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Extra #5 Tristan Snoops Around the House
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When Cécile first came to Trollus, I’d had her mother thoroughly investigated by those in my employ, and none of them had turned up this information. Which meant it was an extremely well-guarded secret. So well-guarded, in fact, that her own daughter didn’t even know.
I bit my lip, thinking of how Cécile would react to learning about her mother’s hidden wealth. She’d told me a bit about her modest upbringing, about how she’d never had more than two dresses at a time before coming to Trollus, about how her whole family laboured to run the farm. Though she’d never admitted it, I knew there would have been bad years when she and her family had gone without. How would she feel to learn that during the times she’d gone hungry, her own mother had been hoarding her wealth in secret like a blasted dragon would.
The front door slammed, making the whole house shudder.
“Madame,” I heard the maid say, “We did not expect you.”
“Shit,” I swore. Cécile’s mother was home.
“Where is Cécile?” There was an edge to Genevieve’s voice.
“Gone for her fittings, Madame. She left late this morning.”
“Good.”
“Madame,” The girl’s voice was shaky. “There is a ghost in the house playing tricks. Locking us in and out of rooms. Fussing with the drapery.”
“Nonsense!” Genevieve snapped. “And if I hear any more such talk from you, ghosts will be the least of your concerns.”
Heels thudded against the wooden floor, coming my direction. My fingers shaking, I shoved the ledgers and papers back into their places in the safe, shutting it even as I heard her hand land on the handle of the door. My heart racing, I let my light blink out, pressed my back against the wall, and cloaked myself in magic.
The door swung open, and Genevieve stepped inside. I was immediately struck by the resemblance between her and Cécile: both had long crimson curls, ivory skin, delicate features, although Genevieve was taller and more filled out in form. I held my breath as she passed by on her way to the safe, only a few inches of space between her and the magic concealing me. If she so much as lifted her hand, it would pass through the illusion, and I would be caught.
Genevieve set the lamp she carried on top of the safe, the light illuminating her face. Her eyes looked puffy and bruised as one who has gone a long time without sleep, and her mouth was stretched tight into a thin line. Her fingers swiftly turned the dial on the safe right, then left, then right until a soft clunk marked it as open. She shoved the ledgers aside, showing none of the caution or care I’d expected of one who kept such meticulous records, and from behind them, she extracted a small, leather-bound book. Tucking it into the satchel she carried, she slammed the safe closed. Snatching up the lamp, she wheeled around towards the door. The force of her motion made her cloak fly out, and it swept through my illusion, brushing against my knees. I flinched, my heart hammering as I waited for her to notice.
But she did not pause.
One hand reached out for the handle of the door, and then she froze. Sweat ran down my back as I watch the skin on her bare arm prickle up with goose bumps. Her breath caught, making a soft little noise. Then her head turned, and before I could think of anything to do, she looked right at me.
If you haven’t read the end of the novel, don’t read this spoiler.
(view spoiler)
It was great to see this alternate scene to what we got! Loved seeing Tristan and the maids gossiping, however infuriating! Can't wait for more!
I absolutely love this scene! I totally agree with the spoiler part (without saying too much!). I really enjoy Tristan messing with the maids after what they said about Cecile!
Oh Tristan ♥ I love how he has this playful personality beneath all that brooding. This deleted scene rocks!
I love the workings of the scene but I do see why you took it out and only used parts of it. It gives too much away for them not to know right away still, so much fun to see and I can't wait for more!
Love this deleted scene! :) ❤︎
What a fantastic deleted scene! I still haven't read the ending so I've skipped the spoiler, but it works with my ongoing theory the hinting!
The second Cécile was gone, I jammed the door shut against the intrusive maid and started towards the glow framing the curtained window. It was alluring. It was terrifying. My fingers lingered on the lavender velvet while I worked up the nerve to let in the sun.
