Read Chapter 11: The Covert Meeting

The corridor behind the Galerie des Glaces was a servant’s artery, narrow and unadorned, where the plaster smelled of candle smoke and damp wool. Marguerite pressed herself into a shadowed alcove as Mlle de la Mothe passed within three feet of her, the woman’s dark hair pinned neatly beneath a cap of Montfort lace, her step unhurried, purposeful. She carried nothing—no reticule, no bundle—but her hand kept drifting to the seam of her bodice, as if reassuring herself of something hidden there.

Marguerite had followed her from the Duchesse’s antechamber, where the woman had spent an unconscionable time arranging a tray of letters that needed no arranging. The other maids had been too busy with the autumn ball preparations to notice. But Marguerite noticed everything.

Mlle de la Mothe stopped before a door that appeared to be part of the paneling itself, indistinguishable from the wall unless one knew to look. She produced a key from that same bodice seam, fitted it into a lock hidden in the wainscoting, and slipped through. The door clicked shut behind her.

Marguerite counted to twenty, then moved.

The lock was simple—a servant’s lock, not a nobleman’s. She drew the hairpin from her own cap, the one she had sharpened weeks ago for a different purpose, and worked it into the mechanism. Two breaths, three. The bolt gave way with a whisper of protest.

She eased the door open a crack. Beyond was a small chamber, likely once a valet’s waiting room, now repurposed with a small table, two chairs, and a single candle whose flame bent toward the draft from the door. Mlle de la Mothe stood with her back to Marguerite, her hands clasped before her. Across the table, a page in the Vaudreuil blue of the Comtesse’s household waited, his face young and smooth and utterly untroubled.

“You were meant to come alone,” the page said. His voice was higher than a man’s, but steady.

“I am alone.” Mlle de la Mothe gestured at the empty chairs. “Your mistress is cautious, but not cautious enough to send an army of boys.”

The page’s mouth tightened. He reached into his doublet and produced a small leather purse, which he tossed onto the table. It landed with a heavy, musical clink. Gold.

Mlle de la Mothe did not reach for it. Instead, she tilted her head, studying the page as one might study a horse before purchase. “The delivery was received. The contents of the parcel have been prepared as instructed.”

“And the Duchesse?”

“She drinks her tisane each evening. I have seen to it personally.” A small, cold smile crossed her face. “The dose is slow, as requested. She will not die in a way that raises questions. She will simply … fade. The physicians will call it a wasting illness. The nerves, perhaps. A woman’s constitution, weakened by grief.”

The page nodded, a gesture of professional approval. “The Comtesse will be pleased. She asks that you finish the matter within the fortnight. The autumn ball provides excellent cover—so many visitors, so many servants. No one will remember one dark-haired maid.”

“And my payment?”

“The first half is in your hand.” The page gestured at the purse. “The second half will be delivered once the Duchesse is buried.”

Mlle de la Mothe reached for the purse at last. She weighed it in her palm, then tucked it into the same seam of her bodice where the key had rested. “Tell the Comtesse that the tisane is working. The Duchesse complained of dizziness this morning. She nearly stumbled on the stair.”

“Excellent.”

“One more thing.” Mlle de la Mothe’s voice dropped, and Marguerite had to strain to hear it. “There is a maid—Marguerite. The Duchesse’s personal attendant. She has been asking questions. She spoke with the old gardener Philippe, and I saw her in conversation with Dr. Beaumont outside the palace gates.”

The page’s expression flickered. “The physician?”

“He examined the cream. He knows something. I do not know how much, but he is involved with her.”

The page was silent for a long moment. Then he said, “The Comtesse has anticipated this. She has already taken measures regarding the physician’s records. If the maid becomes a problem, deal with her the same way you dealt with the other.”

The other. The words landed in Marguerite’s chest like a stone dropped into still water. Her mother. The woman had been poisoned in a cottage outside Paris, and now this creature was discussing her as one discusses a loose thread to be snipped.

“I will handle her,” Mlle de la Mothe said. The coldness in her voice was absolute. “She is too curious for her own good. A pity. She seems competent.”

“Competence is not a virtue in our line of work,” the page said. He stepped back from the table. “The Comtesse will expect confirmation within the week. Do not fail her.”

Mlle de la Mothe inclined her head. The page turned, crossed to a second door on the far side of the room, and was gone before Marguerite could draw breath.

Mlle de la Mothe remained by the table for a long moment. She extinguished the candle with two fingers, plunging the room into darkness, and then Marguerite heard her footsteps approach the main door.

She had perhaps three seconds. Marguerite slipped back from the door, pressing herself into the deepest shadow of the alcove, her hand instinctively going to the locket at her throat. The metal was warm against her palm. Her mother’s poison. Her mother’s killer, or one of them, was about to pass within arm’s reach.

The door opened. Mlle de la Mothe stepped out, locked it behind her, and walked away without a backward glance.

Marguerite stood in the darkness, her heart hammering against her ribs. Her hands were trembling. Fear or fury—she could not tell which. What she knew for certain was this: Mlle de la Mothe was not merely a poisoner in the employ of the Comtesse. She was a killer with a history. She had done this before. She had killed Marguerite’s mother, or one very like her, and she would kill the Duchesse and think nothing of it.

And she had Marguerite’s name on her lips.

Marguerite waited until the footsteps faded entirely, then crept back toward the servant’s stair. Her mind raced, laying out possibilities like cards on a table. She could go to Dr. Beaumont, but the page had said measures had been taken regarding his records. She could go to the Duchesse, but the Duchesse had dismissed her warnings once already, and the tisane was already in her blood. She could confront Mlle de la Mothe—

No. That would only get her killed.

She reached the antechamber of the Duchesse’s apartments and paused at the threshold. Through the open door, she could see her mistress seated by the window, looking pale and thin, a cup of tisane cooling on the table beside her. The cup was already half empty.

Marguerite’s hand went to the locket again. It was still warm.

She had to move. She had to move now, before the poison took hold, before Mlle de la Mothe tightened the noose around her own neck. But she could not do it alone. She needed Dr. Beaumont. She needed his testimony, his ledger, his knowledge of the Comtesse’s dealings. And she needed to reach him before the Comtesse’s measures closed around him like a fist.

She turned from the door and walked swiftly down the corridor, her steps echoing on the marble, her locket swinging against her chest.

The game had changed. It was no longer about proving who had killed her mother. Now it was about stopping the same hand from killing again—and keeping herself alive long enough to do it.