Read Chapter 3: The Physician's Caution

The vial felt heavier in Marguerite’s pocket than it had any right to be. She had wrapped it in her handkerchief, the glass cold against her thigh as she hurried through the servants’ corridor toward the physician’s quarters. The locket at her throat—her mother’s locket—swung with each step, a small weight she had worn for nine years, never knowing it might one day hold the key to a murder.

Dr. Beaumont’s door was ajar. She pushed it open without knocking.

He stood at his worktable, pestle in hand, grinding something pale and chalky in a mortar. The room smelled of camphor and dried lavender. He did not look up.

“You should not be here, Marguerite.”

“You knew,” she said. “Last night, in the grove. You knew what the Comtesse was doing.”

He set the pestle down with deliberate care. When he finally turned, his face was unreadable, but his eyes—grey as winter—held something she could not name. Weariness, perhaps. Or fear.

“I knew she was up to something,” he said. “I did not know it would be you who stumbled upon it.”

Marguerite pulled the handkerchief from her pocket and unwrapped the vial. She placed it on the table between them, and the glass clicked against the wood with a sound too loud for the quiet room. The amber liquid inside caught the candlelight.

“The tisane she sent my mistress,” Marguerite said. “I smelled it before it was steeped. The same scent. Bitter almonds.”

Beaumont’s jaw tightened. He did not reach for the vial. He stared at it as though it were a viper coiled on his table.

“I need to know what it is,” she said. “What it does.”

He crossed to the window and peered through the shutter slats into the dark courtyard below. His voice was low when he spoke.

“It is called l’essence du sommeil in the apothecaries’ trade. The essence of sleep. A misnomer.” He turned back to face her. “It does not bring sleep. It brings a slow and certain death.”

Marguerite’s hand went instinctively to her mother’s locket. The little gold casing was warm against her fingers.

“How slow?”

“Weeks. Sometimes months. It depends on the dose and the constitution of the one who takes it.” He gestured to the vial. “That amount, taken daily in small doses, would kill a strong woman in about a month. The symptoms begin as fatigue, a lingering headache. Then the stomach weakens. The pulse grows irregular. The physicians would call it melancholia, or a wasting illness. Only a thorough examination of the internal organs would reveal the truth, and by then the body is usually buried.”

“And there is no cure?”

“There is no antidote once the poison has taken root.” He paused. “But there is prevention.”

Marguerite stepped closer to the table. “My mistress has taken three cups of that tisane. Has it already—?”

“Three cups is not enough to cause lasting harm,” Beaumont said. “But she must not drink another drop. Do you understand me? Not one.”

“I understand.”

The silence stretched between them. Somewhere in the palace above, a clock chimed the hour. Marguerite’s mind raced through what she had seen in the grove—the Comtesse’s pale hands, the parcel she had pressed into the pharmacist boy’s keeping, the way she had glanced over her shoulder before disappearing into the shadows.

“The parcel,” Marguerite said. “The one she gave to the boy. It is to be delivered in two nights, at the Queen’s soirée.”

Beaumont’s eyes narrowed. “How do you know this?”

“I heard her speak of it. She said it must be delivered personally, under cover of the celebration.”

He ran a hand through his greying hair, a gesture that betrayed more agitation than she had ever seen from him. The court physician was known for his composure, his careful speech, his refusal to take sides in the endless warfare of Versailles. But now his composure cracked, just slightly, at the edges.

“You must not investigate further,” he said. “You must forget what you have seen and heard. You must go back to your duties and act as though you know nothing.”

“I cannot do that.”

“You can, and you will.” He took a step toward her. His voice was hard now, the voice of a man accustomed to command. “You do not understand the forces at play, Marguerite. The Comtesse de Brionne is not alone in this. There are others—people with titles and power and no conscience. People who have already killed to protect their interests.”

Something cold slithered down Marguerite’s spine. “You speak as though you know them.”

Beaumont hesitated. A lifetime of secrets flickered behind his eyes.

“I have been physician to this court for twenty years,” he said. “I have seen things that would curdle your blood. I have written death certificates for poisoned men and called it apoplexy. I have held the hands of women as they died, knowing that the woman who served their morning chocolate was the one who killed them.”

“And my mother?” Marguerite’s voice cracked. “Was she one of them? Was she poisoned?”

Beaumont’s face went pale. He looked away.

“Your mother,” he said slowly, “was a good woman. She did not deserve what happened to her.”

“Then you know who did it.”

“I know enough to understand that you are walking toward the same fate.” He took a step closer, lowering his voice until it was barely a whisper. “There is a network, Marguerite. A commerce in poisons that runs through the highest houses in France. The Comtesse is a customer. Perhaps more. The man who supplies her—who supplies many of them—is not a pharmacist’s boy. He is far more dangerous. And if you draw his attention, he will not hesitate to silence you. He will not hesitate to do it slowly.”

Marguerite felt the weight of her mother’s locket against her collarbone. She reached up and unclasped it, opening the tiny gold case. The miniature portrait of her mother looked up at her—a small, dark-haired woman with gentle eyes. The same eyes Marguerite saw in the mirror every morning.

She removed the portrait and set it aside. Then she picked up the vial from the table and, with steady hands, poured its contents into the hollow of the locket. The liquid filled the cavity perfectly. She closed the clasp and held it up to the candlelight.

“If it is as precious and rare as you say,” she said, “then it is evidence. And evidence must be kept safe.”

Beaumont watched her, his expression unreadable. When he spoke, his voice was soft.

“You have your mother’s stubbornness.”

“Is that a compliment?”

“It is a warning.” He moved to a cabinet against the far wall and withdrew a small leather pouch, which he pressed into her hands. “Dried rue and wormwood. Steep them together in wine, a pinch of each, and give it to the Duchesse every morning. It will strengthen her humours and make her less susceptible to any poison she may still be exposed to. It is not a perfect protection, but it is better than nothing.”

Marguerite clutched the pouch to her chest. “And the soirée? What am I to do about the parcel?”

“You are to do nothing.” His voice was iron. “Attend your mistress. Watch her cups. Speak to no one about what you have seen. When the parcel arrives, you will not intercept it. You will not open it. You will pretend you have never heard of it.”

“And when someone dies?”

He held her gaze. “That is not your concern.”

The words hung in the air between them. A moment passed. Another.

“I cannot accept that,” Marguerite said quietly.

She turned, the weight of the locket now doubled—both vial and pouch pressed against her body. At the door, she paused.

“You said my mother was a good woman,” she said. “Then you understand why I cannot simply let this pass. Because whatever killed her, it is here. At Versailles. And it is moving toward the Duchesse.”

Beaumont said nothing. But as she stepped into the corridor, she heard him speak—so low she almost missed it.

“And it is moving toward you as well.”

She did not stop walking.

The corridor was empty, lit by a single guttering torch. Marguerite pressed the locket against her chest, feeling the warmth of the metal and the secret it now contained. In the distance, toward the Queen’s apartments, she could hear the faint strains of music. A musician rehearsing for the soirée. Two nights from now, the Comtesse’s parcel would be delivered into someone’s hands—and someone in that glittering, candlelit room would be marked for death.

But Marguerite had the poison now. And she had the name of a man who knew more than he would tell.

She walked faster, toward the Duchesse’s apartments, the taste of bitter almonds on her tongue.