Marie-Antoinette

Chapter Three: The coldest day of my life

Cold.

The memory of my wedding was oddly blurred and imprecise, dominated by this sole sensation.

Cold.

The rain lazily splattering the windowpanes of my hotel bedroom was bringing a chilly dampness in the room itself, while I stood on a stool, immobile and silent like a wax doll as a skinny and surly-looking old witch adjusted my long white dress and my gauze veil.

Cold was the air of the Atrium when I Apparated there, a few minutes before the ceremony; the wizards and their wives gathering under the peacock blue ceiling to see my wedding -- people I had never met in my entire life -- were casting quick, cool glances in my direction. I was the bride. A necessary tool for the first marriage ever arranged by the Ministry of Magic. Nothing more.

Icy cold was James Potter's gaze as he took in my white figure, when I joined him to stand in front of Lestrange. Hidden behind the fragile shield of my veil, which fell in front of my face, I guiltlessly let my attention wander while Lestrange spoke the ritual words. I thought of Aimée. I would have to write to her as soon as I had the chance. There was a week left before the Toussaint holidays; would Tinville let her go to see me? Oh how I needed her now... I needed her warmth... I was so cold...

Cold was James Potter's voice, cutting through the air of the Atrium like a sharp blade as he spoke the words that would bind him to me, bitterness dripping from every single intonation. Cold was the hand that took my own, and cold was the ring that slipped on my finger.

When it was my turn to speak, I forced my voice into a monotonous tone, betraying no feeling, no emotion. I made my speech mechanical and dull, purposefully emptying the words of their meaning and solemnity. This marriage didn't mean anything to any of them; therefore it wouldn't mean anything to me either.

Strange wedding, bearing all the appearances of an alliance reluctantly sealed between two sworn enemies.

After the ceremony, a table loaded with dishes of an extravagant luxury magically appeared in a remote corner of the Atrium. The guests' interest was at once aroused; losing their politely bored expressions, they all headed for the table, exchanging those compliments and jokes that were the rule every time wizards of the high society met.

I lifted my veil and threw it back so that it covered my hair; James Potter didn't glance once at my uncovered face as he extended his arm to walk me to the table. I put a light hand on his arm, barely touching him, seemingly as indifferent as he was.

Lunch dragged on with unbearable slowness. Lestrange was embarked on a never-ending discussion about the Dark Lord's projects with the other wizards, most of whom were hanging upon his every word, while the women chatted and laughed about some futile subject. At my side, James Potter was barely eating; his friend Sirius Black was seated opposite us and they exchanged signs of connivance now and again. The rest of the time, they were both lost in thoughts, Potter nervously rolling his new wedding ring in his fingers, and Black absentmindedly playing with his knife.

At one point, Black raised his head and caught my eye; this surprised me: many other guests had looked in my direction, but their gaze had slid on me as if I wasn't even there -- or rather, as if I was part of the decoration. However, Black had planted his eyes on mine and wouldn't look away. When I raised an inquiring eyebrow, his face broke into a small smile and to my utter astonishment he slightly raised his glass in my direction, as if toasting me.

I didn't smile back: Black's gesture had attracted a woman's attention, and she was now eyeing me closely. I obscurely felt that it was not a good omen to be seen as a friend of Black's -- the other guests had completely ignored him, which was an infallible sign in that code-governed society.

Instead of answering Black's discreet tribute, I turned around to face the inquisitive woman. She was undeniably beautiful; golden reflects were playing in her long and thick dark hair, which fell in a silky flow on her shoulders, barely held back by a dark red headband. Her dress, made of dark red silk, was perfectly fitting the curves of her body; and the jewels she was wearing proclaimed a flawless taste. Otherwise, with her strong jaw and her abrupt, direct gestures, she displayed an aura of uncommon strength for a woman, which made her singularly lack the grace I was used to seeing in more slender women.

