“Oh, fabrique this, fabrique that,” the Matrone said, interrupting the general yet again. “All we seem to talk about these days are the fabriques. It is impossibly boring. Boring, boring, boring. And you”—she waved a finger at the general and then the table in front of him—“always poking and prodding at that silly TéléCom. I hate having these awful gadgets at my dining table. So disruptive. So hideous. So . . . inferior. Technology is for the weak minded. Those who cannot occupy their own thoughts turn to devices to do it for them.”
Marcellus gazed out one of the windows of the banquet hall. As the head of the Ministère and the Patriarche’s chief counsel, General Bonnefaçon, and his grandson, by extension, were awarded special privileges. Like their own dedicated south wing in the Grand Palais. Meanwhile, the rest of the Second Estate lived in smaller, less lavish manoirs throughout Ledôme.
Marcellus had grown up with this beautiful view of the Grand Palais gardens. But today, despite the artificial Sol-light streaming down from the TéléSky, the landscape seemed darker somehow.
“Ma chérie,” the Patriarche was now saying. “Leave the poor general alone. He needs the TéléCom to deliver his reports, that’s all. You know he wouldn’t bring his ugly tech into the banquet hall if he didn’t have to.”
“Madame Matrone,” Marcellus’s grandfather said in a low, gentle tone. “I must inform you that due to these delays at the fabrique there may not be enough sweet breads for the Premier Enfant’s third birthday fête next week.”
Suddenly, it was as if a black cloud from outside Ledôme had drifted into the Palais and across the Matrone’s face. Her dark eyes narrowed, her brows dipped, and her nostrils flared. “What on Laterre do you mean?” She didn’t wait for a reply. She shook her head fiercely, knocking her curl tower askew. “This must not be tolerated. You get out there right now, General, and you tell those lazy workers that—”
“Now, now, ma chérie. Don’t work yourself into a tizzy. You’ll get wrinkles. You wouldn’t want to undo the effects of those youth injections, would you?” The Patriarche patted his wife’s hand. “There will be enough sweet breads for the birthday fête. General Bonnefaçon will see to it personally.”
Hearing the word “birthday,” the Premier Enfant began to beat her spoons together again. “Bur-day, bur-day, bur-day!” she shrieked.
The Matrone raised the back of her hand to her forehead and said in a strong whisper, “Please, ma petite. Be quiet now.”
But the little girl was already too excited to stop. She raised the spoons above her head and clapped them together again and again, stomping in time with the beat.
“Nadette!” the Matrone and Patriarche shouted at the exact same moment.
A few seconds later, Marie’s governess came bustling into the banquet hall carrying a plate of sliced fruit. Her face was flushed and her auburn hair was unkempt.
“I’m sorry, Madame Matrone. I was fetching the mademoiselle a peach from the kitchen. She’s been asking for one all morn—”
But the servant’s words were cut short when the Matrone raised a hand and waved toward her daughter, her numerous titan rings clattering with the gesture. Nadette fell silent, bowed, and immediately started toward the child in an attempt to quiet her.
Marie, however, evidently thought it was a game. She let out a squeal and began to run around the banquet hall, all the while still banging her spoons.
“Oh, my head,” the Matrone said, looking like she might faint. “This is too much, too early in the day.”
“Here.” The Patriarche passed his wife his own flute of champagne. “Have some more sparkles.” He then turned to the general. “Have you checked with the gamekeeper yet about the hunt this afternoon? I want to make sure the gardens are fully stocked with game. Last time I went out, there was barely so much as a squawk to be heard.”
Marcellus let out a long breath and allowed his mind to wander, just for a few seconds.
“Your father is dead.”
How did he die?
Did he suffer?
“Monsieur Patriarche,” his grandfather replied. His tone was cool, patient. “Perhaps if the quail population is dwindling, you’d be best to hold off hunting until more can be bred in the menageries. Your father always limited his hunting to—”
The Patriarche sat bolt upright in his chair. “Hold off?!” He spat out the words, as if it was the most ludicrous suggestion his chief counsel had ever made. “On a hunt? What on Laterre do you presume I do all day? Sit around polishing my guns?”
His anger seemed to rile up the child even more. She dropped her spoons and started chanting, “Bang! Bang! Bang!” as she formed guns with her chubby fists and fired them into the air.
“Nadette!” the Matrone cried. “Please. My aching head! Can’t you do something?”
Nadette, looking terrified, finally caught the girl and tried to shush her by stroking her hair and feeding her pieces of fruit.
“No!” Marie pushed her governess’s hand away and started to cry. She appeared to be thinking about running again, but just then, Marcellus caught her gaze and cocked an eyebrow. Without a word, he pulled a fresh napkin onto his lap.
The Premier Enfant saw his signal, sniffled, and rubbed her teary face. She dropped to her knees and crawled under the table toward Marcellus. When Marcellus felt the silk of her gown brush against his legs, he started folding the napkin.
One fold, two folds, three, and four.
He’d done it so many times, he didn’t have to look anymore. The swan’s neck, wings, and beak soon materialized in his hands. It took only a minute to complete. When he was done, he felt Marie’s fingers on his. She took the napkin-bird and crawled away. Even though the Patriarche was still chattering about his upcoming hunt, Marcellus could hear the girl cooing to her swan under the table.
“Finally, Nadette,” the Matrone said. “It took you long enough to quiet her.” She turned to Marcellus. “You would think, given it’s her only job, she’d be better at it.”
Suddenly there was a loud bang, and everyone startled and looked over at the Patriarche, who had just pounded his fist on the table, causing the Matrone’s champagne flute to tip over.
“This simply will not do!” He banged his fist again as a servant came in to mop up the spilled drink. “Dwindling quail population?” He snorted. “What nonsense! If you won’t speak to the gamekeeper, General, I might just have to find a general who will.”
Marcellus tensed at the comment. He hated when the Patriarche threatened his grandfather. General Bonnefaçon had devoted his life to the Regime. He was the most loyal servant of Laterre that Marcellus had ever known. His grandfather had been practically running this planet for the past thirty years. The former Patriarche, Claude Paresse, had promoted Bonnefaçon to general when he first inherited the Regime. He’d passed away only two years ago, and now his son, Lyon, the current Patriarche, would be positively lost without Marcellus’s grandfather. And yet he acted like the general was as replaceable as a faulty droid.
Marcellus opened his mouth to say something—even though he had no idea what to say—but the general silenced him with a subtle shake of his head.