.
Vivid memory resurrected the warmth of a hand brushing the crown of her head, the brush dragging long strokes that eased away tangles and flyaways. A gentle voice cooed in her ear, murmuring tender words and weaving a lullaby that had her eyelids drooping within minutes. Then her mother would lead her to bed, brushing her gleaming bangs from her face to press a kiss to her forehead.
But her mother, her sweet, kind, and gentle mother, was the same person who would condemn someone else to starve on the streets over a ‘misfortune of birth’. The same person who would turn a blind eye to someone in need of food, clothes, and shelter; only to indulge in her jewelleries and silks and fine wines. The same person who could walk through the streets of Paris with the impoverished begging for scraps and change without seeing anything wrong.
Her next breath came shuddering, air rattling in her lungs as she raised her eyes to look at her reflection in the mirror. The girl in the glass looked back, her linen nightgown almost glowing in the pale light of the moon streaming in from her window. The gold of her hair appeared silvery, the curls bleached by moonbeams and flowing down to her waist like a river of mercury.
Pure crystalline blue broke the monotony of silver, reflection of wide almond-shaped eyes staring back. Eyes just like her father’s, and yet nothing like them.
The father who would sooner see the people of France oppressed and under their thumbs than living as equals.
Gritting her teeth against the tightening coil around her chest, Rose squared her shoulders and raised the scissors.
She tried not to think too hard about how this would be the last time she’d see these halls as she walked through the darkened corridors. Where the hem of her dress would have swept the hardwood floors, rough fabric now encased her legs. A common worker’s jacket and tunic hung off her shoulders where satin and lace once hugged her frame, a worn beret over her head pushed down low over her face to dissuade any curious onlookers who might still be awake at the ungodly hour. Alix had pilfered the clothes from the musty room housing spare clothes for the servants on their days off. The hat was just a little too big and the sole of her right boot was coming off, but she refrained from complaint as she followed Alix steadily out of the mansion.
They stepped from the shadows of the terrace and out into the courtyard—cutting through it was the fastest way to get to the secret entrance leading out of the compound, or so Alix said—and a crisp breeze whipped across her cheeks. Its chilled fingers threaded through the rough ends of her freshly cropped hair. The lightness was liberating, as if a marble headdress had been removed from her head instead of two feet of hair. It was lighter on her shoulders too, her whole being seemingly seized with a kind of weightlessness that had Rose feeling like she was walking on air.
This was it, she was leaving—running away from home.
She could hardly believe it.
She could hardly believe herself.
“We’ll be taking the passageway that goes under the west wing,” said Alix in a voice barely above a whisper as they trekked over the grass. “That way, we’re less likely to run into the other servants and risk you being seen.”
“I understand,” said Rose, hurrying her step to match Alix’s when her eyes fell upon the rosebush, the same one she had sat next to that afternoon.
She stepped up to it, drawn to the pure, snow-white blossoms as if they were beckoning to her, the flower heads bobbing in the midnight breeze. Her fingers brushed over a familiar rosebud, petals soft as down caressing her skin. Moonlight reflected off its surface and gave the rose its own glow, turning her fingertips a ghostly white.
Seized by a sudden impulse, she plucked it from the bush.
“Rose, this is no time to stop and smell the roses. We have to keep moving.”
Turning to face Alix, she tucked the rosebud safely behind her ear.
“I’m coming.”
From the courtyard, it was simple to sneak out of the estate through the servants’ hidden passageways. Alix knew them like the back of her hand, guiding her in the pitch black darkness by her hand without needing any light. When they emerged out into a back area of the mansion, Rose turned to face her as she pointed down a worn path leading into the woods, just visible in the moonlight.
“This is how the kitchen hands receive and unload supplies from the city. Follow that, a friend of mine is waiting a little further down. He’ll take you somewhere safe.”
Instead of hurrying down it, which she should be if she wanted to avoid any chance of being spotted, she indulged herself one more moment. Rose smiled, inclining her head to a friend she knew she wouldn’t see for quite a while.
“You take care of yourself,” she said.
Something in Alix’s eyes softened, and the girl lightly pushed at her arm. “You too,” she said. “Now hurry up, I didn’t stick my neck out for you just for you to get caught.”
With a final nod and wave, Rose turned and fled into the beckoning dark of the trees, leaving behind everything she had ever known.
She never looked back.