Her eyes met mine and her fierce stare sent an unexplained jolt of dread shooting through my body. Though my instinctive reaction was to look down and blush under this sharp observation, I did my best to hold her gaze, faithful to my resolution of never letting anybody look down upon me again -- and I understood almost at once that I had made a mistake. She must have been expecting me to drop my eyes and my response, which, admittedly, could have been interpreted as defiance, seemed to arouse her suspicions. Her eyes narrowed in mistrust and a second later I had a most peculiar experience: for a split-second I completely lost the consciousness of my surroundings, as if I had been buried under a ton of cotton.

This odd feeling vanished as quickly as it had appeared, but I had had the time to recognise a Legilimency spell; teaching me Occlumency had been the one and only thing my father had gone to the trouble of doing -- it was extremely useful in a world where nobody ever spoke their mind, where every word, every stare had a hidden meaning, and where every courteous conversation was a duel.

I had no trouble countering the unknown woman's Legilimency spell; bringing up Occlumency shields had almost become a reflex after all the lessons I had received on the subject. In fact, I warded off the blow with such easiness that my aggressor gaped at me in bewilderment. I addressed her with my most charming smile and slightly lifted my glass, as Black had done a few minutes earlier.

I could still feel her staring at me long after I had looked away.

Around three in the afternoon, the last dishes finally disappeared, along with the last emptied glasses of wine, and the guests proceeded to go back to their businesses. They all shook Lestrange's hand as they went, and most of them went to shake Potter's as well. As for me, I had my hand kissed once or twice, but on the whole the guests didn't pay me much attention -- that is, until the woman who had used Legilimency against me appeared in front of me, as suddenly as if she had shot up from the ground.

"Mrs. Potter," she abruptly said with a slight bow of her head, never tearing her eyes from mine. Her voice awoke an echo in my memory, and yet again, dread chilled my blood. I had heard that voice before.

I answered her less-than-polite greeting by a similar bow and another one of my false smiles.

"I am sorry, but I don't think we have been introduced," I pointed out with all required sweetness.

"Oh, we did meet before, though," she replied with a smirk. "Yesterday, to be specific."

Yesterday. When had I heard a woman's voice yesterday...?

Oh...

"Potter, let's play a game, shall we? In three seconds you will have signed the parchment, or I'll torture the little girl... You'll enjoy the screaming."

"Oh, yes, now I remember. Bellatrix, is that it?"

Was that my voice? How could I sound so calm, as if I was about to add, "I'm delighted to meet you"? That woman had threatened to torture me. She had just tried to force entry into my mind. And all I was saying was...

"But I don't remember ever getting the chance of hearing your last name."

Pretence. A familiar voice suddenly whispered long forgotten words from a remote corner of my memory still misted up with an old grief.

We're living in a world of pretence. You may be paralysed with fright, you may be burning with anger, you may be dying of sorrow, but don't you ever show it. Always pretend. Act as if nothing could affect you. As if you were made of ice. You will scream or cry later. But in front of them, you have to feign.

My dead mother's words took their full meaning at this moment, as I felt like crumbling to the floor under Bellatrix' mocking gaze and hide away under a table like a lost little girl; as I felt the urge to scream at the man who stood by my side, cold and hateful, that none of this was my fault; as I longed for the comforting presence of my Charms teacher and the way she would just settle everything with a few words and a careless wave of her wand.

And yet here I stood, a genial smile plastered on my features, uttering absurd words of politeness in the face of the woman who had threatened me twice now. But I couldn't let her belittle me again: I risked being permanently labelled as an insignificant creature anybody could order around, if I allowed any witch or wizard other than Lestrange to ridicule me.

Once again, Bellatrix looked slightly unsettled by my reaction, but she quickly regained her composure; projecting her chin forward in a rather aggressive stance, she shot at me:

"Well, you do have some nerve for a little girl just out of her classroom. Who taught you Occlumency?"

Oh. I hadn't been expecting her to be so direct. Blunt frankness was not commonly demonstrated in high magical society: it was often regarded as vulgar. But this Bellatrix hardly seemed at her place among those tortuous-minded noble wizards anyway; in fact, she gave the impression to be more at ease on a battlefield than at exchanging subtle replies with wizards such as Lestrange.

