Pretty in Porcelain

Pretty in Porcelain

By Ella Walter

 

Flavie was finding it difficult to keep up with beauty rituals now that she was dead. Plucking at stray eyebrow hairs and scanning her face for signs of aging seemed pointless given that her rosy complexion had faded to a sorrowful pallor and shadows had stationed themselves beneath her eyes. She was stuck wearing the shapeless, papery gown given to infirmary patients and had no wardrobe options other than the tattered uniform she had worn as a scullery maid. But maybe this was negligible, as she could no longer be seen by the living. They breezed by unknowingly, sometimes even walking through her. She would manifest as a chill down the spine and nothing more. 

It has been three weeks since Flavie’s demise a month before her sixteenth birthday. Typhoid fever had racked the servant quarters of the Château du Lifort, taking with it a cook and his apprentice, two maidservants, and a laundress. She wondered if the spirits of those poor souls also roamed the palace. Flavie’s fever had sent her into a state of delirium and her final days had melted into a haze. She regretted that she could not distinguish a conclusive time of death; all she knew was that she woke again. She maintained her sickly appearance, but thankfully did not progress further into decomposition. Her cheekbones protruded as abrasively and her brown locks fell as limply as they had during her receiving of Last Rites, but her body itself no longer felt riddled with sickness. In fact, it felt very little at all. This allowed her to weave through the castle halls with a newfound lightness, passing through walls and no longer fearing an accidental collision with a nobleman or, worse, a locking of eyes with a member of the royal family.

The first few days of death were strange. She’d been relieved of those ghastly fever symptoms, but they had been replaced by an eerie lack of physical sensations. She was no longer subjected to the regulations of hunger, thirst, and time that regulated the lives of the living. There was no need to rise before dawn with the rest of the maidservants, so what was she to do instead? Paint? Learn to play an instrument? What did citizens of leisure do with their lack of obligations? Flavie attempted to leave the castle to return to Castelmoron-d’Albret, the small mining town where she’d grown up, several times. She was bewildered to find that each door to the outside brought her back into the room from which she had just left. Was this a punishment? Would she be forever confined within the walls of her place of death? 

Not that they were a shabby set of walls between which to be found. The Château du Lifort was a marvel of its time, a sprawling array of decadence and artistic ingenuity. It was not a practical structure; the shallow moat that circled the innermost property and the imposing, asymmetrical towers that crowded the roofscape had no defensive purposes. Dizzying double-spiral staircases weaved around the 430 rooms and portraits cluttered the walls. Flavie’s experience of the palace, however, had been decidedly less glamorous. She had slept in a cramped cabinet of the servant quarters, far from a window and confronted with the smell of mouse droppings. Since her arrival at the palace four years prior, her mornings had begun before dawn with the abrupt bustle of activity. Her newfound freedom allowed them to unfold languorously in front of her, which had been nice for a while. But she had grown restless.  

Flavie couldn’t resist creeping into the suites in which her superiors gathered, exchanging palace gossip, or discussing domestic affairs. Her status as a scullion condemned her to the shadows of the château, where she was to haul buckets of sudsy water and remain unseen. Even among the maidservants, she was of a low rank. She was not to shine the noble’s shoes or set the dinner table. She was to sweep, dust, dry, and scour the floors until her cuticles bled. But now there was no one to stop her from sauntering into the exclusive rooms of nobility and royalty as if she were one of them. She sat on chairs that resembled miniature thrones. She picked cubes of cheese off of gleaming plates that were sharp enough to cut through her bodily numbness and chased them with sips of wine that challenged her taste buds. The gentry wore puzzled expressions as goblets seemingly emptied themselves and grapes disappeared without a trace. Flavie paid them no mind. She studied their attire, all buttons and boning and shimmer and frills. Despite their magnificence, many of the garments made their wearers look silly. They sometimes resembled peacocks, those odd creatures from India that boasted extravagant plumage atop bony legs. 

Flavie wanted more than a glimpse into the twinkling world of the royals. In what may have been a stroke of ghostly madness, she had decided that today she would enter Queen Desiree’s chambers. The young monarch was noted for her beauty and glamor; she ushered in a new era of aesthetic appreciation among the upper echelon of French society. Despite this, Flavie had only even seen her from afar when perched on her throne, and one time in which she was hurried down a hall by a flock of doting maidservants and nannies. She only knew the location of her quarters because her friend Elise was tasked with bringing her ironed garments to them. 

