When Spring Died

Chapter Twenty-One

"I just knew Maman wouldn't regret inviting His Majesty to her party," Genevieve squealed, bouncing merrily alongside Ivette as they walked to the latter's study. "I tried to get her to invite Lord Smirnov, but she said one foreigner would cause enough stir as it is, but I'm so glad everything went off without a hitch, aren't you, Your Majesty?"

"Er...yes."

She sighed to herself. Genevieve had been as taken in as every other girl at the garden party yesterday. Sasha had reveled in the attention, the scoundrel. He'd made the most of it, playing to his strengths until every lady there was smitten with him.

He'd barely said a word too, pretending to know only a little of the language. Thus, he was saved from saying too much and answering questions he'd rather not, feigning confusion much of the time. He appeared bashful and adorable to his numerous admirers, and they'd fussed over him and squealed with delight at the few compliments he managed to give them in "broken" Frantsiyan.

There was a thrill at being so near to a foreigner rumored to be a monster in every sense of the word, who turned out to be naught more than a handsome young man who took as much delight in flowers as every female present.

Later he'd told Ivette it was all Yuri's idea. No, not ladies fawning over him, how could poor, dear, innocent Yuri ever imagine something like that? Indeed, Yuri had insisted, in Sasha's words, that upon pain of death, he was to say as little as possible. Pretend to be deaf, dumb, and blind if he had to. Only on those conditions was he allowed to accept Clarisse's invitation.

As always, Ivette sympathized keenly with Yuri.

She hadn't planned on going to the party herself, but she'd wanted to see Étienne, to perhaps smooth things over and begin anew. In several ways, she felt that she'd punished him enough by avoiding him, and if they could only work together, get along, it would grant her peace of mind in one respect.

She didn't see him even once there.

"--your dress was lovely," Genevieve prattled on. "Everyone thinks blue is your color, but I think purple is divine. Did you see that Odile wore red again? She was the only one who did. Therese says she's a downright tramp."

They reached Ivette's study, and when Ivette opened the door, she found Étienne standing by her desk, tucking something into his suit coat.

She stopped short, shocked at finding him there to begin with.

He whipped around at the sound of the door, his expression strained, his pallor very white indeed.

Ivette raised an eyebrow. She did not remove her hand from the door handle. "What are you doing in here?"

He licked his lips and fidgeted with his hands. "I...I wanted..."

"To speak with me, I suppose?"

"Yes," he blurted.

"Well, you needn't look so guilty about it. Genevieve, you are dismissed." She shut the door and made her way to her chair. She sat, sifting through new letters she had yet to open, reports, requests for loans, and official documents that made her head swim.

Étienne stood before her desk, pacing, chewing on his thumbnail. Ivette's gaze flicked up to him. He looked ill, like a guilty child.

"You're making me seasick with the amount of moving you're doing. What is it you want to dis--"

"I want the wedding to be sooner."

A demand. Not a request.

Ivette narrowed her eyes. "Forgive me if my memory is doing me a disservice, but did we not already discuss this?"