"Even little French girls can receive a good magical education," I answered softly, without ever dropping my sweet smile. Evading questions was another delicate art my mother had been keen on teaching me. "I'm afraid I still don't know your name."

She blinked once or twice, wariness and uncertainty etched in her sharp features.

"Lestrange," she finally said.

I had trouble hiding my surprise this time. Could this woman possibly be related to refined and haughty Rodolphus Lestrange?

"I'm the Minister's wife," she added curtly at my questioning glance.

"Oh, I see. I am very pleased to meet you, Mrs. Lestrange. I apologise for my ignorance," I said, masking my uneasiness under another smile. "I am, after all, a newcomer here. And as you very rightly pointed out, a week ago I was only Marie-Antoinette de Syrnac, student at Beauxbâtons Academy."

She seemed further confused at this.

"Impressive name," she commented, trying to smile back at me. It didn't look like an easy thing for her to do; as if looking cordial wasn't an exercise she practiced often.

I fought back a smirk at her answer. I had 'negligently' dropped my maiden name on purpose; its blatant belonging to the old French nobility always had some effect. It was a cheap way to impress her, I had to admit, but it seemed to work.

"Your first name in itself is quite intriguing," I pleasantly replied, exploiting her evident awkwardness in the subtle game of conversation to push further my advantage, as I would have done in a duel. "What's its origin?"

Who cared what the origin of her name was? This thought was so easily readable in Bellatrix Lestrange's perplexed eyes that I had to prevent myself from smirking again. I had turned the dangerous conversation she had initiated into a harmless, utterly pointless chatting, and she obviously didn't know how to react to it.

"I think it's the name of a constellation," she slowly answered; and I was pleased to see she was now fingering uneasily the golden belt circling her waist. I was taking the upper hand. For the first time since I had left Beauxbâtons, I felt in control, and the sensation was thrilling -- though a bit frightening at the same time.

Unfortunately, it didn't last long.

"Well, Bellatrix, you met Mrs. Potter, it seems."

Bellatrix Lestrange wheeled about to face her husband, standing there with Potter and Black. A spark briefly lit up Potter's eyes when Lestrange said "Mrs. Potter"; a spark of pain or anger, or a mixture of both; I couldn't make up my mind. He caught me looking at him and dropped his eyes to the floor almost at once, as if my gaze was burning him. He looked tense and weary.

Black, on the other hand, was wearing a joyous grin as he looked from me to Bellatrix and back again. When Lestrange's wife glowered at him, his grin turned into a smirk and he eyed her with a kind of fierce joy.

"Mrs. Potter," drawled Lestrange's honeyed voice, pulling me out of my observation. "This is my wife Bellatrix. As you seem to be good friends already, I suggest we could invite you and your husband --" He shot a vicious glance at Potter, who paled and bit his lip, but didn't look up, "-- to dinner some time this week."

I bowed my head slightly, swallowing hard, as the feeling of icy fear I had always experienced around Lestrange rolled over me once more. He was not one to be fooled by devices such as the ones I had used against his wife; he was obviously too used to those sorts of games.

"Personally, I would be delighted to come," I answered slowly. "But... We may have busy days in the coming week..."

I glanced furtively towards Potter. He wasn't even listening to the conversation, and I felt a twinge of annoyance mixed with helplessness. He was not helping me at all. He was letting me struggle alone with Lestrange.

"I am aware your husband may have some things to do this week, as you're moving in your new home tonight," Lestrange retorted coolly, with visible disdain for my dumb answer. "I intended to send you an owl tomorrow, so you can send me back your answer specifying the evening that suits you the most. Surely you won't be that busy every evening, will you, Mrs. Potter?"

In other words: you will only sit at home, getting bored, as you're no more than a good-for-nothing schoolgirl.

The Lestranges were both smirking as they looked down at me. I realised I had lost all control on the situation; in a few words, Lestrange had reduced me again to a shy little girl.

