distance too long. The ship cut through the waves, rushing, roaring.
“There!”
Dead ahead, the ocean roiled. Shapes leapt. Sleek figures cavorted like dolphins in the sea foam.
The flagship sailed toward the turbulent water. A siren song, no dolphin’s call, floated through the air. The sailors fell into terrified silence.
Yves stood motionless, curbing his excitement. He had known he would find his quarry at this spot and on this day; he had never doubted his hypothesis. He should meet his success with composure.
“The net!” Captain Desheureux’s shout overwhelmed the song. “The net, you bastards!”
His command sent his crew scrambling. They feared him more than they feared sea monsters, more than they feared demons. The winch shrieked and groaned, wood against rope against metal. The net clattered over the side. A sailor muttered a profane prayer.
The creatures frolicked, oblivious to the approaching galleon. They breached like dolphins, splashing wildly, churning the sea. They caressed each other, twining their tails about one another, singing their animal sensuality. Their rutting whipped the ocean into froth.
Yves’ excitement surged, possessing his mind and his body, overcoming his resolution. Shocked by the intensity of his reaction, he closed his eyes and bowed his head, praying for humble tranquility.
The rattle of the net, its heavy cables knocking against the ship’s flank, brought him back to the world. Desheureux cursed. Yves ignored the words, as he had ignored casual profanity and blasphemy throughout the voyage.
Once more his own master, Yves waited, impassive. Calmly he noted the details of his prey: their size; their color; their number, much reduced from the horde reported a century before.
The galleon swept through the fornicating sea monsters. As Yves had planned, as he had hoped, as he had expected from his research, the sea monsters trapped themselves in their rapture. They never noticed the attack until the moment of onslaught.
The siren song disintegrated into animal cries and screams of pain. Hunted animals always shrieked at the shock of their capture. Yves doubted that beasts could feel fear, but he suspected they might feel pain.
The galleon crushed through them, drowning them in their own screams. The net swept through the thrashing waves.
Desheureux shouted abuse and orders. The sailors winched the net’s cables. Underwater, powerful creatures thrashed against the side of the galleon. Their voices beat the planks like a drum.
The net hauled the creatures from the sea. Sunlight gleamed from their dark, leathery flanks.
“Release the pigeons.” Yves kept his voice level.
“It’s too far,” whispered the apprentice to the royal pigeon keeper. “They’ll die.” Birds cooed and fluttered in their wicker cages.
“Release them!” If none reached France from this flight of birds, the next flight would succeed, or the one after that.
“Yes, Father.”
A dozen carrier pigeons lofted into the sky. Their wings beat the air. The soft sound faded to silence. Yves glanced over his shoulder. One of the pigeons wheeled, climbing higher. Its message capsule flashed silver, reflecting the sun, signaling Yves’ triumph.
1
THE PROCESSION WOUND its way along the cobbled street, stretching fifty carriages long. The people of Le Havre pressed close on either side, cheering their King and his court, marvelling at the opulence of the carriages and the harnesses, admiring the flamboyant dress, the jewels and lace, the velvet and cloth-of-gold, the wide plumed hats of the young noblemen who accompanied their sovereign on horseback.
Marie-Josèphe de la Croix had dreamed of riding in such a procession, but her dreams fell short of the reality. She traveled in the carriage of the duke and duchess d’Orléans, a carriage second in magnificence only to the King’s. She sat across from the duke, the King’s brother, known always as Monsieur, and his wife Madame. Their daughter Mademoiselle sat beside her.
On her other side, Monsieur’s friend the Chevalier de Lorraine lounged lazily, handsome and languorous, bored by the long journey from Versailles to Le Havre. Lotte—Mademoiselle, I must always remember to call her, Marie-Josèphe said to herself, now that I’m at court, now that I’m her lady-in-waiting—leaned out the carriage window, nearly as excited as Marie-Josèphe.
The Chevalier stretched his long legs diagonally so they crossed in front of Marie-Josèphe’s feet.
Despite the dust, and the smells of the waterfront, and the noise of horses and riders and carriages clattering along the cobblestones, Madame insisted on opening both windows and curtains. She had a great fondness for fresh air, which Marie-Josèphe shared. Despite her age—she was over forty!—Madame always rode on the hunt with the King. She hinted that Marie-Josèphe might be invited to ride along.