Seleste, Then
SELESTE
S nick . Another lemon pulled from the tree. Seleste brought it to her nose and inhaled, anxious to slice it open and truly smell the citrusy perfection within. Laying it in her small wicker basket, she counted her bounty. Huit . It would be just enough to make a nice carafe of lemonade, with a couple of lemons left over to garnish each glass with a perfect yellow pinwheel.
Smiling to herself, Seleste hummed an old Hespian hymn Prue had taught her as a child. Night of serenity, bright as the dawn. Light of life, given to each one. She'd adored Prue's songs. They were far more ancient than her mother's, and they held little slivers of truth in them that she'd always felt had slipped away, long before the mortals lost their belief in the Sisters Solstice.
Something had been warped, twisted and manipulated ages ago, but Seleste had never quite figured out what it was. It was one of her constant puzzles, and one she wasn't certain she'd ever solve. All she knew was that there was a guiding light within her, and she followed it.
Halfway to the kitchen's back entrance, Seleste caught sight of the ice house—just a little door tucked into the hillside, to an untrained eye. She contemplated for a moment if she would be scolded for venturing in and retrieving just a tiny amount of ice for the lemonade.
What was the good of having something if not to enjoy it? It was the very sentiment that led her to explore every nook and cranny of her isle, so that it may be seen . And the same sentiment that left her feeling bereft when she encountered a room no one ever used or a trinket no one ever looked upon.
être vu, être connu.
To be seen, to be known. It was the very reason she'd begun practising the Art of Contemplative Life.
Before her parents had been tragically killed in the fires of Helsvar, her mother had noticed Seleste would often sit in peculiar places within rooms, carry around trinkets lost to anyone's attention, and simply sit quietly to contemplate the beauty of everything. It wasn't until one particular afternoon when her mother brought attention to it, that Seleste even realised what she was doing.
Lorelai Joubert knelt before her daughter, curled up in the bottom cabinet of a hutch that was situated within a cobwebbed corner of their tiny parlour. " Mon papillon , why here today?"
Seleste looked up at her mummy with big brown eyes. "The hutch was empty. Forgotten."
With a tender hand, her mother cupped her cheek. "Yesterday it was the back corner of the garden. Why there? "
"Sorscha did not tend to the flora in that corner. The vines are dead."
"And yet they are beautiful still, n'est ce pas ?" Seleste nodded at her mother, heart lighter for her understanding of what she could not explain herself. " Mon papillon , the forgotten things need you. You, who sees what no one else does." She set a hand over Seleste's heart. "Remember that." She kissed her forehead. "Take Aggie to see the gnarled, perishing vines in the garden. She will see their beauty. Lead the forgotten into the light, dearest, just as Aggie sits with them in the dark."
The fond memory dissipated like a heat-induced mirage, leaving Seleste's eyes misty. Aggie hated their mother. She wasn't certain Winnie and Sorscha didn't feel the same way. They believed their mother had caused Helsvar to burn. That she was their downfall, the heretic responsible for the death of their coven—of their father. Though the evidence could not absolve Lorelai, the guiding light within Seleste had never allowed her to believe their mother guilty. There was always more to a story, more that the others did not see.
Cradling her basket of lemons, Seleste pushed away thoughts of her family and decided to take her chances retrieving some ice from the ice house. The door was unlocked, either due to a lack of worry on anyone's part that someone would steal ice, or because the cooks had been in recently to store the shipment of fish that had arrived from Merveille.
Either way, Seleste entered and made her way down the rough, narrow steps in the dark, down to where the ice was stored deep underground. In the chamber just before the one filled with ice, crates of salted meat lined the domed walls. It was far too much meat for the Bardot family and small staff, even if it was the entirety of what they would eat for the rest of the Summer.
Curious, indeed.
Seleste made her way past the crates, already perturbed by the brisk chill the underground storage room brought to her sunkissed skin and ready to be back beneath the warm rays of the sun. She let out a little shiver upon entering the chamber of ice and half-melted snow. Despite herself, Seleste bent to scoop up a handful of it, thinking of Winnie and contemplating the age of the frozen rain. All the other snow on the grounds of Whitehall had long since melted, absorbed back into the atmosphere, and it had come back down as rain time and again over Spring. This snow had been trapped, never to be reborn. Or was it that it had never died, here for a purpose few saw?
Seleste felt privileged to see this forgotten snow's purpose.
She set it back down and moved to take up the long pick stuck in a block of ice. Chiselling off a generous amount, she nestled it in next to her lemons.
