Seleste, Then

SELESTE

W eary of fanning herself with vigour, Seleste snapped closed her white lace fan. Her isle was hot year round—a great joy—but a gentle breeze continuously floated in from the ocean to cool her cheeks. Being tied up in the current fashion of the working class rather than her swaths of chiffon was not doing her any favours, either. The heat in the carriage was cloying, clawing at her like the ghouls of Hades.

Seleste smiled at her uncharacteristically sullen thoughts. If she didn't get out of the carriage and into fresh air soon, she would be perilously close to sounding like Aggie or Winnie.

Rather than the bump and jostle of the King's Road, the journey had grown smoother quite a long time after they'd left the agency in Merveille behind and veered onto a winding dirt path toward Boisloch. Seleste peered out the window, desperate for the slight breeze. She was pleased to find the path had gone grassy, and it was lined with trees just up ahead. When the stately oaks were darting past rather quickly, gravel began to crunch beneath the carriage wheels. The noise filled up the compartment as thoroughly as Seleste's nerves did.

Sensing the onset of her minor turmoil, Litha flitted out from the travel bag Seleste had bid her hide within and landed gracefully on her shoulder. At well over a century and a half old, Seleste still found meeting new people to be…cumbersome. She quite enjoyed mortals and the scattering of hidden witches who'd remained after the Trials. In fact, she would go so far as to say she did prefer mortals and did enjoy meeting them. It was her nervous system, as well as her cunning, that made the task difficult.

Shy, reserved, timid —these were words often thrown about in conversation when others attempted to pinpoint Seleste's apprehension. None of them were accurate.

Seleste saw far too much, and often, it was revealed to her instantaneously. On more than one occasion, she'd immediately unravelled the presence of affairs upon meeting couples. She'd sniffed out betrayals, addictions, and secrets within moments of being introduced to people. Insecurities and fears, as well as hubris, were always next to follow. But it was the simple things that were the loudest. Crumbs, ink stains, scuffed boots, loose threads, tired eyes, wringing hands, longing looks… Those exhausting bits of mortals and witches alike were simply too much to take in, for she could usually discern what they meant.

Walking into a crowd was loud . Her cunning was not auditory or visual in any way, nor was it any sort of magic. Yet, it exhausted all of her faculties.

Then there was the simple fact that she couldn't ignore anyone—ever.

Seleste always knew the exact position of every individual in a room. She knew what they were doing, what they were wearing, oftentimes what they were saying, always what they were drinking, eating… Worst of all, she could almost always sense how they were feeling. That was the most exhausting of all. Every single soul deserved the trifecta of the mortal condition—to be seen, appreciated, and loved. This rendered her incapable of ignoring a person or what she gleaned from them.

This belief was also what landed Seleste in trouble more often than not. Just because a person deserved those things did not mean they would recognise her efforts or reciprocate. She'd learned the difficult way—far too many times—that believing the best in people often only led to heartache. To remove the responsibility from her shoulders, she simply observed from afar. But it did not lessen the knowing. The knowing crowded her mind, a banshee trapped inside her skull until she was alone again in silence. Or, like the boisterous inn of the prior night, it was all drowned out by music—noise so loud it was as effective as silence.

Music and solitude were her peace.

The road began to curve, lending Seleste the view of an estate that sent a little laugh bubbling out of her. Chateau was certainly the only apt description of a lavish place such as the one she was quickly approaching. Gilded by the afternoon sun, the grand rock and brick manor towered above, boasting four chimneys and two floors. Ivy, thick and trailing, crawled up much of the Estern side. Birds twittered and flew across the wide expanse of blue sky into a woodland area off to the side. Rolling hills could just be seen from far behind the estate, a hint of lush garden peeking out in the area between manor and woods.

Seleste nudged Litha into her carpet bag as the coach rolled to a stop. Gathering her belongings, she made to reach for the door handle, but Bast was already there, pulling the door open and thrusting out a hand to help her down. She thanked him with a gentle smile, noting the rawness of his fingers and the exhaustion bruising the skin beneath his eyes.