Flavie walked to the left wing of the castle and paused briefly outside Desiree’s chambers. Ornate gold decorations rippled across the heavy door, which was flanked by marble busts of the queen. Flavie’s eyes widened in awe at what she saw on the other side. The bedroom looked as if it had been touched by Midas; every gold, sun-soaked surface reflected another. Pink upholstery covered the walls from floor to ceiling, the corners of which featured cherubic figures. A canopy shrouded the bed in tasseled curtains like a luxurious willow tree. Flavie knew she would have been exiled from the palace if she were found wandering through the queen’s apartment, which expanded into six suites. The exhilaration of rebellion quickened her movements as she continued further in. She wandered into the boudoir room, which was built around a massive oak desk with triptych mirrors. She seated herself on the velvet cushioned stool and rifled excitedly through the desk’s drawers, which were lined with floral wallpaper. They were crowded by perfumes, powders, rouges, clips, combs, tweezers, stains, sprays, and Heaven knew what else! Overwhelmed with her choices and unsure of how to use most of these products, Flavie turned her attention to her reflection. She felt a pang of embarrassment; her faded apron and colorless face looked even more pathetic among such beauty and opulence. Rebuking herself for her indulgence in self-pity, she chose a perfume at random, continuing to dig wildly through the drawers as the vanilla mist settled on her skin. She smoothed a paint-like liquid on her face that was certainly too light but concealed the worst of the darkness beneath her eyes. She dusted over it with a white powder and added a deep rouge, marveling at the return of youthful color to her face. She looked alive! She looked like a girl again. 

Flavie’s moment was interrupted by the sound of voices outside the chamber doors. She froze, gold-paneled hairbrush in hand, before relaxing. Whoever had arrived wouldn’t be able to see her, after all. But they would be able to see the array of cosmetics across the Queen’s desk. She made a raucous hastily putting them back in their drawers and slamming them shut as footsteps neared.

She heard the babble of who she could only assume to be the queen. “Oh, I do hope they enjoyed my company. Do you think so? I’ve been worrying about this luncheon for days. But the food was scrumptious, it really was. Except for those scallops. They were altogether too salty, and Lanier knows I don’t like them salty. It’s almost as if he did it on purpose. Oh, I hope he isn’t upset with me for some reason.” 

“Don’t be silly. He adores you,” answered another voice.

She took in the Queen close-up for the first time as she walked through the boudoir room, the bottom half of her emerald gown stretching from one side of the doorway to the other. Curly chestnut hair framed her face, which was white as snow but had a maternal warmth. Her eyes were large hazel pools on either side of round cheeks, stained burgundy by rouge. Powder had been heavily employed over her nose to obscure its noticeable width. Flavie was struck by envy at the pronounced cupid’s bow that sat atop her full lips. Flavie now understood the public’s fascination with her looks. What deepened her sense of admiration and personal inadequacy, however, was how clearly Queen Desiree was a woman. Every place on her body where Flavie was flat and angular was curved and dramatic. She was simultaneously delicate, with dewy skin and manicured nails untouched by harsh cleaning agents. Flavie would never achieve the elegance that came with that physical maturity. 

Two servant girls followed Desiree into her boudoir room and began to undress her, removing hair clips and unbuttoning the bodice of her gown. Desiree exhaled and her posture relaxed; they unclasped the scaffolding, reportedly made from whalebone, that gave her skirt its remarkable diameter. Flavie moved from the stool as Desiree took a seat on its cushion. She devoted the next hour to inspecting herself, making remarks to her maidservants on matters such as the size of her pores, and executing an extensive ritual of feminine self-care. It was objectively boring, but Flavie watched with fascination as the monarch occupied herself with an endless array of fragrant creams and oils. How could any person be afforded this much time to gaze at and fuss over herself? Surely, she must have queenly duties to attend to and important decisions to make. Unbeknownst to Flavie was that both Desiree herself and the public had deemed her an ornamental figure. She lacked interest in politics, but France still loved her for her beauty and poise and success in producing heirs. 

“How are the boys? Have they been behaving during their lessons?” Desiree asked as she flopped on her bed.

“Hugo is excelling in history, but Claude seems to be having trouble,” the taller servant girl answered. She exhibited an impressive amount of self-possession for a servant. Perhaps this was a perk of working directly under the royals. 

