Chapter 33: The Endless Search For Nothing
Vivienne immediately left the dining room as soon as André disappeared from sight. Her steps were fast, her face calm, but her mind was in chaos. The moment she was alone, she let out a sharp sigh and muttered under her breath, "Finally. Finally I can breathe."
Her heart was racing, but her head was already working. She needed to think. She needed to plan.
The golden horse. That was all that mattered.
She wandered the halls of the château, her eyes moving over everything. Every door, every portrait, every polished column. Everything looked ordinary, too ordinary. It was maddening. There was no secret glow pointing the way. No little trail of golden dust to lead her to the prize. Just thousands of rooms that all looked the same, thousands of doors that led to endless corridors.
"If I start searching one by one, I’ll be here until I’m ninety," she thought bitterly, dragging her hand along the wall as she walked.
She paused, tapping her chin. "No. There has to be a smarter way. A clue. Something."
Then it hit her. Of course. The château was old, ancient even. Families like this kept records. They wrote everything down. They were obsessed with history, with showing off their wealth. Somewhere there had to be a book, a map, a ledger, a journal. Something that would point her to the vault.
Her lips curled into a thin smile. "The library," she whispered.
She turned and made her way through the hall, ignoring the few servants she passed. The château’s library was on the far side, and when she finally stepped inside, her breath caught for a second.
It was enormous. The ceiling stretched high, filled with carved beams. The shelves went on forever, filled with hundreds, maybe thousands of books. A spiral staircase curled upward to a second level. Dust floated in the air like little ghosts, lit up by the sunlight pouring through tall windows.
Vivienne shut the door behind her. "Perfect," she muttered.
For hours she searched. She climbed ladders, pulled out volumes, flipped through yellow pages, and slammed them back with growing frustration. The books were endless, but none of them were what she wanted.
Romance novels. Boring science books. Encyclopedias on plants and birds. A full shelf of poetry so nauseating it made her gag.
"Is there even anything in this place?" she muttered, dropping a book onto the table with a loud thump. "All these pages, and not a single word worth stealing."
She leaned back in the chair, rubbing her temples. Her eyes scanned the room again, and then something struck her.
There wasn’t a single journal. Not one family record. Not a letter book. Not a diary. Not a single boring historical account of who married who and who died where.
That was odd. Families like this kept records obsessively. They loved to brag about their bloodlines, their estates, their wins and losses. Yet here—nothing.
Her eyes narrowed. "That means there must be something here," she whispered. "Something hidden."
Just as she was about to start pulling at the shelves themselves, the door opened.
Vivienne whipped around, her body tense.
It was Genevieve.
Sweet, sugary, sickening Genevieve, carrying a little feather duster in her hand.
"Oh! Vivienne!" she gasped, her face lighting up like the sun. She practically skipped across the floor, her skirts swishing around her ankles. "I didn’t see you all day! Where have you been?"
Vivienne’s fingers twitched. She wanted to throw a book at her head. Or maybe stab her with the feather duster. Anything to wipe that sickly-sweet smile off her face.
Genevieve leaned closer, her voice dropping into a girlish whisper. "I heard something from the maids. They said... they said you’re now living here as the duke’s guest." Her cheeks went pink with excitement. "Is that true?"
Vivienne clenched her jaw, forced her lips into a shy smile, and nodded slowly.
Genevieve clapped her hands together, beaming. "I knew it! I knew you’d end up winning His Grace’s heart! Oh, I’m so happy for you!" Her eyes sparkled with genuine joy. "You deserve it. Truly. You’re so lucky."
Vivienne wanted to strangle her.
Genevieve leaned in even closer, giggling like a schoolgirl. "I hope it all works out. And if you become the duchess, promise me something."
Vivienne raised a brow, barely keeping her composure. "What?"
"Promise you’ll make me your lady-in-waiting!" Genevieve said, practically bouncing. "I’ll be the best one ever. I’ll braid your hair, I’ll polish your jewels, I’ll never leave your side!" She squealed and then threw her arms around Vivienne in a hug.
Vivienne stiffened. Every inch of her body screamed in protest. Her hands curled into fists behind Genevieve’s back. "I’d rather die than become duchess," she thought bitterly.
