Daughters of the King (Completed)

04 | Jacques

From the haunted sheen in the child's emerald-grey eyes, I suspect that something horrible happened to her. Something too terrible to name.

Ami does not enjoy my company. Perhaps she finds my voice too loud or my mannerisms too sharp. The idea that I remind her of someone in her past—someone who had harmed her in some way—disturbs me.

One night, after Lorraine has surrendered to the call of slumber, Ami's weak voice interrupts my reading. She cries in a tongue I could not quite understand, her withered arm thrashing about as she wails.

After rising from my pallet, I shake her awake, hoping she will not startle at my coaxing.

Her cloudy eyes flutter open slowly, moisture clinging to her short eyelashes.

"What is the matter?" I will my voice to sound as gentle as Lorraine's when she spoke to the child.

Ami stiffens.

She wraps her arms around her small knees, staring at the wooden wall—as if she can see beyond into the satin waters.

When she begins to speak, I can scarcely believe that I am listening to a child. She sounds like an old woman who has lived long enough to endure lifetimes of hardship, her small voice floating up into the cool night air.

I find myself standing in the Hôtel Dieu, hear the cries of her mother as she releases a bawling infant into the midwife's weathered hands. I see the young woman banish her sweat-laden red hair—the same shade as Ami's—from her emerald-green eyes as she gazes down longingly into the pinkish face of her daughter for the first time, kissing the crown of her head.

Then, I watch the veined hands of the midwife as she swaddles the infant in tattered cloths, placing her among the other children of prostitutes. The screams of her maman tear the silence of the bedchamber. Like unfolding tapestries, the following nine years appear in vibrant colour. A man by the name of de Villequier brings little Ami to his tavern. Ami does not name what happened to her at de Villequier's tavern, but I am no stranger to the wicked inclinations of men.

Eventually, she is found broken and bleeding in an alleyway by some nuns from the orphanage, ignored by the nobles who promenade past.

When she has finished her tale, Ami slumps against my shoulder, relenting to the pull of slumber.

Though I have witnessed much, I am shaken by her story. I promise myself I will never tell Lorraine what happened. She is unaware of the evils of the world, and there is no use in informing her of them.

I cannot sleep that night. Ami's words elicit a torrent of memories, each more painful than the last. When I close my eyes, the night it happened looms before me.

My father is playing a game of cards at a local tavern, the stench of ale and beer permeating the dimly lit room.

The particular tavern only serves wine by the pot, so he and his friends have gotten drunk before lumbering over to the low-ceiling tavern, hidden away within snaking cobblestone streets on the outskirts of Paris. There are also servings of veal, cabbage, bouillon and poultry—but most of it is nearing decay.

I wonder if it is common for a father to bring his young daughter to sinister-looking taverns for games of knucklebones and cards. Then, I conclude that nothing my father does is accepted, at least not by any person of high moral standing.

I begged, beseeched, and pleaded with him—trying my best to persuade him to let me stay home, but he ignored my pleas, instead, forcing me to wear a gaudy, old-fashioned black gown with a low, rounded neckline, full, billowing sleeves, and a high, cinched-in waist. Excessive embroidery lines the cuffs and bodice, accompanied by little white pearls and shiny glass beads. I despise the way it makes me feel. It is itchy and tight. It is a dress meant for an older girl, not one of only eleven years. I would have preferred the comfort of my plain day shift—one that I wear when reading on the terrace or wandering around the garden behind our apartment.