“Oh dear,” Desiree said. “Perhaps he’s feeling neglected. I’ve hardly been giving him enough attention. I’ve been fatigued lately by this unpredictable weather.”

“You worry too much,” the shorter girl assured her. Flavie believed her name was Perette.

“I surely don’t. Why, just last night, he refused to finish his dessert. A marvelous apple cranberry galette, which he usually devours. His flu could be returning, and his condition could be waning as we speak! I ought to have him looked at by Mrs. Moulin at once. Wait,” she said suddenly, sitting up. She fixed her gaze on the corner of her desk, where the vanilla perfume Flavie had used earlier stood only seconds before. 

“Where is my Bisou Vanile?” she asked.

Flavie cursed herself for her carelessness, tightening her grip on the glass bottle. She had swiped it from the desk without thinking and crossed the room, intending to take it with her. She watched Desiree’s thinly painted brows knit in concern. 

“I could have sworn it was right there on my desk.” 

Perette and the other servant girl exchanged unknowing glances and suggested that she had already put it away. 

 Desiree checked the drawers. “I know I saw it!” she cried. The two girls sat on either side of her and repeated calming assurances. 

“Your eyes must have played a trick on you.”

“No, they didn’t!” Desiree said a little too loudly and in a whiny tone. Flavie was taken aback by her lack of composure. The taller maidservant squeezed the queen’s hand. “Maybe you just need a rest.” 

“I don’t want a rest!” 

The scene was striking. It was commonplace for royalty to bark orders or dismiss the help out of annoyance, but not to have fits in front of or seek comfort from them. She thought Desiree juvenile for relying so heavily on the sweet nothings of these two teenagers. At the same time, she mused over how nice it would be to have their support at one’s beck and call. She had frequently felt alone in the four years since her family had sent her to work at the Château, unable to feed her after the arrival of her younger siblings. There was no parental figure whose arms she could collapse into after a hard day; only superiors who demanded the same stoicism that had been expected of them as laboring boys and girls. She often felt like a child who had been given work boots without an explanation as to how to tie them. And here was Desiree, a grown woman, throwing a tantrum. Flavie experienced the sting of disdain. She crossed the threshold and placed the bottle back on Desiree’s desk in its former place. 

“See? It’s right there,” Perette said, pointing. 

Desiree’s eyes widened. “It can’t be,” she muttered. “J-just a second ago…”

But the two girls were uninterested. “See, your majesty, it was just a trick of the eyes,” the tall one concluded. “You’re likely just tired out. Why don’t you get some rest?” 

…

There was an elaborate feast that night. Flavie remembered the stress these events had brought for the staff of the Château, the scullery maids being largely responsible for cleanup. She recalled several occasions on which she scrubbed vomit out of crevices in the wood of the table designated for the nobility. The members of this class were known for their insatiable appetite for liqueur. Luckily, that drudgery hadn’t made it into Flavie’s afterlife. 

The dining hall was warm with a celestial glow from the hundreds of candles set single file across its four long tables. Guests remarked on the symphony of smells that filled the room as each new course was brought from the kitchen on porcelain plates. An orchestra led by Aimé Toussaint, France’s premier cellist, played over the chatter. A hush fell over the crowd as King Dennis and his fair wife Desiree entered. They made a careful procession to their thrones with their hands meeting ever so slightly, as was custom for monarchs. Onlookers noticed something peculiar in Desiree’s manner. That demure, knowing smile that won the hearts of her subjects faltered several times and then tried to reinstate itself. It seemed too aware it was being watched. Her descent to the throne was also flawed and she shifted several times in her seat throughout the performances of the night. 

What went less noticed was that Desiree was also without her signature vanilla scent. After returning it to its place on her desk and waiting for the queen to doze off for her nap, Flavie had doused herself in it with glee, applying enough for her diminished sense of smell to take notice. She hadn’t realized that only a tiny puddle remained in the bottle when she’d first picked it up, and Desiree awoke to find it empty. She accused the servant girls of playing tricks on her, though one of their superiors corroborated that they had been in other parts of the palace during her nap. She then bemoaned how she would stink of ointment and scare off the guests without it. “My night,” she said tearfully, “will be a disaster!” 