But she smiled faintly and let the girl hug her.
The door opened again.
This time it was Madame Lefevre. Her face was sour, her eyes hard. She looked like someone had dragged her there by force.
"I have been looking everywhere for you," she said coldly. Her lips trembled with disgust. "His Grace wants you to stay in the wings close to his. A room has been prepared for you."
Vivienne rolled her eyes inside her head. "Great. Just great. If I see a pink or peach flower room, I swear I’m going to puke."
She followed anyway.
The room was lavish. Fit for a queen. Deep purple silk draped from the canopy bed. Gold accents gleamed on the walls and furniture. Velvet chairs, polished mirrors, carpets so soft her feet sank into them.
Vivienne’s stomach turned. "I want to vomit," she thought. "But at least it’s not pink. Maybe this is their way of saying they got my taste right."
On the bed sat a box.
Vivienne narrowed her eyes and walked closer. She opened it carefully, and inside was a dress.
Red silk. Rich, blood-red. Alongside it lay jewelry, glittering diamonds.
And a note.
She picked it up, her lips twitching as she read.
"For my sweet Vivienne."
She turned it over. On the back was a poem, written in André’s neat hand.
---
You are too beautiful, too perfect, too rare.
Not even all the diamonds on this earth
can shine as bright as your eyes.
Roses themselves wither with jealousy
when they see you.
You are precious, my only treasure,
the heart that makes mine beat.
---
Vivienne slapped a hand over her mouth to keep from laughing. Her whole body shook. She wanted to vomit and laugh at the same time.
"Disgusting," she thought. "Utterly disgusting. This man needs to be locked away."
Madame Lefevre’s face was pale. "He wants you to wear it tonight," she said stiffly. She cleared her throat, then added through clenched teeth, "A bath is prepared for you, my la—" She stopped, choked on the word, then forced it out. "My lady."
Vivienne rolled her eyes. "Leave it. I don’t want to be called that stupid title either. Just call me by my name."
Madame Lefevre muttered as she left, "It’s not like I want to call you that anyway."
Vivienne stared at the dress again, her fingers running over the silk. She clenched her jaw.
"There’s only one way to get that horse," she whispered. "I have to make him tell me where it is."
---
That evening, André returned to the dining room. He sat waiting, his expression calm, but his eyes gleamed with something dangerous.
The doors opened.
Vivienne stepped in.
The red dress clung to her body, diamonds glittering at her throat and ears. Her hair was loose, falling in soft waves over her shoulders. She looked breathtaking.
André’s lips twitched. "That’s better," he thought. "Now you look like your real self." But aloud, he only said, "You look beautiful."
Vivienne smirked inside. "Obviously. Tell me something I don’t know." But she ducked her head shyly, playing her part.
The dinner was quiet. Too quiet.
Vivienne sipped her wine, watching him carefully. Then she tilted her head, her voice soft, sweet. "Where were you, my lord?"
André wiped his lips and answered smoothly, "I had some important business to take care of in town. A donation, actually."
Vivienne nearly rolled her eyes. "Awe. A donation. He’s probably giving out money to save stray kittens. How sweet. What a fool."
She sipped her wine again, her lips curving into a smug little smile. Her eyes gleamed with overconfidence.
André noticed. He watched her across the table, his fingers tapping lightly. "There it is," he thought. "That smug look. That overconfident smirk. I want to rip it off her face."
Vivienne felt his stare burning into her. She shifted in her seat, narrowing her eyes. "What the fuck is his problem? Why is he looking at me like that? Don’t tell me. Oh no. Don’t you dare. He’s planning to say something ridiculous. A poem. A proposal. Marriage. Don’t you dare, you motherfucker."
André leaned back suddenly. Then he pushed the silverware aside with one swift motion.
Vivienne froze, her fork hovering in the air over her roasted duck. "What the fuck—"
André’s voice dropped, low and dangerous. "Let me feed you something better."
Before she could react, he stood, grabbed her, and pinned her back against the long table. Plates clattered, glasses spilled.
Then his lips crushed against hers, hard and aggressive.
Vivienne’s world spun.