"Maybe not in the evenings," I replied, while I tried with all my might to prevent my hands from grabbing handfuls of my white dress and twisting the material in nervousness. "But I believe I will be quite busy the rest of the day, besides our settling in. I have to take care of some family matters, mostly regarding succession; I am the last Syrnac after all."

I was inventing wildly at that point, in my attempt to counter Lestrange's attack. The altercation was pushing me at the limit of my self-control; I was a bundle of nerves inside, every sense was alert and my body was tensing, as if readying itself to attack or run away. I was treading on a thin thread extended over a bottomless precipice. One wrong word, one misplaced look, and Lestrange would use that weakness to crush me like an insect.

"Of course," Lestrange agreed sweetly. "I don't want to keep you then; you should go home and rest before facing such a tiring work." Sarcasm dripped from his words, and my only parry was to nod in agreement, as if I hadn't heard the irony in his voice. An amused glint danced in his eyes at my gesture.

"Potter, here you are --" Lestrange said, finally looking away from me.

And he handed Potter a heavy key, adorned on the handle with complicated ironwork. Potter looked at it warily, without taking it.

"What is it?" he shot at Lestrange suspiciously.

"A Portkey," Lestrange answered, his curt voice betraying a hint of impatience. "It will take you and your wife to your new home. Now, take it." The last words were spoken in a low voice, almost a growl, heavy with threats. Lestrange's free hand was twitching near his wand pocket.

Potter reached out and roughly grabbed the key without looking at Lestrange, and then he extended it so that I could touch it as well.

"Well, it was a pleasure," I said hurriedly with a slight curtsey. Mrs. Lestrange merely glared at me, her lips pursed, and her husband nodded to acknowledge my goodbye. His eyes were still fixed on Potter.

"Pleasure was mutual," said Black joyfully, surprising everyone in the room -- Potter's eyes widened and he stared at his friend, who shrugged in an apologetic sort of way; Lestrange raised an eyebrow at him and Bellatrix looked more furious than ever. But I didn't want to face other remarks or questions, so I seized the key and I heard Potter let out a gasp of surprise as I felt a hook abruptly pulling me forward from behind my navel.

The Atrium disappeared in a whirl of bright colours.

***

My feet collided brutally with a floor of hard stone and I almost lost my balance. The swirling wind has nearly torn off my veil, and it hung pitifully on one side, uncovering my head; I grabbed a handful of the ripped gauze and pulled it off completely.

I was standing under the stone porch of an imposing house. I had just the time to take in the oak double door and the heavy iron knocker, fixed to the oak pane in the very middle of the door, when I heard someone cursing under their breath behind me.

I started; I had almost forgotten I wasn't alone. Turning around, I saw Potter brushing the dirt off his knees; apparently, he had tripped and fallen when we had landed.

He picked up the key and raised his head to glare at me.

"Next time you're using a Portkey I'm already holding, warn me beforehand, okay?" he snapped.

I blushed and muttered, "Sorry."

It was the very first time he had actually talked to me.

He quickly joined me in front of the door and shoved the key into the lock. The key began to glow at once with a green light, and suddenly it melted in the keyhole with a sinister hissing sound, producing an acrid-smelling dark smoke that made both of us take a few hasty steps backwards.

When the smoke cleared at last, I wiped my watering eyes with the back of my hand and was able to see that the door was ajar. The keyhole and the key had both disappeared, leaving only a fleck of iron on the dark wood.

Potter stepped forward and pushed the door with one hand; it soundlessly swung on its hinges, revealing a dark and high-ceilinged hallway, paved with black and white tiles. The place was as cold and unwelcoming as a prison.

Potter looked at me enquiringly as he held the door open; I nodded and stepped in, thanking him in a low voice when I passed him. I shivered as the chilly air of the hallway pierced the thin material of my wedding dress and enveloped me like an icy coat.