Desiree didn’t seem aware of what a fool she was making of herself. But perhaps, to those around her, she wasn’t. Having spent no time among royalty, Flavie couldn’t say whether it was custom to throw hissy fits. Her friends had spoken of King Dennis’ general unfriendliness toward the help and his penchant for making angry culinary demands, but those seemed mere assertions of his authority. Desiree’s outburst, on the other hand, had the characteristics of an impotent child. While Dennis regarded his subordinates as a nuisance, Desiree tugged on their fraying sleeves. Her naked neediness stirred something in Flavie that she identified as disgust. She did not recognize, however, that some other emotion festered beside it. Perhaps it was jealousy. 

Though she had the whole palace to explore, Flavie spent most of the next few days milling about Desiree’s chambers. She tried on her gowns, which barely clung to her birdlike shoulders but made her feel transformed, nonetheless. She felt her femininity had been squandered by her years of toiling around in an ill-fitting uniform, acquiring bruises from hours spent scrubbing floors and being allowed a limited amount of bathing time per week. She’d died worn out and dirty, and she knew it. But the first time Flavie lowered herself into Desiree’s enormous bathtub and lathered herself in herbal cleansers, something changed. It was baptismal, really. She emerged with a renewed spirit and reduced numbness in her body. She proceeded to try on five of Desiree’s gowns and study herself in the mirror. Her insides fluttered. She felt clean. She felt pretty. Something told her she ought to leave the privacy of the boudoir room and strut down the halls in that ravishing cobalt number. It didn’t matter that no one could see her. No one had truly seen her for the past four years. 

What did matter was that she’d left the other gowns rumpled on the floor. 

…

            Desiree surveyed the scene and groaned. Yet another instance of cruel trickery from the people she was supposed to trust! For the past week, they’d been rummaging through her jewelry, rearranging her clothes, using her ointments and oils, and lying straight to her face about it. She’d had enough. A frustrated shriek escaped her diamond-clad throat.  

It only took a minute for two maidservants to appear. King Dennis, who’d been on his way to his wife’s chambers to bid her goodnight, followed shortly after.

“Lock the door behind you,” she demanded. “Who’s been doing this?” 

The three onlookers surveyed the scene. Four of Desiree’s gowns were strewn carelessly across the floor. Her cosmetics desk was crowded with products. Her silk robe was draped over the bathroom sink, which was wet from recent use. The entire bathroom smelled of lavender and the residue of soap had gathered in the drain. It appeared as if Desiree had had a lovely night in. 

“Do you mean to tell me this wasn’t you?” Dennis asked. 

Desiree shot him a glare. “No, I don’t leave my things in such disarray. I told you, someone’s been going through my belongings. Using my tub. Leaving impressions on my bed. Taking my perfume. And they must have a key, for every time I arrive upon these scenes, they’re behind a locked door. It’s driving me mad.”

Both the maidservants hastily pledged their innocence. 

Dennis faced the girls with a scowl and leaned close to their frightened faces. “If I find you responsible, I will make sure you never work again. And don’t think I won’t get the courts involved. ” He willed his expression to soften as he turned to his wife. “Is there anyone who you suspect of intent to disrupt your peace of mind?” 

Desiree racked her brain but could think of no one. She was regarded warmly by the staff, who she treated with more kindness than queens of the past had. Who would have a reason to plot against her? Her girls knew she trusted and confided in them her deepest secrets and wishes. She now felt foolish for doing so. In fact, she’d felt the uneasy sensation of being watched lately. What if the girls were coordinating against her? Smiling in her face and snickering behind her back? Taking advantage of her, a young mother who’d been warned of her own naivete. But she imagined Dennis’ response if she were to fret over servant gossip. He would remind her of who she was. How dare they do such a thing to their Highness? 

She stammered and grew frustrated at her inability to answer. “All of them!” she cried out. “I can’t trust a single one!” 

The lines etched into Dennis’s clean-shaven face hardened. “We shall have your girls questioned and searched at once. In the meantime…” he trailed off to check the lock on her chamber door and found it was intact.. 

It was around this time that Flavie returned from her jovial stroll and began listening in. The two maidservants were dismissed by Dennis. 

He lowered his voice. “In the meantime, you need to do a better job of keeping them in line. These girls are not your friends. They are the help. Workers’ rebellions, strikes, loose lips from within…they’ll all happen if these people are not reminded where they stand.”

Desiree paused pensively. She and Dennis usually disagreed on such matters, but now she was less sure. “And where do they stand to you?” she asked. 

“Whoever is doing this is no better than one of my hunting dogs. And the rest aren’t far above.”

