# Chapter 17: The Storm, the Kiss, and the Reliquary of a Forbidden Heart
Hello everyone, it's me again! How are you all doing? Today I will continue to walk with you and review Chapter 17 of "Mistress Of The Sun free digital audiobook". This is the chapter where the air grows warm, the Court games grow dangerous, and a sudden storm changes everything for Petite. So settle in, because this one is full of music, jealousy, thunder, and one unforgettable kiss.
The chapter opens in the soft rhythm of Court evenings. In Henriette’s sitting room—the withdrawing room, as everyone calls it—the King often has a word for Petite. She is allowed to join the men as they talk about the day’s kill, the strengths and weaknesses of horses, and the King’s beloved dogs. Henriette watches with a puzzled reserve, as if she cannot quite decide what she is seeing. The weather turns gloriously balmy, and it feels as though the gods themselves are smiling on the revels. When there is no hunt, there is a rehearsal. Every evening brings feasts and festivities, followed by moonlit carriage rides through the park. Even when the moon is only a sliver, Henriette and her revellers set out into the night, because much amusement can be had under cover of darkness.
One midnight, as their carriage heads back to the château, Nicole tells Petite that they have a visitor. Petite looks out and sees a tall bay horse keeping pace. Its rider tips his hat, his face lit by the coach’s torchlight. It is the King. He asks how she is, and she answers self-consciously. They speak of the rehearsal, and he praises her performance. He asks what she thought of the hunt, and she is honest: her falcon was excellent, her palfrey obedient, but hawking is not her favorite. It was requested by the ladies, especially Madame, but Petite prefers something more vigorous. The King admits he does too. He speaks of planning a boar hunt after the Feast of Saint Michel. Petite mentions that she saw evidence of a solitary boar near the first marsh, with large tracks by a wallow. The King is intrigued. Perhaps she could show him where she saw the tracks. She agrees. Then he tips his hat, spurs his horse, and canters off, leaving the coach horses surging and Nicole unfurling her fan with a knowing, “Well, now, that was interesting.”
The morning of the performance dawns cloud-free, thanks to the daily Masses Henriette commissioned for good weather. But backstage is bedlam. Henriette is tearful at the least provocation, her chamber a riot of fabric scraps and ribbons. Outside, workers install torches, carpenters hammer and saw, and Gautier runs frantically from place to place. The vertical track for the clouds keeps jamming, and the great velvet curtain is too short. Yet at eight o’clock, trumpeters announce the Queen and Queen Mother. The brass gong is struck, thirty-two pages light thirty-two torches, Lully raises his baton, and the lengthened curtain rises. The chorus of shepherds sings, “Who, in the night...” Backstage, Gautier counts heads, Monsieur Philippe adjusts his brother’s crown of wheat, and the King stands patiently as Ceres while his makeup is applied. Henriette, as Diana, searches for her quiver. Petite lines up with the nine other nymphs, dressed in green tissue spangled with silver.
When the second act begins, Henriette takes her place on the fern-covered throne, and her ten nymphs dance a minuet around her. Each dancer steps forward for a solo. Petite is second to last, and her left leg trembles. She hears someone from the wings whisper her name. She turns and sees the King give her an encouraging smile. Heart pounding, she steps to the center of the stage. And she dances. The applause comes. The King cheers her most enthusiastically. It is a triumph—and also, as it turns out, a quiet catastrophe.
The morning after is still and sultry. Henriette, touchy-headed, decides to leave early for the bathing pond before joining the King and his men. She sends Nicole and Petite to make sure everything is packed. Nicole notes that Madame is in a glout. Petite thinks it is because of her condition—the Princess’s courses have not come, and it is hoped she is finally with child. But Nicole thinks it is because of the performance. Somewhat too well. Claude-Marie says Henriette is jealous because Petite got applause for her solo. Petite protests that everyone was applauded. Nicole persists: yes, but the King cheered her. Petite glows at the memory. She insists it is not like that. She likes horses, the King likes horses. That is all. Nicole counters: he likes dogs, she likes dogs; he likes to hunt, she likes to hunt; he likes to dance, she likes to dance. Before she can finish, Henriette emerges with Athénaïs, Claude-Marie, and the other maids.