A flight of marble stairs opened on my left and led to the first floor, which was drowned in the shadows. On my right stood a door painted in the same white, neutral paint as the walls of the hallway, which were completely bare except for iron brackets fixed at regular intervals and supporting unlit torches.

At the end of the hallway, facing me, a double door with glass panes let in the hallway the last beams of a pale sunlight. This door was probably the entrance to a garden or a terrace. My heart leapt; as long as there was a garden, this house wouldn't be too bad to live in.

"I'm going to leave you here."

I wheeled around and found, to my great surprise, that Potter had not entered the house behind me. He was still standing in the doorway.

"I've got a few things to do this evening," he went on shortly. "I trust Lestrange will have had your suitcase brought here. Settle in and don't wait for me."

With those words, and without even giving me the time to answer, he stepped out and slammed the door shut behind him.

I stood in the middle of the cold hallway, immobile in my wedding dress, staring at the door.

I was alone.

***

Having nothing else to do, I started my exploration of the house. The door on the right side of the hallway, it turned out, opened on a drawing room furnished with a couch and three low armchairs circling a coffee table. The furniture was of a dull grey and wouldn't have looked out of place in a Spartan home. The couch was remarkably uncomfortable, and I didn't even bother to try the lower seats. As I looked around the sad and gloomy drawing room, I couldn't help feeling utterly disappointed in Lestrange. For a man so obviously proud of his belonging to the upper magical society, he had been strangely parsimonious when choosing the furniture for our home.

I went out of the drawing room and into the hallway again. The high, haughty-looking grandfather clock standing erect near the garden door hadn't struck five in the afternoon yet, but already darkness was creeping in the hallway; it was flowing from the high ceiling and running down the walls, enclosing me within a shadowy trap.

I groped for my wand with trembling hands; having found it hanging from the wide ribbon I had for a belt, in a thin sheath hidden in a fold of my dress, I waved it brusquely around the hallway. At my command, the torches suddenly burst into life. Great yellow flames sprang from them and rose high, licking the white walls and forcing the shadows to an abrupt retreat.

I inhaled deeply and felt the knot in the pit of my stomach unclenching. Gripping my wand tightly, I turned my back on the now-illuminated hallway and proceeded to climb the marble staircase.

I had intended at first to take a look around the house, but I was tired and a little scared by the idea of going alone in a big unknown place, when it was already so dark I had to light up the torches on my way. In the flickering light of the burning torches, the dullest things had an eerie and often ominous appearance; an innocently undulating curtain seemed about to reveal the dark, menacing shape of a mysterious monster, and the creaking of the parquet under my foot sounded like a derisive snigger.

My heart was beating wildly by the time I reached what was unmistakably the bedroom. I almost rushed inside the room in my haste to escape the gloomy corridor and slammed the door behind me, leaning against it as I tried hard to bring my breathing back to a normal rate.

My suitcase was waiting for me at the foot of a wide bed; at a few feet from it, a large trunk -- even bigger than my own Beauxbâtons trunk -- lay abandoned on the floor. I approached it curiously and read on the label: From the house of Godric's Hollow.

Godric's Hollow... It sounded like the name of a village. The house of Godric's Hollow? Doubtless it was Potter's former home... The trunk didn't belong to me; it must have been his. Lestrange had obviously had his things sent from his old house to the new one.

A loud crack suddenly sounded into the bedroom, startling me so badly I screamed in shock. Wheeling around, I found myself face to face with a very old house-elf, wearing an immaculate tea towel wrapped around its thin figure like a toga, along with an expression of utter disgust.

"Where's Master James?" it demanded in a croaky voice, without so much as a preliminary hello.

Saying I was surprised by its tone of voice would be an understatement. Never before I had been addressed with so little respect by a house-elf; the old house-elf of the Syrnac family, Lali, was quite informal with me, but in a motherly sort of way. Otherwise, I had scarcely met before a house-elf who would speak without being asked to, or who wouldn't bow whenever they found themselves in a wizard's or witch's presence.

"And who are you, exactly?" I asked coldly.