Desiree locked eyes with her husband and nodded. “I won’t let their grubby paws touch another one of my things.”

Hot fury bubbled in the pit of Flavie’s stomach after her eavesdropping session. And to think she’d considered Desiree one of the better ones! She may have had a gentle disposition, but she was like the rest of them. She was a pampered housecat with its powdered nose turned perpetually upward, possessing an endless supply of toys that it quickly grew bored of. And everyone else was a flea-bitten rat.

            After storming around the palace to regroup, Flavie returned to the queen’s chamber. She was asleep. Flavie picked up one of her jewelry boxes and promptly dropped it in the middle of her floor. The noise woke Desiree up instantly. Flavie went on. She dragged a velvet settee across the floor and opened both her curtains in a sweeping motion. 

Desiree screamed. “This is a dream!” she told herself. “Stop! Who’s doing this?”

Flavie continued her spree of commotion, flinging open drawers and slamming various doors of the queen’s suite. She liked to hear the rustle of Desiree’s gown on the floor as she did so. The queen screamed wildly for Dennis. 

The king, whose suite was across from his wife’s, materialized quickly, key in hand. “What is this?” he boomed. 

Desiree had her knees tucked under her nightgown like a child. “Dennis,” she sobbed. “Make it stop.” 

Dennis placed her hand in his and looked around. The curtains and a few drawers were left open. One of Desiree’s jewelry boxes was positioned oddly at the foot of bed. He searched the suite but found nothing else out of the ordinary. 

“I didn’t, I didn’t do this!” she exclaimed. 

“My dear, your door was locked. I had to let myself in with my key. No one else is here. No one else could have done it.” 

Desiree’s eyes widened. “You think---why do you think I would be doing this?”

There was no good way to answer that question. 

A minute went by before clarity seemed to pass over Desiree’s face. “I must be being haunted.”

Dennis would have no such nonsense. He was a man of the Enlightenment and France was leading the world in its embrace of reason after years of religious fanaticism and supernatural superstition. The royals would be embarrassed by hysterical claims of haunting from a monarch.

“Desiree” he said slowly. He thought of her penchant for the dramatic, her need for constant attention and assurance. “How are we to know that your troubles as of late are not manifestations of some greater distress? Perhaps they are merely physical revelations---”

“I don’t want to hear your rational nonsense!” Desiree hissed. “I know what I saw, and what’s more, I’ve felt a presence lurking around me for days now,” her voice dropped to a whisper. “I know I am not alone! I just thought it could be attributed to some peevish servant girl.” 

Dennis decided to switch courses. Sure, she sounded mad, but poking holes in Desiree’s chosen narrative never did anything but inflame her devotion to it. “Let’s say you are being haunted,” he began. “If it is so, we cannot speak of it.”

            Dennis went on to explain his anxieties about the public’s ill will toward such a fantastical claim. The couple agreed to keep the alleged haunting between them, on the condition that Dennis would quietly hire a professional who could handle the matter. Desiree floated the idea of a priest or seer, both of which Dennis hated the thought of bringing in. Hopefully she would drop the dramatics before he would have to quietly usher in such a person, out of the public’s view.          

            Flavie had darted out of Desiree’s room before Dennis had come to console her, so the royal couple’s plan to keep the haunting between them was devised without her knowledge. Unknown to Desiree was the ability to keep her distress under wraps. She lived to express, to connect; she saw no reason as to why she shouldn’t reveal her troubles and indulge in even the slightest of whims. If she were to deny herself, would she really be living? And it was not her womanly appearance or her luxuries, but her ability to do so that Flavie envied most. Desiree had a fleet of helpers with no choice but to enable her self-absorption, her solipsism, her wasteful worrying. It was egregiously unfair that a grown woman was afforded an unwavering support network while Flavie had been thrust into the bustling squalor of the servant quarters and forced to mature; to leave behind the dreamy, sensitive child she was. During her first week, she’d been struck by an overseer for crying out for her parents. She’d learned to constantly suppress, to avoid introspection, and sink into the background as an unfeeling cog.  

            Since Desiree’s comment comparing Flavie to a dog, her jealousy had boiled into a steaming resentment. Flavie now delighted in tormenting the queen. She whispered in her ear during her public meetings, she ate off her plate, and drew baths in her tub. Desiree would try to stifle her instinctual screams at the sudden turning on of her faucet or stamp out the uncomfortable twitches she made when she felt a cold breeze inches from her face. But the palace could not help but notice her quickly unraveling. 