At the coaches, Henriette is handed into the head coach with Athénaïs, Nicole, and Claude-Marie. Petite is ceremoniously handed into the second coach with two maids-in-waiting from the Queen Mother’s household and a chambermaid. Petite notices the slight. Usually she rides with the Princess. At the bathing hole, valets lay carpets and string tapestries for privacy. Nicole helps Henriette out of her gown. Petite holds out the long gray bathing costume, but the Princess pointedly turns her back. Nicole mouths, “I’ll take care of it.” In the maid’s tent, her cheeks burning, Petite strips down to her shift and angrily sloshes into the shallow water.
There, Athénaïs sits in a rock hollow, cool and gleaming, her hair tucked into a blue turban, gems sparkling on two fingers. She commends Petite on her performance and says Henriette must be pleased. Petite admits she is not. She is annoyed. Athénaïs understands at once: of course, Petite was applauded. She explains the language of the Court—ce pays-ci, this country—as if it were another land entirely. One must learn the fine line between doing something well and doing something to great applause, which is the exclusive domain of a prince or princess. Why else may only the son of a prince deal at Basset? Not because he has the talent, but because dealer is the lucrative role. Lucrative is the magical word. Everything turns on it. The King’s regard is highly coveted because it is lucrative. A woman of Court, even a princess, will do anything to get his—she pauses for effect, smiling coquettishly—his friendship. Petite says she makes it sound dangerous.
Then comes the forest collation. Trumpets blare as Madame’s three carriages pull up to a glade. Horses whinny, men cheer, tables are set under a canopy, hounds bark, and five violinists play a mournful melody at odds with the liveliness. The King catches Petite’s eye. She makes a passing reverence and looks away. Henriette is shown to the place of honor to the right of the King, with Philippe on his left. The ladies are shown to their places. Nicole gives Petite a look of chagrin as Henriette’s valet leads Petite to a chair at the far end of the table, the lowliest spot, farthest from the King. Petite waits until everyone has placed their serviettes before placing hers. The food is rich, the wine abundant. They drink to the King, to the absent queens, to Madame and Monsieur, and again to the King.
Then the sky darkens. The corners of the canopy flap. Lightning cracks. Thunder rolls. The King stands. Rain pours. Another sharp flash. Pages run to the horses, varlets gather the hounds, women scream as wind tips the table, splattering wine and scattering bones. The King and his brother help Henriette into her coach and struggle to fasten the leather coverings. At another flash, Mitte—the King’s hound—runs whimpering into the woods, tail between her legs. Petite catches the end of the dog’s leather lead. “Easy,” she calls, as the hound pulls her pell-mell into the brambles. She yanks the lead and brings the terrified dog to a halt. The rain is heavy. Pulling the dog close, she pushes through bushes into a thick clump of trees.
The copse is dry at the center. Petite, soaked through, sinks onto the pine needles. The trembling dog licks her chin. “Easy, girl.” Then a man’s voice calls through the storm: “Mitte!” The dog whimpers. “She’s in here,” Petite calls, but thunder silences her. Branches break. A man’s head appears. It is the King. He stoops and embraces the terrified creature. “She has always been frightened by thunder,” he says, stroking the dog’s soft ears. “What a storm.” Lightning illuminates his features.
Petite unties her neck scarf and hands it to him. He thanks her, wipes his face, and hands it back. He feels the ground. “It’s dry here.” She shifts to give him room. It is tight for two, especially with a nervous hound. There is the scent of wet dog, rain, and something more—a pleasant floral perfume, jasmine, she guesses. The King holds the dog between his knees. His elbow touches her arm, his knee her thigh. She draws her elbows in and crosses her arms. All is in violent motion but for this one still refuge. All is still but for the beating of her heart.
The King turns to look at her. “Your hair.” Her scarf has fallen off in the rush. She feels exposed, her head uncovered, her hair tangled and wet. “It’s golden,” he says, his expression one of surprise and dawning recognition. “Now I know where I’ve seen you before.” Petite is confused. He sees her daily. “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve looked at you and wondered why you seemed so familiar—and now I know,” he says with a smile of satisfaction. “You were the girl chasing the runaway horse in the park at Chambord.” Petite blushes deeply. “You’re that girl—” She bows her head without reply. “—the goddess Diana.” Was this a jest? But his voice is ardent. “I’ve often thought of you since, the way you appeared in the meadow like some young goddess with long golden curls, the proud way you sat your horse.”
