The Ouroboros Cycle, Book One. G.D. Falksen

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      “As you cannot imagine,” she said. “There is nothing to do. No one speaks to me, you know.”

      “What of your dance card?” Grandfather asked.

      Babette almost laughed.

      “Empty, as it has been all night,” she said.

      Not that she minded. All of the possible claimants were unbearably French, a quality that Grandfather had raised her to distain. And all were unbearably boorish besides. She doubted any of them had half a sentence of intelligent conversation. The only thing wrong with her situation that evening was the lack of a book.

      And the damned dress.

      “It will be different in Paris,” Grandfather said.

      “Will it?” Babette asked, disappointed at the prospect.

      If Grandfather recognized her tone, he ignored it.

      “You are the heir to the Varanus fortune,” he said. “In Paris they will all flutter about you like moths”

      “Or flies around rotting meat?” Babette asked. “Truthfully, I would prefer otherwise, Grandfather.” She looked up at him, her green eyes big and pleading. “Must I marry, Grandfather?”

      From what she had heard about marriage and motherhood, it seemed like it would all be such a dreadful waste of her time.

      Grandfather looked at her sternly, like he always did when she was being difficult. After a token staring match to defend her independence, Babette relented and lowered her eyes.

      “Babette,” Grandfather said, “do not ask foolish questions. You are sixteen. You are a woman now. And you are your father’s only child. Of course you must marry. If you do not bear children, our line dies with you. And you would not bring that shame upon me, would you?”

      Babette gritted her teeth. Damn Grandfather for asking such a question! He knew that he was her greatest weakness!

      “No, Grandfather,” she said softly. After a moment, she added, “But why cannot Father remarry? He could choose a young wife, and she could bear him sons. And I could happily become a spinster.”

      “You are far too young to speak of becoming a spinster,” Grandfather said, chuckling. “Wait until you are twenty before harboring such thoughts.”

      “Perhaps,” Babette said.

      She fell silent as a gaggle of young, beautiful women walked past with their heads held high in distain. They were led by the insufferable Claire de Mirabeau, who paused and bowed her head to Grandfather in the most courteous manner possible. The others did likewise, but they walked on without so much as acknowledging Babette.

      Babette bristled at the slight, more on principle than for the source of the insult. Claire and her little company had antagonized Babette for as long as she could remember. Father had tried to force friendship between them once. Thankfully that had finally ended at age ten, when Claire’s torments had earned her two black eyes.

      “Will she be in Paris?” Babette asked.

      “Of course,” Grandfather said. “Everyone will be in Paris.”

      The idea of Paris was becoming more and more displeasing by the minute.

      “I spy Alfonse des Louveteaux,” Grandfather murmured, directing her gaze midway across the room.

      Babette looked where Grandfather indicated. True enough, there was Alfonse: tall, robust, brutal, and handsome, with thick black hair, a broad moustache, and heavy sideburns. He wore the uniform of a cuirassier, and Babette even admitted to herself that he cut quite the figure in it. If he were not such an insufferable bore, she might even have found him attractive; but Alfonse was not a man in whom a self-respecting woman could delight once she had passed words with him. Some things were simply impossible.

      “Indeed,” Babette said, looking away. “No doubt we shall have to see much of him in Paris as well.”

      “No doubt,” Grandfather said. “His family wishes an alliance. And it may even come to pass.”

      “Oh?” Babette asked. “I’m to marry him then?” She scoffed softly at the notion. “Father’s idea no doubt.”

      Grandfather was far too sensible to have suggested such a thing. Babette was certain of it.

      “You dislike the notion?” Grandfather asked.

      “It is not my place to say, is it?” Babette asked.

      “Of course it is.”

      Babette considered and then answered, “Yes, I dislike the notion.” She raised her chin firmly. “In fact, I consider Captain des Louveteaux to be most unsuitable. I believe that he and I should have nothing to say to one another across the dinner table.”

      Grandfather chuckled and said, “Yes, I suppose you are right. But you must marry, Babette. And you must marry soon.” After a lengthy pause, he added, “But enough words with your old grandfather. I must see to my guests.”

      So saying, he rose, bowed to Babette, and rejoined the throng of guests.

      Babette watched her grandfather leave without protest, though it was the last thing she wanted. Now she was left alone again, forced to pass the dreary evening in silence. Aside from Grandfather, there was no good conversation to be had.

      She opened her fan and studied it intently, wishing that it were a book. Instead, she was rewarded with pictures of flowers. They were the last things she cared to see at such a time. She much preferred the idea of returning to Grandfather’s library and perusing one of his books on zoology. Animals were vastly more interesting than plants in her estimation.

      A shadow fell across her and she looked up. A man stood before her, and the sight of him made Babette’s breath catch in her throat.

      The man was tall and slender, clad in the uniform of a hussar. The uniform was a fiery red, with braid and trimmings of black. The man’s hair was also colored black, like raven’s wings. His poise was flawless, and he held his chin high with pride, dignity, and just a hint of arrogance. He was handsome, beautiful even, with a narrow jaw, high cheekbones, and a sharp nose. He could not be much older than twenty. Despite herself, Babette stared at him, for the first time in her life enjoying the experience of simply looking at another person.

      Who was he? Certainly not a local. Babette had seen them all. Could he be a Frenchman from further south? English perhaps? Or a Russian? Her mind whirled at the possibilities.

      “Good evening,” the young hussar said. His accent was German and remarkably charming. “I wonder if I might have the honor of introducing myself to you.”

      Babette was silent, unsure of what to say. But, she reflected, conversation had suddenly become unnecessary, if only for the moment. At length she shook herself and said:

      “Shouldn’t someone else introduce us to one another?”

      The hussar shrugged sadly and motioned around the room. “It seems there is no one on hand to manage the introduction. They are all СКАЧАТЬ