Read Chapter 10: The Usurper

The morning light through the tall windows of the Duchesse’s antechamber was still gray when Marguerite heard the footsteps in the corridor—quick, purposeful, unfamiliar. She had been folding a fresh chemise, her mind elsewhere, replaying the gardener’s words about the dark-haired maid and the belladonna.

The door opened without a knock.

A young woman stood on the threshold. She was slender, perhaps nineteen, with a face that was almost too symmetrical to be trusted. Her hair was a deep chestnut, pulled back severely, and her gown was of excellent cut but modest color—the costume of someone who wished to be noticed only for her competence. She smiled, and the smile did not reach her dark eyes.

“You must be Marguerite,” she said, stepping inside as though she had every right. “I am Mademoiselle Élodie de la Mothe. The Comtesse de Vaudreuil has been kind enough to recommend me to Her Grace as an additional lady-in-waiting for the autumn season. The Duchesse has accepted.”

Marguerite’s blood went cold. The name. *De la Mothe.* The same name in Masson’s ledger, under a column of belladonna.

She kept her face still. “I was not informed.”

“It was arranged only last evening,” Mlle de la Mothe said, gliding past Marguerite toward the Duchesse’s dressing table. She ran a finger along the silver brush set, proprietary. “Her Grace is so very busy. I am sure it slipped her mind.”

Marguerite set down the chemise. “Her Grace has been unwell. Perhaps the arrangement should wait until she is recovered.”

Mlle de la Mothe turned, her smile never wavering. “Oh, but I am here to help her recover. The Comtesse was most insistent that I be of immediate service. Is that not kind of her?”

It was a performance, flawless in its surface, rotten beneath. Marguerite had seen enough court masques to recognize the mask.

“I will inform Her Grace you have arrived,” Marguerite said, and left the room before her hands could betray her.

---

The Duchesse was seated by the window in her private salon, a book open on her lap, but her eyes were unfocused. She had been slipping, these past days. Her memory faltered at the edges like a frayed hem, and there were moments—brief, terrifying—when she looked at Marguerite without recognition, as though seeing a stranger in her own chamber.

“Your Grace,” Marguerite said, closing the door softly behind her. “A Mademoiselle de la Mothe has arrived. She says the Comtesse sent her to serve you.”

The Duchesse blinked, slow as a cat. “De la Mothe. Yes. The Comtesse spoke very highly of her. A young woman of discretion and skill.”

“Your Grace, I must speak plainly.”

The Duchesse turned the page of her book, though her eyes did not move across it. “You always do, Marguerite. It is one of your virtues. And one of your annoyances.”

“The name de la Mothe appears in a ledger I have seen. A ledger belonging to an apothecary who supplies poisons to the aristocracy of Paris.”

The Duchesse’s hand paused on the page. Then she laughed—a light, brittle sound. “Marguerite. You have been reading too many penny dreadfuls. The Comtesse would not send a poisoner to my bedside.”

“I saw her take something from her pocket just now. A small vial. Similar to the one found in the Comtesse’s gift.”

The Duchesse’s face tightened. She closed the book, placed it on the table, and looked at Marguerite with something approaching clarity—a flash of the sharp woman she had been before the creeping fog of the poison had begun to thicken around her mind.

“You are afraid for me,” the Duchesse said, not unkindly. “I know you mean well. But I cannot reject a gift from the Comtesse without cause. To do so would be a political insult of the highest order. You know this.”

“Your Grace, the cause is your life.”

“And you have proof? Beyond a name in a book you claim to have found? Beyond a vial you think you saw?”

Marguerite hesitated. She had no proof she could present without exposing Beaumont, without revealing her own theft of the night cream, without confessing that she had been investigating the Comtesse behind her mistress’s back for weeks.

The Duchesse saw the hesitation and mistook it for uncertainty.

“My dear girl,” she said, her voice softening. “I know you love me. But you have become overwrought. The sickness has affected you as well. Perhaps you should rest this afternoon.”