All I saw was light, and it burned. Burned like hot pokers were pressing into my eye sockets, making them flood with tears. I clapped a hand over my eyes, letting the curtain fall back into place as I backed away from the daylight. Perhaps the human myth that trolls turned to stone when exposed to sun was not so far from the truth. For all we’d been born and bred from Summer, five hundred years caged under the mountain had exacted its toll. We were well and truly creatures of darkness now.
Sitting down at Cécile’s desk, I rested my head against the wood and closed my eyes, trying to block out the glowing haze that still obscured my vision. As it faded, it was replaced by the memory of me running down the River Road, faster than the water surging next to me. As fast as I had ever run, as though speed might somehow tear me through the barrier that had bound my people for so long. Terror had lurked deep in my chest as I approached the invisible divide between our world and the outside, knowing it would hurt when I hit it, and knowing that I would do it again and again, with magic and fist until my heart stopped. In that moment, I’d never loved or hated Cécile more, because in one simple command, she’d found a way to end us.
But the curse hadn’t stopped me.
I’d felt it snatching and grabbing at me, trying to hold me back. But something stronger pulled me through, and then I was stumbling, falling onto the sand of the beach. Rolling onto my back, I’d looked up at the night sky, more vast, open, and unending than anything I could ever imagine. Astonishment and wonder had rendered me immobile as I stared up at the tiny pinpricks of light scattered across the sky, their number and brilliance growing as I watched.
It was my father’s voice that had pulled me back to reality, the edge of panic in it. “Tristan?”
I’d sat up, watching as an expression I’d never seen swept across his face. Joy. “Go find her,” he shouted, and suddenly I was running.
He meant Anushka, I knew, but even if Cécile hadn’t called my name, it would have been her I’d gone to first. Like we were attached by a silken string, I was drawn in her direction, my passage down the dark road and into the city a blur I barely remembered. Even before I was close enough, I swore I could hear her singing, the crystal sound of her voice in my ears as I’d walked through the empty theatre and found her sitting on the stage, surrounded by flowers. There were moments in life that burned themselves into memory, forever vivid in the mind’s eye. For me, seeing her again on that stage was one of them.
A commotion outside the bedroom door caught my attention. “It’s stuck. Jammed shut!”
I listened to the two women shove at the door while I polished off the rest of the food on the tray, retrieved the rest of my clothes, and ensured any evidence I’d been here was hidden or erased. Then I let them in.
Blind to my presence, both women stumbled into the room. “Ain’t that the darndest thing,” the second woman said, opening and closing the door half a dozen times.
“She had a man in here last night, mark my words,” the first declared, eyes searching the room for evidence of her claim.
“How do you know?” the other asked. Judging from the flour dusting her apron, she was the cook. “Did you see him?”
“Didn’t need to.” The maid tapped her temple with one finger. “I’ve a sixth sense for that sort of thing. And besides, I don’t know why you’re surprised. Given the way her own mother carries on with the Marquis, it was bound to happen. The apple does not fall far from the tree, they say.”
The cook wrinkled her nose. “All those opera girls are naught but coquettes, the lot of them. How else can they afford to sleep ‘til noon and stay out half the night. Not a one of them knows a thing about honest hard work.”
I scowled at their ignorance over how hard those girls likely worked at their art.
“Only thing to do is to close the opera houses down,” the maid declared. “Force those girls to get real work where they aren’t tempting all the men in the city out of their coin.”
Or pay them what their talents are worth so they don’t have to, I thought, walking out the door on silent feet so that I didn’t have to hear any more of their spiteful gossip. I slammed the door behind me, smiling at their yelps of surprise.
The rooms next to Cécile’s were devoid of anything but furniture, but at the end of the hallway, I found the master chambers belonging to her mother. The curtains were mercifully shut, and jamming the door so it wouldn’t open, I availed myself of the cooling bathwater to get rid of the prior day’s filth.
