Read Online The Wilful Eye by Isobelle Carmody - Free Book Online Page B

all along both sides of the hall, but no windows. From the corner of her eyes Moth passed a hundred princesses in cream silk gowns, pale hair all built up into a buttery yellow tower over a fall of false curls, dotted with seed pearls and sprigs of white jasmine. All of them held the arm of their short, stout, dark-clad father: an army of doomed princesses.
    At the end of the hall of mirrors was another set of doors, smaller and inset exquisitely with a multitude of tiny enamelled blue tiles and decorated with gold leaf. There were two servants standing before them who swept open the doors as father and daughter entered an enormous red salon. A page ran ahead to announce their coming.
    â€˜The audience chamber,’ murmured Moth’s father. ‘See all the gold touches and the alabaster and lapis lazuli? One wall alone would cost more than our farm makes in ten years.’ His voice was full of admiration. He pointed out several special features, and failed to notice that, other than the shining mosaic panels, the long room was the colour of blood. Here, too, there were no windows. The chamber was lit by banks of fat white candles.
    They came into a smaller audience chamber and this too was red, though there were no animal trophies on the wall. The throne was black, and the king sat upon it looking down at them. He was very like his statue, with the same handsome face and beaked nose, but he was thinner and taller, his narrowness accentuated by the austere black clothes he wore. His eyes were hooded as she had been told, so that he looked out from the shadows with glimmering intent. Unlike the statue he wore not a chain nor ring nor bauble. He was all darkness.
    â€˜Here is my daughter Moth, your majesty,’ said her father. His voice sounded small in that room, as if it was designed somehow to swallow sound and reduce it.
    â€˜Moth? What sort of name is that?’ asked the king in a drawling languid voice. His eyes dwelt momentarily on Moth, but only as a hand would rest on a shelf. They did not see her, she felt, and knew that all of her mother’s finery and efforts were wasted. This was not a man who cared for beauty, at least not the beauty of a woman. Was it possible he was a man who loved other men? She had never heard a whisper that the king was such a one, yet neither had she heard he was a man who lusted after women either. Indeed he never left his palace save to hunt. There had been a princess who visited once, from across the sea, but Moth did not know whether she had come to offer friendship or to be a bride. She had not stayed long.
    Her father was explaining the significance of her name, telling how, as a baby, she had reached out to the candle and had burned herself before he could draw it away. The king listened, his lips curved in a simulacrum of a smile. Her father stammered to a halt. He was very pale and blinked too much.
    At last the king looked at her properly. His eyes crawled over her face, her breasts, her belly and thighs. It felt as if Camber were running his hard hands over her, pressing and pinching and greedy for more. Those eyes watched to see what she would do. She tried to think what was best. He was the king after all, with the power of life and death. She thought of her mother’s advice. If she played a foolish doll, would he merely torment her then let her go? She tried to smile but it twisted on her face.
    â€˜So, you would burn to have what you desire, little Moth?’ asked the king in a suggestive way that made Moth’s flesh creep. ‘Perhaps I will find out. What a pretty sight you would make, all whiteness and flame.’
    He rose with supple grace and offered his long white fingers. She put her hand into his. His grip was icy cold.
    Moth turned to her father. He looked old and frightened. His mouth twitched and she, fearing what he would confess in sudden remorse and belated courage, and knowing no confession would keep the king from his