Being scorned by wizards ten years older than I was -- and ten times richer -- was one thing; being shown the same disdain by a house-elf was another.

"I am Pomy," spat the house-elf, by no means impressed by my sudden coolness. "I'm Master James and Mistress Lily's obedient servant. You --" The house-elf glared at me in deepest loathing. "You are a usurper!"

I bit my lip. The house-elf was so coarsely provoking me that I would have felt humiliated to fall into its trap and get angry. On the other hand, being nice and polite would give the creature a feeling of superiority, which would make me lose every last bit of authority I still possessed.

"Very well, Pomy," I said calmly but without smiling. "I assume you are talking about my husband when you say 'Master James'. Your Master is away."

Pomy's big round eyes narrowed until they were reduced to two slits. Its suspicious expression was so exaggerated that I was tempted to burst out laughing -- which would have been the quickest way to definitively alienate its affections.

"Where?" it questioned sharply.

"That is none of your business," I answered airily while sitting on the bed and negligently smoothing the front of my dress. "And you seem to lack activity for a house-elf just arrived in a new house. Is the kitchen clean and ready to be used?"

The house-elf's eyes shot wide open again in indignation.

"Pomy will take her orders from Master James only!" it screeched.

"Then I can't see why you would spend more time in this bedroom," I retorted icily, dropping my voice to contrast with the elf's noisy anger. "Now please relieve me of your presence or I'll use my wand."

The elf looked at me in hatred again.

"You is a Death Eater," she accused.

And she Disapparated with another crack.

I didn't know what a Death Eater was, though I had no trouble in guessing it must have been an insult -- probably the worst insult this house-elf could have come up with. I was more worried by the fact that I had a new enemy, in the person of the house-elf Pomy -- the only creature who could have helped me to transform this sinister house into my home. I heaved an exasperated sigh. How was I supposed to find my place in a world where everybody either belittled me or hated me -- or, in the case of my husband himself, felt both ways -- without even knowing me?

I would have to tame that elf -- or, failing that, subdue her. Only she didn't seem compelled to obey me by any enchantment, and I could hardly hex her into working for me.

On the other hand, I could --

I felt a thrill of excitement as I realised there was a way for me to win her devotion. It would be long, but it would work in the end. I wasn't in a hurry; I was bound to Potter for the rest of my life, after all.

My heart had lifted at the thought, and I was considerably cheered up as I went into the small bathroom adjacent to the bedroom in order to undress; it was still early, but I had no intention of spending the rest of the afternoon in my wedding dress.

Once I had showered and put on my favourite worn-off robes, in which I was as comfortable as if I was wearing pyjamas, I settled in front of a huge mahogany desk with the intention to write to Aimée. Unfortunately, the desk was much too big and too high for me to use it easily; once I was seated in the too-low chair, I could barely reach the drawers on either side of me even when I extended my arm as far as possible.

This desk was the reflection of the house: unwelcoming and forbidding. Every single object in this house seemed eager to show me how out of place I was here.

I finally gave up and went to sit cross-legged on the bed. I had taken out of my suitcase a scroll of parchment and a quill; the parchment was waiting, spread in my lap, while I distractedly ran the fluffy end of the quill along my jawbones as I searched for the right words. I didn't want Aimée to imagine I was being abused -- at only the mention of "arranged marriage", she would picture a drunkard hitting me savagely and starving me to death. My Aimée...(*)

Dear Aimée,

It's my second day here and, as promised, I'm writing to explain everything. You know that thing I was telling you last month, about me having now no more than a famous name? Well, it seems that I wasn't the only one to think that way. An English pure-blood, named Lestrange, thought I had a pretty name and I would make a good bride for one of his protégés. You know how old-fashioned those pure-blood families are; they're obsessed with lineage.

Anyway, my uncle agreed to that alliance and they both arranged my wedding with this acquaintance of Lestrange's, James Potter. I could have found worse, to tell you the truth: he's young and not at all bad-looking. I guess I just have to get used to the idea of not being a Syrnac anymore!

