Read Chapter 13: The Turncoat's Price

The servants’ stair was cold and dark, and Marguerite had learned long ago to move through it without a sound. She was halfway down, a basket of the Duchesse’s soiled linens balanced on her hip, when a shadow detached itself from the wall below and stepped into her path.

Mlle de la Mothe. Smiling.

“Marguerite.” The woman’s voice was honey over a blade. “How fortunate to find you alone.”

Marguerite’s hand tightened on the basket. “If you wish to speak with me, you may do so in the Duchesse’s presence.”

“The Duchesse is napping. And I thought we might have a more… honest conversation than the one you interrupted the other night.” Mlle de la Mothe tilted her head, dark hair falling in perfect waves across her shoulder. She wore Montfort livery now, the silver fleur-de-lis pinned at her breast like a badge of belonging. “I know what you heard in the Galerie. I know you’ve been speaking to the apothecary’s man, to the old gardener, to Dr. Beaumont.”

Marguerite said nothing.

“You’re very clever,” Mlle de la Mothe continued, stepping closer. The stair was narrow; there was nowhere to retreat. “Cleverer than I gave you credit for. The Comtesse underestimated you. So did I, frankly. But clever girls make excellent bargains, don’t they?”

“I will not bargain with a murderer.”

Mlle de la Mothe laughed, a light, musical sound that did not reach her eyes. “Murderer. Such an ugly word. I am a worker. A professional. I do what I am paid to do, and I do it well.” She paused. “But I am not a fool. And I know when a commission has become a trap.”

Marguerite’s pulse quickened. “What do you mean?”

“The Comtesse,” Mlle de la Mothe said, dropping her voice to a near-whisper, “does not intend to let me walk away from this. Once the Duchesse is buried and the second half of my fee is paid, I am to be found floating in the Seine with a confession sewn into my bodice. A convenient scapegoat for a crime that was never meant to trace back to her.”

“And you expect me to pity you?”

“I expect you to be sensible.” Mlle de la Mothe drew something from her sleeve—a small leather purse, heavy with coin. She held it out. “There is enough here to buy your passage out of Versailles. To Rouen, to London, anywhere you like. You take this, you forget what you heard in the Galerie, you forget my face, and you live a long and comfortable life.”

Marguerite stared at the purse, then at the woman’s face. “You poisoned my mother.”

Mlle de la Mothe’s smile flickered. “Your mother was a different commission. A different time. She was a threat to the Comtesse’s plans, just as you are now. But I can offer you something I never offered her.” She pressed the purse toward Marguerite. “A choice.”

“I want proof,” Marguerite said. “Proof that the Comtesse plans to kill you. Proof of her hand in this scheme.”

Mlle de la Mothe’s eyes narrowed. “Proof?”

“You say you fear for your life. You say the Comtesse intends to betray you. Then show me. Bring me something written in her hand—a letter, an order, anything that names the Duchesse as her target and you as her instrument.”

“And if I do?”

“Then I will consider your offer.”

The silence between them stretched. Below, a door banged somewhere in the kitchens, and the sound of clattering pots drifted up the stairwell. Mlle de la Mothe’s gaze moved over Marguerite’s face, searching for the lie.

“Tomorrow night,” she said at last. “The hour after midnight. The small garden behind the Orangerie. I will bring what you ask.”

“And if you do not come?”

Mlle de la Mothe smiled again, but this time there was something hollow in it. “Then you will know the Comtesse has already sealed my fate. And you will understand what awaits you if you stay.”

She stepped back, melting into the shadows of the lower landing. Marguerite stood frozen on the stair, the basket still balanced on her hip, her heart hammering against her ribs.

She did not tell Dr. Beaumont. Not yet. She told herself it was because she needed to be certain, to see the proof first with her own eyes. But as the day wore on and the light through the Galerie’s windows turned amber, a darker truth settled in her stomach: she wanted to believe Mlle de la Mothe was afraid. Because if the poisoner feared the Comtesse, then the Comtesse was the true enemy, and Marguerite’s own path became clear.

She kept vigil that night by the Duchesse’s bed, watching the woman’s face for signs of the poison taking hold. The Duchesse slept fitfully, turning and murmuring, a sheen of sweat on her brow. Marguerite pressed a cool cloth to her forehead, and the Duchesse’s eyes fluttered open, unfocused.

“Marie?” the Duchesse whispered.

“No, Your Grace. It is Marguerite.”

The Duchesse blinked, recognition dawning. “You look so much like her. Marie. My first chambermaid.” She smiled weakly. “She died before her time, poor thing.”

Marguerite’s throat tightened. “Yes, Your Grace. She did.”

At midnight, Marguerite slipped out of the Duchesse’s chambers and through the moonlit corridors, down the back stairs that led to the Orangerie garden. The night air was cold and sharp with the smell of citrus and earth. She took her place in the shadow of a large terracotta pot, and she waited.

An hour passed. Then two.

The moon climbed higher, and the garden silvered beneath it, empty save for the whisper of wind through the orange trees. Marguerite’s fingers grew numb. Her resolve frayed.

Mlle de la Mothe did not come.