The Last Tale of the Flower Bride
Roshani Chokshi
Dedication
For Aman, whom I would wear out iron shoes for, and for Niv, whose friendship is the rarest form of magic
Epigraph
Myths are but lies breathed through silver.
—C. S. Lewis
Prologue
You warned me that knowing your secret would destroy us.
At first, it sat in our marriage like a blue-lipped ghost, hardly noticeable until a trick of the light drew it into focus. But you could always tell the days when it gnawed at my thoughts. You tried to comfort me. You stroked my face and curled my fingers to your heart.
You said: “If you pry, you’ll destroy our marriage.”
But oh, my love, you lied.
Chapter One
The Bridegroom
Once upon a time, Indigo Maxwell-Caste?ada found me.
I had been lost a long time and had grown comfortable in the dark. I didn’t imagine anyone could lure me from it. But Indigo was one of those creatures that can hunt by scent alone, and the reek of my desperate wanting must have left a tantalizing, fluorescent trail.
Before Indigo, I avoided places where money served as pageantry rather than payment. I clung to the opinion that they were loud and crass, the shabby but sturdy armor of a poor man. In those days, I was poor. But I had become rich in expertise, and it was in this capacity that I served as a visiting curator to L’?xposition Des Femmes Monstrueuses. The exhibit had brought me to Paris on someone else’s dime and, eventually, to the H?tel de Caste?ada.
Once one of the royal apartments of Louis XIV and Marie Antoinette, the H?tel de Caste?ada now ranked among the finest hotels in the world. The vaulted ceiling, a restoration of the original, I was told, still showed indifferent, muscular gods reclining amidst gold-bellied clouds. Ivy lined the walls, through which the snarling faces of stone satyrs peered and panted at the guests.
It was common knowledge that each of the Caste?ada hotels centered on a fairy-tale motif. I gathered this one was an homage to Gabrielle-Suzanne Barbot de Villeneuve’s La Belle et la Bête—Beauty and the Beast—and while I hated to admit it, something about it seemed not of this world. It was so lovely I could almost ignore the crowd of models and DJs, red-faced businessmen and whatever other brilliantly arrayed and ostensibly vapid creatures such beautiful places attracted.
“Sir?” A slim, dark-skinned waitress appeared at my side. This was the second time she’d stopped by my table. I had chosen one near the back of the room so I might keep an eye on the entrance. “Are you sure I cannot get you anything?”
I glanced at the menu beside the haphazard collection of notes I’d prepared for the evening. The cocktails started at fifty euros. I smiled at the waitress, raised my half-filled glass of water, and then tapped the empty dish of complimentary spiced nuts.
“Perhaps another of these?” I asked. “My guest must be running late.”
The waitress managed a brittle smile and walked away without another word. She probably thought I was lying about meeting someone. Even I couldn’t quite believe my intended guest would deign to meet with me.
After months of searching for the whereabouts of a thirteenth-century grimoire, I had traced it to the private collection of the Caste?ada family. Initially, my requests to view the piece had gone unanswered. This was not surprising. I was well known only in academic circles as a Middle Ages historian with an interest in the preservation of incunabula. I had nothing to lose but time. So I wrote letter after letter, stood for hours as the fax machine spit them out into offices around the world. I lost a tiny fortune in long-distance phone calls until, finally, I received a message one week before I flew to Paris.
You may meet me at the hotel on the 7th of November.
8 o’clock.
—I.M.C.
I.M.C. Indigo Maxwell-Caste?ada. The heir of the Caste?ada fortune.
I knew nothing about him, and I preferred it that way. I have never understood this preoccupation with the rich and famous and how they spend their existence. All that naked yearning for their lives, the hushed surprise over the coincidence of a shared birthday . . . I preferred different fantasies.
I checked my watch: 8:45 p.m.
Perhaps he’d forgotten our meeting? Or maybe he was already here and simply wrapping up a previous engagement?
Across the room, I felt a pair of eyes on me. Twenty feet away sat a couple in an isolated booth that resembled a golden birdcage. The man caught me looking and grinned.
“A diamond martini for the lady!” he shouted, snapping his fingers.
The man had a mop of yellow hair, a head too heavy for his neck. He bore a distinct resemblance to a melting candle. Beside him sat a woman as voluptuous as a temple carving.
The bartender approached their booth, pushing a glass cart of cocktail accoutrements, and immediately set about measuring, pouring, shaking. He was followed close behind by a sharply dressed dark-skinned man carrying a velvet box. A jeweler. The man opened the box, revealing an assortment of diamonds.
“Pick,” said the yellow-haired man to the woman. “The diamond is yours.”
The woman pointed one pale finger to the brightest, largest carat. The bartender held out a frosted martini glass for the jeweler. He dropped in her chosen diamond, and it sank like a fallen star.