Marguerite opened her mouth to argue, but a knock at the door forestalled her. Mlle de la Mothe entered without waiting for permission, bearing a small tray.

“I thought you might take refreshment, Your Grace,” she said, her voice honeyed. “A tisane of chamomile and mint. The Comtesse assures me it is most soothing for the nerves.”

The Duchesse smiled, genuinely this time. “How thoughtful. You see, Marguerite? A perfect attendant.”

Mlle de la Mothe set the tray down on the table beside the Duchesse. As she leaned forward, her sleeve pulled back, and Marguerite saw it—a flash of glass in the girl’s hand. A small vial, empty now, disappearing with practiced ease into the folds of her skirt.

The tisane steamed gently in its cup.

Marguerite stepped forward. “Your Grace, allow me to pour.”

Mlle de la Mothe’s dark eyes flicked to her, a single beat of something cold and assessing. Then she smiled. “Of course. It is only proper that the senior maid attend to such duties.”

Marguerite took the cup. The liquid was pale, fragrant with herbs. She poured it herself, watching carefully. Nothing was added. Nothing was dropped. But Mlle de la Mothe could have emptied the vial into the pot moments before entering the room.

There was no way to know. No way to prove. And the Duchesse was already raising the cup to her lips.

“Your Grace,” Marguerite said, her voice sharper than she intended. “Perhaps I should taste it first. To ensure it is not too hot.”

The Duchesse lowered the cup, frowning. “That is hardly necessary.”

“Humor me.” Marguerite took a small sip. Chamomile. Mint. A faint undertone of something bitter she could not place. Her heart hammered in her chest. If there was belladonna, the amount in that single sip would not kill her. Or might it?

She waited. Three heartbeats. Five. The warmth of the tea pooled in her stomach, but no cramping came, no blurring of vision. If there was poison in that pot, it was diluted, or slow-acting, or meant to be accumulated over days.

Mlle de la Mothe watched her with a look of polite curiosity, a cat watching a bird that had wandered too close.

“You see?” the girl said pleasantly. “Perfectly safe.”

Marguerite set the cup down on the tray, her hand steady through sheer force of will. “I will ring for fresh bread,” she said, and left the room before her legs could give way.

In the corridor, she pressed her back to the wall and breathed. Her mouth tasted of mint and fear. She had two suspects now, and one of them was in the Duchesse’s private chambers, serving tea from a vial she kept hidden in her sleeve.

And her mistress, the only ally who mattered, had just called her overwrought.

---

That evening, Mlle de la Mothe was given the chamber at the end of the eastern wing, directly across from the room where the dark-haired maid had been seen disappearing. Marguerite stood in the shadows of the stairwell, watching as the girl’s silhouette moved behind the curtained window, opening a small parcel delivered by a page in Vaudreuil livery.

The parcel was small. Sealed. The size of something that could hold a vial.

Marguerite turned away and walked quickly through the darkened corridors toward the servants’ stairs. She would need to see Beaumont. She would need a plan. And she would need to find a way to make the Duchesse believe her before it was too late.

A hand closed around her wrist from behind.

She spun. Philippe the gardener stood there, face pale in the candlelight. He looked at her, and she saw in his eyes that something had changed—something had broken.

“I saw her,” he whispered. “The maid. The one from the cart. Today, I saw her again.”

“Where?”

He swallowed. “She followed the new lady-in-waiting. She brought her a parcel.”

Marguerite’s blood went cold. “She’s here. In the palace.”

“She is not just in the palace,” Philippe said, his voice cracking. “She is the new lady-in-waiting.”

The world tilted. Mlle de la Mothe. The dark-haired maid. The belladonna. One woman, wearing two masks, moving through the household with the Comtesse’s blessing and a poisoner’s purpose.

Marguerite’s hand moved to the locket at her throat. Her mother’s locket. Her mother’s poison.

She had fallen into the heart of the plot. And the Duchesse did not believe a word she said.