When Spring Died

Chapter Twenty

Étienne knew he was drinking too much. He knew if he drank much more, he'd become utterly drunk and make a fool of himself at Clarisse Anjou's garden party. And yet at the same time, drinking numbed the ache in his chest, the perpetual sting of Ivette's never-ending coldness and withdrawal, and his dour mood happily succumbed to the euphoric caress of alcohol.

He was miserable and dejected, and Ivette was not there. He'd been quite sure she would be, but then again, it wasn't uncommon for the queen to not attend every event she was invited to. But she was on such good terms with Clarisse it came as a surprise she had not shown.

Over the past few days, Ivette had refused all his requests to see her and wherever he was, she purposefully was not. Étienne hoped their duel attendance would mean he could finally speak to her, confront her about the letters and the handkerchief, about her heart's true allegiances. But in Vesna's name, she could hold a grudge for an egregiously long time!

She acted as if he wasn't allowed to be offended at her apparent companionship with the tsar. He had every right to be. That man was deceitful and his intentions dubious at best. And yet she spurned his concern as always and made light of his affections for her.

He picked his way about the courtyard and through the gardens, his spine stiff with attempts not to stumble. The garden blurred and dipped before him like the rolling of a ship, and it was with a great deal of effort that he didn't pitch over and vomit.

He nodded politely at whatever noble in jewel-colored dress with flowers in skirts or lapels cast a curious glance his way, and he echoed greetings to the ones he knew more personally. The turnout for Clarisse's party was impressive, to say the least. He supposed the rumor of her inviting Sasha Morozov provoked a great deal of curiosity.

Étienne didn't think he could withstand seeing the tsar. He didn't even understand why Clarisse would even entertain the idea of inviting him. But so far, Sasha did not show. That improved his hopes a little. At least his rumored attendance had not baited her into coming.

Lost in thought, he bumped into something...something solid... something that happened to be Laurent. Just his luck. He kept walking and hoped to the gods that Laurent would let him be. But nothing ever went the way he hoped, and Laurent fell in step beside him.

"Oh, Your Grace, you look positively terrible," Laurent snickered. "Too much to drink?" His face was rosy from champagne, but Étienne had yet to meet a soldier who couldn't drink his own weight and live to tell the tale.

"I'm simply looking for your sister," he said tightly, enunciating the words with great care.

"Is she not here?" Laurent's eyes gleamed with delight. "Worried she's given you up for milder company? I don't blame her, she doesn't abide by drunkenness, and you appear as wretched as a casual drunk in the Canaille."

Étienne glowered. "Will she or will she not be attending?"

Laurent pretended to think. "If she didn't tell you, then it's not for you to know."

"Then good day to you, Laurent."

"Now, now, don't be sore. What have you to be so gloomy about?? There's music, and pretty girls--although that doesn't apply to you since Ivette is all you're allowed to have--and champagne. Yet you sulk."

"Thank you, for your astute observations, I'll be going now. I have a headache."

"No, no, people will talk about what a sad-sack you are. Today is a fine day and I suppose Ivette would like it if we were to get along. Come, you must greet an old friend of mine. We were in the same regiment in the Canaille before he fell off his horse and it crushed his leg. Oh, he's better now; walks with a permanent limp though. Over there--Jean!" Laurent raised his arm in greeting and hauled Étienne by the arm against his will to a trellis of roses.