The rest of her trek back to the kitchen would need to be swift, but she decided to take a moment to restore the ice she had taken. Carefully, her magic pulled at the moisture in the air until it formed a new block of ice. A purpose Summer humidity never thought it would have. Granted, she could have just created her own ice this way, but she wasn't fond of lying if anyone were to ask where she found ice.
The short climb back toward ground level was like transporting from Winnie's Glacé Manor back to her isle, the sun chasing away the chill. She breathed in the heated scent of Summer hitting her anew after the dank ice house and firmly shut the door.
A rustle of grass came from behind her, and she turned to see who it was, unfamiliar with the gaits of her fellow Whitehall inhabitants outside the house's wood-planked halls. She was surprised to find it was Lord Bardot, striding toward her with purpose and—was that a smile?
"Good day, Mademoiselle—" He stopped short, his cheeks colouring as he realised what she already knew—he'd never asked her name. "Apologies, I suppose I don't know your surname."
"Joubert. But please, call me Seleste, my lord." She smiled sweetly at him.
"Seleste." He said it like he was tasting a new, foreign food. "Seleste," he said again, his tone sending a little shiver down her spine like he'd slipped a chip of ice down her dress. "Have you a moment to step away?"
She had no idea what in Hades a request such as that could mean. "Oh, I?—"
Lord Bardot looked down at the basket in her hands. "Ice and lemons. Ah, you're preparing for tea time. If you find a free moment, there is something I'd like to show you in my chalet ."
Without waiting for a response, he began to walk away, but turned back, cheeks still pink. "That was not meant to sound ominous. Or lacking propriety." He offered her a crooked, embarrassed smile and she laughed, attempting to ease his suffering.
"Of course, my lord. My designated downtime is approaching shortly."
With a small dip of his head, Lord Bardot set off, presumably for his chalet , and Seleste made her way toward the kitchen, grinning to herself.
After laying out her spoils on a cutting board, she set to gathering all that was needed. She told herself her rush was due to the approach of tea time, or because the ice was rapidly melting, but she knew full well it was, at least in part, due to her anticipation of seeing what Lord Bardot had to show her. Items gathered—a sharp knife, sugar, a citrus press, a mallet, and a large carafe—she set to work.
Squeezing lemons into a glass carafe was amongst her favourite memories, not only with her parents and for those who visited within their old coven, but also during that last Summer spent just the Sisters Solstice, hiding away in Drifthollow. Before Prue took her away. Before they all changed.
Carafe full and the sharp scent pushing away the tartness in otherwise sweet memories, Seleste began slicing the remaining two lemons, relishing the task. She set each slice in one glass cup—some of the finest she'd ever handled—and moved on to her next task. She piled the ice in a cheesecloth, then began breaking it apart with a mallet. Once the pieces were chipped into small, nearly crushed bits, she dropped a handful of them in each glass. It would be just enough to chill the lemonade without chunks knocking into anyone's teeth.
There were three serving trays reserved for tea time and one of them had never been used, not since Seleste's arrival, anyway. It was a lovely white tray with delicately painted yellow begonias—a perfect pairing to the chilled lemonade. She set each glass on the tray and filled them to the rim, watching with delight as the lemon slices floated to the top and beads of condensation began appearing on the sides .
There was still quite a lot left, and Seleste decided to take Lord Bardot his own serving. She found a glass jar with a lid and filled it to the brim with ice and two lemon pinwheels before pouring the lemonade. His serving was frigid to the point of completely frosting the glass.
" Magie mortelle ," she murmured, screwing on the lid.
She was just placing the carafe of lemonade on the tray as Frances bustled in. "My, my!" the maid crooned, wiping at the sweat dotting her brow. "Chilled lemonade? I dare say it's so hot out today that you will certainly be her ladyship's favourite person in all Midlerea."
Seleste chuckled. "I do hope so." Thoughts of the ice brought a curiosity back to the forefront of her mind. "Frances, do you know why there is so much meat in the ice house? It seemed a terribly large sum. Is the family planning to be here longer than the Summer?"
Hiding out, perhaps? But from what? She kept those particular thoughts to herself.
Frances' brows creased as she loaded a towelled basket with blueberry biscuits Liza had baked earlier in the morning before it was far too hot to utilise the stone ovens. "Not that I'm aware of. But I did hear Madame Riley mention something to her ladyship about guests."
Guests? It was not an uncommon occurrence by any means for the wealthy to invite friends to stay with them at their Summer home, but his lordship was still very ill, and they had been so mum about their identity…
She could ponder that later because another idea had struck her. One that was much more enjoyable. "Would you mind if I took one of those biscuits?"
Frances winked and handed Seleste two.