            The stress had diminished Desiree’s sleep and appetite. After a snarky remark had been made on her hasty finishing of a dinner plate, courtesy of Flavie, she had begun declining meals. She avoided her chambers, where she once spent much of her time resting and grooming herself and had taken to roaming the palace halls to pass the time. People cast suspicious looks as the wan-faced monarch walked without direction from one end of the estate to the other. Worst of all was that Desiree could not confide in anyone about her hauntings. She had to take the blame when her chamber was found a mess by the servant girls and bite her tongue when in the presence of her husband, who she knew could not suspend his skepticism. She’d made a habit of dismissing her girls’ questions because she assumed that they were already chuckling at her odd behavior amongst one another. And she was right. Whispers moved as smoothly through the palace as Flavie did its walls. The rumors a few decades before would have been that the queen was possessed by a malevolent spirit. Now it was her own mind. 

            Flavie missed her parents and the tranquility of her hometown, as forgettable and drab as it was. She made several more unsuccessful attempts at leaving the palace, the most recent of which left her racked with sobs and crumpled on the floor in a chiffon dress. She was trapped in the Château and poisoned by bitterness toward her condition. It was this stinging acrimony that drove her to harm. But she’d grown unsatisfied by her antics with the queen, who’d toiled enough beneath her ghostly hand. The last night Flavie visited Desiree’s chamber, all she planned to do was crack open the window; she was finished with dramatic gestures. But Desiree had laid awake, anticipating a disturbance, and was unable to contain herself. 

She scrambled out of bed to face the window, sheets wrapped around feet, and let out a bloodcurdling scream that woke up the left wing of the palace. “Stoppppp!” she moaned, wrapping her fingers around her newly bony shoulders. “Tell me what you want! I beg of you!” 

King Dennis rushed in, trailed by a group of servant girls. The queen cowered beneath the window like a mouse facing a salivating cat. She was in hysterics and resisted Dennis’ performative embrace.

“Not you!” she sputtered as he neared her and scurried across the room. “You b*****d! You’re just as bad as the rest of them!”

“Enough of this sulking and madness! You have lost your head!” Dennis bellowed. His unblinking eyes looked similarly deprived of sleep. 

“How dare you?” she spat, her volume and intensity matching his. “Before I am your queen, I am your wife.”

He was silent. 

She neared him slowly. “And where is this so-called professional you promised me? Who I reminded you I was in need of? No seer, no exorcist, not even a word of support from you or our priest!” 

            “My dear, I�"”

            “And you!” she turned her attention toward the servant girls huddled in the corner. “You, who stifled your laughter as you watched me wither away. And after I treated you with nothing but decency?” A sniffle escaped one of them. “Get out!” Desiree yelled, and they hurried back to their quarters. 

Realizing what she’d done, the queen succumbed to tears and crawled back into bed. Dennis consoled her and swore to call a seer at once. Flavie resisted the urge to cover her eyes as she watched the scene unfold. She had not expected to generate such a reaction from Desiree. She didn’t know she had told anyone of her haunting and was dismissed. She didn’t realize the gravity of the toll it had taken on her. What she did know, however, was that she had relished in Desiree’s suffering. To her, taunting was the least she could do to even the score, considering just how much Desiree had been given that Flavie wanted. Exceptional beauty, the highest of statuses, power, wealth, public adoration, and the chance to have a family. The chance to be treated with respect. A longer life. Even if an initial act of retribution had been warranted, she’d become spiteful and sadistic. A silk dress hung from her shoulders and chamomile soap emanated from her skin, but she felt dirtier than she’d ever felt while alive. 

Flavie wanted to apologize to Desiree, but any further efforts to communicate from the afterlife would be harmful. She never learned to write, so a letter was out of the question. She could not leave the Château du Lifort on her own accord. But perhaps she could be banished. 

…

Analetta was a famed seer of the Romani gypsy tribes in France, her talents having been sought by a dozen aristocrats and royals in neighboring countries until the last few years. She was not surprised at the urgency of King Dennis’ request. Though her work had fallen out of favor in western Europe’s newly “civilized” public eye, there would always be a need for it. Analetta took a slow walk around the Château du Lifort upon arrival; it was necessary to gauge what spirits toiled beneath its floors and within its walls. She was disturbed to feel the presence of several young souls in need of release. 