"Perhaps they'll let you rest here awhile before you depart," she whispered.

Bast's eyes crinkled at the corners, a distinct, even mixture of amusement and dismay. "I'd not wager so."

He squeezed her hand gently, pointedly looking at their skin, twin shades of deep brown. The moment sent a pang of memory through her, and she suddenly missed her father fiercely.

"I do hope they choose for you to work here." Bast's gaze slid from one eye briefly down to her lips, then back up to her other eye. "But if they're fools, have them send for me in Rochbury, and I will return to drive you wherever you wish to go." He let her hand drop, reaching for her luggage.

Heat licked up Seleste's neck until she could feel it in the tips of her ears. Despite the playful teasing of her Sisters, she was not so much a prude as she was selective and kept her intimacies…intimate. Perhaps she should have explored what Bast had to offer along their journey.

"Thank you kindly, Bast." She lifted her chin, a wide smile stretching across her face. "But the family in that house will most assuredly hire me."

If they didn't, she would stoop to influencing them. Never mind that it was forbidden. She wasn't perfect, for goddess' sake.

"Then let us get you inside and out of this heat."

Seleste made no argument with that. A longing for her temperate, perfect isle lodged itself deep within her bosom once more. But she had an Order to fulfil, and whining was unbecoming. She threw her shoulders back, her sunny smile setting her face in amiable cheerfulness. "Now or never, monsieur ."

Bast chuckled, leading the way to the imposing front door, her luggage in tow. "I'm still up for never if you are." He looked over his shoulder and winked. "These aristocratic families can be awfully stuffy. Say the word, and we'll turn around. Go back to that pub in the inn."

In another scenario, she might have taken him up on that offer. In their limited interaction over the last few days, she had easily deduced that this coachman bore gentleness alongside a sense of ease roughed-up, just at the edges. Presumably, this was the result of a less-than-easy life. Bast was most likely the type never to worry because there was always something to worry about and never fully serious because life had always been too serious.

As he set her luggage down and knocked on the great oak door of Whitehall, Seleste let herself ponder what it would be like to flit away with someone like him.

"What will you do when you leave here?"

Bast turned, the grin he cast her over his shoulder infectious. "I'll go to Rochbury, as I said. But I think I'll spend some time there." He winked at her again. "You never know who might need to run away from a place like Whitehall."

Wood groaned and hinges sang as the door to the chateau opened, drawing both their attention. A rail-thin woman stood before them. Three of the tiny woman wouldn't have equalled Seleste's curvacious size, and she blocked the entrance insufficiently. Taking one look at them, her face dropped into a scowl.

"How can I help you?" she said, her voice betraying how very little she wanted to be of any sort of help. "Did your carriage break down? We have no room for guests, and our stable is full."

Seleste gently nudged Bast to the side, pushing forward toward the brusque woman. "Good afternoon, madame . I am here in response to the advert in the papers. Your need for a maid who does not hail from Merveille." She put a hand to her chest and smiled. "I am Seleste, from Drifthollow." A half-truth, considering she had not lived there but three moons a hundred and fifty years ago and had only elected to travel from there on this occasion so as not to lie fully.

The responding silence stung a bit—like the tightening of the skin after too long in the sun—as the woman looked her up and down with distaste. Alas, Seleste was used to such lingering looks, and her smile remained. Ignorance was a fatal flaw she was all too familiar with to let it rattle her any longer. It had long reared its ugly head in the hanging of witches, the burning of alchemy texts, or the oppression of those deemed lesser because of their skin colour or social standing.

"Madame Riley," a voice spoke from behind the door, breaking the tense silence. "Who is there? "

The older woman ran a hand down her aproned front, flustered, and opened the door wider. "‘tis someone responding to the advert about servants for the chateau this Summer, my lady."