His eyes are soft hazel, his lashes long. She knows his face well: chiseled nose, rounded chin, broad forehead, full lips. “Are you chilled?” he asks. “No.” Lightning cracks and she jumps. “Yet you tremble.” He pauses, then lightly touches her chin. “I’m fine, Your Majesty,” she says, briefly meeting his gaze. A sudden shower of rain sprinkles them from the branches above. Like a baptism, she thinks, as he leans toward her. The dog licks her hand. She pulls back, heart beating violently. “I apologize,” he says. The dog whimpers. The King strokes Mitte’s long ears gently, first one and then the other. His fingers are long and fine—a musician’s hands. He wears no rings. Petite touches his hand. He turns toward her. It is so dark now she can hardly make out his eyes. The rain comes harder, the wind howls. They are in their own little world. She feels his breath on her cheeks, fragrant with wine. Her heart stops, then races. His lips touch hers very lightly. Then he puts one hand on her shoulder and presses his forehead against hers. Again, Petite prays, holding her breath. She wants to taste him. “I’ve never been kissed, Your Majesty,” she says, breath coming in gasps. “I’m not sure how to go about it.” He runs his fingers through her hair and bends over her, holding the back of her head in one hand. He is strong. She feels cradled within him. She feels his lips, his rough chin, and then his tongue, soft against her teeth. She is flooded with warmth. The dog whimpers, the storm howls, but there is only this, this one magical touch. A moan of pleasure sounds—her own.
Afterward, Petite vows: Never again. Wringing rainwater from her hair into a blue glass jar, she leaves their forest nest. She snaps a small branch off the tree—the one they leaned against, the one that sheltered them—and sticks it into her looking-glass frame. Three leaves, one for each swooning kiss. Never again. She lays her kerchief flat on the tabletop—the kerchief he used to dry his face—and places the blue jar of rainwater on top of it. These are her relics, this her reliquary. Clutching her father’s rosary, she prays before the statue of the Virgin until her knees ache. She is still chaste, yet she feels entirely undone. O Mary, give me strength. Never again kiss him, never again look into his eyes. Never again feel his strong, gentle fingers in her hair. Never again. Never again. Never again.
The next morning, Petite does not attend Madame Henriette or join the Court festivities. “I just don’t feel well,” she tells Clorine. The very thought of facing the Queen makes her stomach tighten. Clorine offers to get the surgeon. The surgeon, a man with terrible breath and no front teeth, pronounces Petite at death’s door. He bleeds and purges her, charging four deniers. Then Petite has no need to pretend: now she truly is ill and far too weak to rise. On the third day, Gautier calls. He stands outside the door for some time, talking to Clorine. After he leaves, Clorine says he is such a gentleman. She thinks he might be just a little stuck on Petite. She hands Petite a worn leather volume. He said it is for her. He said he was given to understand—and that is exactly how he put it, given to understand—that she liked poetry. Thoughtful, don’t you think? It is unlikely, given his status, but maybe he would forgo a dowry. Such things do happen from time to time.
Reader's Impressions & Star Rating: This chapter is a masterclass in slow-burning tension. The Court scenes glitter with unspoken rules, and Athénaïs’s speech about the “lucrative” nature of the King’s regard is sharp enough to draw blood. But the heart of the chapter is the storm. The copse becomes a confessional, a sanctuary, and a trap all at once. Petite’s vow of “never again” is heartbreaking because we already know how fragile such vows are in this world. The writing makes the kiss feel both innocent and inevitable, and the relics she keeps—the branch, the rainwater, the kerchief—turn a moment of passion into a private religion. I felt her terror, her shame, and her longing. ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ Rating: 4.9 / 5 Stars.
Next Chapter Prediction: Petite will try to hide from the King, but the Court will not let her. The boar hunt he mentioned may become the next unavoidable meeting, and Henriette’s jealousy will likely sharpen into something more dangerous. Gautier’s gift of poetry hints at a tender subplot, but the real storm is the King’s attention. I predict Petite’s illness will keep her isolated just long enough for gossip to spread, and when she finally returns, Louis will find a way to be alone with her again—perhaps using the promised boar tracks as an excuse. The question is whether she can keep her vow, or whether her heart has already betrayed her.
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