Desiree paced through her boudoir room, wiping at beads of sweat at her hairline. She had not changed from the night before and had refused breakfast and lunch. “Oh, thank Heavens,” she said at the sound of Analetta’s knock. Dennis let the woman in and thanked her for her punctuality. To any onlooker, it would seem strange to witness the king bowing to a comparatively common woman; an outsider in French society who spoke in a foreign tongue. But Dennis was at the end of his tasseled rope. Desiree needed appeasing. He expected Analetta to ask a slew of questions about Desiree’s recent paranormal experiences, but she spoke little and began with a declaration. 

“This palace houses several lost spirits,” she said calmly. Without further comment, she made a procession through the chamber’s suites, running her heavily ringed fingers along the walls and inspecting random objects. She felt a cool draft rustle the dark hair that tumbled down her back as she entered the boudoir room. “There is a young spirit who has sought solace here. I sense a strong restlessness and a deep yearning.” 

Dennis and Desiree looked at one another in awe. Without receiving a prompt, Desiree launched into an account of Flavie’s antics: the slamming doors, the opened windows, the whispering into her ear, the drawing of baths, and the rearranging and taking of her belongings. Flavie hung her head in the corner of the room in shame, bracing herself for Analetta’s response. Would she exile her into oblivion? Would she be thrown into the wheel of reincarnation? Cast to the flames of Hell for her vengeful actions? Was she already in her personal Hell, where the twinkling luxuries that surrounded her served as mere distractions? Flavie had grown up in the Catholic Church, which did not permit ventures into occult practices. There was no talk of ghosts. Her fate, entirely unknown to her, laid in this woman’s wrinkled hands. 

Analetta took a few more minutes to examine the room before closing her eyes to speak. “This spirit died a young girl. Perhaps a laundress or a maid. She is trapped here. She…” she went silent, waiting for more information. Queen Desiree squeezed her husband’s hand tightly. 

“Does that mean she cannot leave?” she asked timidly.

Analetta was silent. Flavie waited with bated breath for the answer. Finally, she spoke. “There is no cleansing to be done here. She needs a proper burial.” 

…

Unbeknownst to the royal couple, the bodies of the six servants who fell to typhoid fever had been stored below the castle to prevent contagion. Knowledge of this saddened Desiree, whose heartstrings were pulled by the thought of those poor beings trapped in a cold cellar. The palace mortician aided in tracking down and informing the families of the departed, who all requested that their loved ones be brought home for burial. As magnificent as the palace grounds were, with their towering hedges and bubbling fountains, they were of an altogether different world. A world for people who would never be stored beneath them. 

 Flavie’s body was sent home in a finely-made cedar coffin to Castelmoron-d’Albret. It was the strangest experience of her afterlife, that bumpy ride across France in that wooden caravan. She sat on a leather seat beside the structure that housed her earthly body, which had not been well-preserved. Although she could have stolen a glance at it, Flavie decided she didn’t want to see her decomposed self. It would just disturb her, and no amount of vanilla perfume could compensate for the stench she produced. 

The caravan lurched to a halt and Flavie, who’d dozed off on the last leg of the trip, woke suddenly. She heard birds chirping and bees buzzing. Dappled sunshine peeked through overhanging trees and streamed into the window. There was a chill to the air, which was cleaner than anything she’d felt in years. It was then she realized that she was back in her hometown. As she peered out the window, she recognized the knobby branches of the tree that had grown outside of her bedroom, scratching the windows during rainstorms. She looked up at the sagging bungalow she’d grown up in that she’d judged harshly against the opulence of the palace. The house was now warmed with the childish chatter of her brother Pierre, who’d been born during her time away.

For a moment, Flavie relished in the mundanity of it all. She knew her parents were anticipating seeing their children that night after another toilsome day at work. They would come back to their utterly ordinary cottage to prepare a bland, single-course meal that paled in comparison to what she encountered at the Château du Lifort. Flavie would never eat off a porcelain plate or hold a gold-paneled hairbrush again. The beautiful coffin her body laid in would be her final taste of luxury before she was lowered into the ground. And then what came next? Postponement in Purgatory? If she were ever admitted into Heaven, would it glisten in glory like the palace she’d died in? Would there be seven-course meals and lemon-scented soap? She hoped not. She hoped the sagging bungalow that stood before her waited beyond those pearly gates.