Out of the shadows stepped a woman so refined and elegant that Seleste might have thought her royalty. Madame Riley bled back into the shadows as the other woman glided forward. Her white day dress was sprinkled with almost imperceptible sprigs of pink, the exact shade of her lips and rosy cheeks. She smiled beautifully, and Seleste thought perhaps she was a Summer nymph instead.

"What a lovely surprise. I was told by the agency that no one would be here until tomorrow to interview for the position. Come, come," she said, waving them forward. "Leonard there will take the luggage."

She pointed toward a quiet young man in an expensive livery, and Bast quickly handed off the luggage. With a murmured farewell and a dip of his chin, he was out the door, and Madame Riley shut it behind him. A brief sadness passed through Seleste at their abrupt parting.

"Come, then," the Summer nymph said, "I'll show you to the parlour and bring in refreshments."

"My lady," Madame Riley clucked, "you needn't do my job for me."

Seleste silently observed, sifting through the loudness already filling her senses. She couldn't have stopped it if she'd tried. Which, of course, she did not try to do.

Madame Riley lacked confidence in her position, which led Seleste to believe she'd had difficulty in her life, understanding that other people's choices and reactions did not always equate to dissatisfaction with her. My lady still had not introduced herself, a great faux pas amongst the beau monde , and Seleste wondered what it was she felt the need to hide in doing so. Leonard, stiff as a board and holding her luggage, was a doormat. Someone everyone in his life walked all over, even if unintentionally.

If the Grimoire had not been what brought her to Whitehall, Seleste's first target would have been Leonard—to help him see his worth and find his voice. He had far too many years left in his young life to continue living as he did. Then, she would have moved on to Madame Riley, who had similar insecurities, but they were all tangled up with pride. A messy business to unravel, indeed…

Seleste mentally cursed herself. She would not meddle. She would not get involved.

"Nonsense, Madame Riley," the lady of the house was saying. "You have hardly half a staff at present, and I can certainly lend a hand until the others are sent along by the agency in Merveille. Besides, my husband is feeling ill, and I'd like to take him tea myself." She began walking briskly down the corridor, the gold strands in her brown hair gleaming as she passed all the open windows letting in the glowing afternoon sun.

Madame Riley scurried after her, and Seleste began to do the same, but Leonard still stood there like a statue. "Madame Riley," Seleste called tentatively.

When the woman turned around, Seleste discreetly tilted her head toward Leonard. Madame Riley scowled and whispered something—most likely foul—under her breath before her eyes went wide for her slip of the tongue, and she darted a look behind her at her mistress, who was already gone .

"Leonard," Madame Riley snapped, stomping back toward them, "take the luggage to the Yellow Room, as Mademoiselle–eh–" She looked at Seleste. "What was it?"

"Seleste, ma'am."

The woman nodded sharply. "Mademoiselle Seleste will need a room." Leonard turned on his heel and made his way wordlessly down the corridor in the opposite direction. "A great lumbering buffoon, that one," Madame Riley tutted as Seleste jumped to keep up with her. As they chased down the lady of the house, the presumed stewardess continued her ill thoughts of Leonard aloud. "He's so afraid of making a mistake that he doesn't do anything."

Madame Riley was of slight stature and hardly reached Seleste's shoulder, but she walked so quickly that it was difficult to keep up, let alone take in much of the house as they dashed by.

"We expect to keep a small staff this Summer," she was saying as Seleste noted the telltale signs of wealth—perfectly embroidered curtains, gilt frames of real gold, expensive baubles that would sit in the drawing rooms of most who owned something so priceless, available for all to see, while this family had them gathering dust in dark corners of a hallway. "That means," Madame Riley went on, "that you'll each have your own room. Quite a treat for you lot, I'd presume, not having to double-up."

They reached a doorway, and Madame Riley paused just long enough to inhale. Seleste couldn't help but think this woman was somewhat terrified of her Lady of the House. Following Madame Riley in, Seleste was instantly taken with the airy room decorated in soft greens and creamy whites. The floor-to-ceiling window had been thrown open, and delicate curtains fluttered gently in the breeze. Lush bouquets of freesia and hydrangea left a fresh, floral scent lingering on the air. A beautiful painting of a garden hung over the mantle, a perfect match to the lavish garden visible beyond the window.