Genevieve de Troye’s room was very much a boudoir, decorated with ornate furniture, plush burgundy fabrics, and artful clutter. The walls were covered in paintings of women in repose, many of them work I recognized as having originated in Trollus, and all of it expensive. Trinkets of glass and porcelain filled the tabletops, and a stack of gilt embossed books sat next to a chair by the fire. I knew well enough how little an opera singer – even a star – was paid, and it came nowhere near close to enough to pay for all this opulence. Her benefactor was the Marquis, well known to be a patron of the arts, and he must be generous indeed to endow her with all of this.
Cécile had only rarely spoken of her mother, and I’d never been able to decide whether she loved the woman to the point of adoration, or hated her. Having never met Genevieve, my opinions were all based on hearsay, but what I’d heard, I hadn’t liked. Past and current behaviour suggested she was at the least, selfish, and at the most, a narcissist. But that might all be a front, an image cultivated to fit the perceptions of how an opera star should behave. From what I knew, she’d risen from common stock and modest means, which suggested that there was more to her than what the gossipmongers whispered. I was curious about her, and I wanted to know more about the woman who held such a hold over my headstrong wife.
I began to rifle through cabinets and drawers, making certain I left everything as it had been. I found little of interest other than stacks of love letters from would-be suitors and pages of badly written poetry in what looked like a man’s hand. Her closets were full to the brim with expensive clothes, shoes, and all accoutrements a wealthy woman was likely to own, the whole of it dominated by a spicy perfume that tickled at my nose. The drawer in the bedside table I opened, immediately closed, then opened again, my curiosity stronger than my moral fibre as I assessed the collection of silken cords, feathers, and bits of lace. Interesting.
It was only as I was about to close the drawer again that I noticed something was off about the depth of the space. A quick inspection showed me how to pop the false bottom up, revealing a stack of age darkened letters hidden beneath. It was a clever place to hide something from high-minded servants, I thought, listening to the sounds of the two trying to pry open the door while swearing that the very house had turned against them.
Turning my attention back to the letters, I skimmed through them. They were from Cécile’s father to her mother, all written in the five year period following their separation, and each and every one of them pleading with her to come join her family. Questions as to why she changed her mind about accompanying him. Words begging her to come to Goshawk’s Hollow, describing how much he and their children missed her. Desperate sentences explaining that he would sell the farm and bring the children back to Trianon if only she would answer his letters. In the last year, they decreased in frequency, but the plea never changed right up to the point they stopped. Was that when she finally answered him, I wondered? Was that when she said no? Or, after five years of pleading, had he finally realized it was hopeless? And what did it mean that she had kept these letters all these long years? Were they trophies like the love letters I’d found, or deep down, did Genevieve de Troyes really care?
I thought about taking the letters to show to Cécile, but something stopped me. How could seeing written evidence of her father’s unanswered pleas to her mother do anything but hurt her? She had enough to deal with without me digging up old wounds.
Replacing the letters in their hiding place, I cloaked myself in magic and let the door open. The two servants hesitantly entered, faces uneasy. I waited until they were over by the bath before exiting, catching the handle with a bit of magic on my way by so that it slowly shut behind me. Then I secured it shut, enjoying the shouts of dismay when they realized they were locked in.
Downstairs, I wandered through the great room, the parlour, the kitchen, and even poked my head in the cellar before releasing the magic holding them in and stepping inside the small, windowless study I found under the stairs. The women’s feet pounded down the steps above me, and I grinned when they shrieked at discovering all the draperies were closed. Expanding my ball of light, I started going through the contents of the desk, sorting through uninteresting correspondence, invitations to parties, sheaves of opera music, and stacks of bills, all of which she seemed to pay on time. Then my eyes lighted on a small safe bolted to the floor in the corner. It was made of solid steel with a modern looking combination bolt. I was loath to put my ear against the toxic metal, but there was nothing else for it if I want to get inside. Ignoring the itching burn, I listened for the sounds of the tumblers falling as I slowly rotated the dial, and within moments, I had it open. I’d expected to find jewellery, but instead my eyes landed on stacks of ledgers. I began flipping through them, my jaw all but falling open at what I found.
Genevieve de Troyes was a wealthy woman in her own right.