I got married today; the weather was dreadful, and it was a pity, because my dress was quite pretty. I would've liked to have you at my side, though... I always thought you would be my bridesmaid for my wedding. Ah well, we'll make up for it when it's your turn to get married!

That's all, really. I know it seems pretty huge, but believe me, it's not. It's a very old custom in my parents' social class. Of course it's a bit unsettling to find myself married at seventeen, but at least I have escaped Tinville, and I won't have to worry about my future anymore. Besides, if I'm beaten or manhandled or anything of the sort, I'm sure you'll come to rescue me. Really, I am not worried.

How is life at Beauxbâtons? How is everybody surviving without Maxime? Do you think you'll be able to come to see me during the Toussaint holidays?

Please answer me as fast as possible; I'm eagerly waiting for news from the school.

Kisses,

Marie-Antoinette.

I paused as I thought of adding a sentence about Olivier. I hesitantly wrote a few words in a post-scriptum, then, coming to an abrupt decision, I crossed the beginning of my sentence before vanishing it with my wand. What was the point in re-opening a fresh wound? There was nothing I could do anyway... Except forget.

I rolled the letter into a tight scroll and closed it by piercing it with one of my hairpins; I couldn't muster the energy of sealing it with a complicated spell. I tossed the letter across the room and it landed with a dull thud on the mahogany desk.

I leant back on the bed and contemplated the ceiling. My life as a married woman had taken quite a wrong start: I had been abandoned by my husband in a hostile house -- my home -- and I had been treated with very little respect by the only servant the house had.

On the other hand, I had easily repelled a Legilimency aggression and I had beaten its caster in a verbal duel afterwards.

I couldn't help smiling. Quite a lot of defeats, but at least two victories...

***

A violent thunderbolt shook the whole house and I sat bolt upright, my heart beating wildly. I must have fallen asleep while waiting for my husband to return; I looked wildly all around me, but he was nowhere to be found. I was alone.

I don't really know what folly seized my whole being then; I was suffocating and the only coherent thought remaining in my panic-stricken mind was the urge to get out of the bedroom, to escape the air heavy with the scent of burnt wax. I feverishly groped my way to the door; finally feeling under my palm the cool porcelain of the door handle, I roughly turned it and wrenched the door open, before dashing into the dark corridor.

I was running, blinded by an unexplained fear, not knowing where I was heading or how I would find my way back to the bedroom -- without lights and without wand. I didn't care. I just wanted to get out. I think I screamed in fright when a flash of lightning briefly illuminated the corridor, quickly followed by another thunderbolt that seemed to echo in my whole body.

My hand found the banister of the marble staircase and I ran down the stairs. The torches had been extinguished a long time ago, and as I stepped into the hallway, the grandfather clock chimed. It was ten o'clock.

The cold was bitter in the hallway. I didn't linger there and immediately walked to the garden door, which was shuddering under the violent assault of the wind. Rain was slapping harshly the glass panes, making them rattle in their frame.

I seized the handles on both sides of the door and pulled with as much strength as I could muster.

The wind rushed in, enveloped me in its immense cold hands and forcefully dragged me outside. I stepped on the terrace and I stood there, lost in the middle of the wild ballet of the dead leaves, flying, swirling, rising high in the air before being hurled to the ground again. My robes were billowing around my legs and my hair whipped my face. Large raindrops were hitting my face, drenching my robes and sticking them to my body.

I was cold, but I stayed there. The furious wind was strangely purifying. The roar of the tempest filled my ears and drowned my mind in an eerie trance. But, most of all, the sight of battling trees kept me rooted to the ground. What I thought was a garden was in fact a small wood; a bunch of dark wild trees, growing so close to one another that there was no grass at their feet. They were fiercely hitting each other, flinging their branches in the moaning wind and bending until their great wooden body creaked and threatened to break in two.

I stood in the storm for a long time, watching my wild and hateful garden.

I would start with the garden.

********

(*) "My Aimée": aimée means "beloved" in French.