"Damnation," Madame Riley muttered, looking around the room devoid of her employer. "She's gone to fetch the tea herself." She started to stomp toward the door, and Seleste wanted to stop her. Put a hand on her frail arm and let her know that, perhaps, the lady of the house didn't mind helping. Perhaps it gave her something to do with her time. In her long life, Seleste had seen far too many ladies wilting for lack of stimulation aside from needlepoint monotony. Yet, she hadn't spent enough time with either of them to say such a thing and kept the thoughts to herself, letting Madame Riley abandon her in the beautiful parlour.

She was looking out across the grounds toward a little sand and stone path through the hills that she hoped led to a slice of beach when the lady of the house came in carrying a tray of tea and biscuits. Madame Riley rushed in behind her, flushed and thoroughly rattled. When the tray was set down, tea sloshed out of the spout, drenching a few of the biscuits. Madame Riley let out a muffled gasp, her eyes wide in horror, but my lady only beamed. Seleste stifled her own smile, concluding that the elegant woman in front of her had only recently taken up helping . She was most likely bored in the city—whichever she hailed from, her guess was Merveille—and the country way of life had only compounded that boredom.

She sat primly on the sofa and gestured for Seleste to do the same. Madame Riley came forward to pour the tea and serve the biscuits while the lady studied Seleste .

"What is your name?" she finally asked, trying to mask her tinge of wariness with doe eyes and an amiable upturn of her lips. She was indeed societally practised .

"Seleste, my lady," she answered politely.

"My, what an exotic name." Exotic . The word they always used for different . Outsider . "Do you hail from Coronocco?"

The assumption they always made next. "My father's heritage is Coronoccan, but I hail from Drifthollow, my lady."

"Well, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Seleste." She sipped her tea daintily. "I am Lady Della."

Seleste's mind took that incredibly small morsel of information and ran. Della was a nickname, short for any number of names. Adeline, Adela, Adele, Cordelia… Seleste hadn't been entrenched in polite society very often, but she did know that no one who spent the Summer at such an estate would introduce themselves by a nickname , let alone without presenting the rest of their title. Surely, no one without a title would have cause to stay in such a chateau .

Face serene, Seleste simply dipped her head. "It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance as well, Lady Della."

"Do you have experience in being a maid, Seleste?"

Setting her teacup down, Seleste smoothed her bland skirt, wishing for a fuschia or tangerine sarong instead. "I do, m'lady. I have experience maintaining cleanliness and orderliness, as well as culinary experience. I have never been a lady's personal maid, but I have three Sisters and know well how to plait hair and tie up gowns." She smiled kindly, and Lady Della returned it. This time, the concealed bite behind it was lessened, if only slightly.

"Forgive my insensitivity, but this is an interview after all. Do you know how to"—Lady Della patted her perfect chignon with a hand—"work with my type of hair if you've only done your Sisters'?"

Seleste tried not to stiffen, tried not to reach up and touch her many coarse braids plaited into a thicker one and wound around into a coil at the base of her neck. She considered telling the woman that her Sisters had hair that was nothing like hers, that she was the only one of the Joubert Sisters to have inherited their father's traits so strongly. But it was not this aristocratic woman's right to know about Seleste's family. Although she didn't sense downright malice from the woman, she wouldn't feed into ignorance.

Instead, she took a calming breath and nodded. "I know how to work with all hair types, m'lady."

Genuine glee lit Lady Della's face, and she brought her hands together, clapping happily. "Wonderful! I do believe you are hired."

Madame Riley let out a gurgling noise behind them, something akin to a choke and a wheeze. Lady Della ignored her, tossing a "My dear husband needs his tea and medicine. Toodaloo!" over her shoulder as she bustled out of the room.

When they were alone, Seleste handed Madame Riley a cup of tea and held her own aloft. "To a wonderful Summer at Whitehall."