Read Chapter 11: The Bait

The morning light through the high windows of the wardrobe chamber felt like an accusation. Élodie had not slept. The Comtesse de Vaudreuil's offer—protection in exchange for betrayal—sat in her chest like a swallowed stone, and the sapphire pin burned against her palm every time she remembered it was hidden in her own sewing basket.

She had spent the night turning over the problem the way her grandmother used to turn a hem, searching for the invisible thread that would hold everything together without tearing. And by dawn, she had found it.

Silk did not lie. Wool could be trusted to hold a stitch. And people—people would always react to a whisper the way a flame reacts to oil.

Élodie smoothed her apron and walked to the servants' hall where the lower dressers took their morning chocolate. Marguerite was there, seated at the far end, her smile a little too bright as she gossiped with two women Élodie did not know by name. The pin had not yet been missed from Marguerite's basket—or if it had been, she was masking her panic remarkably well.

Élodie took her cup and sat two seats away, close enough to be overheard, far enough to seem incidental.

"The strangest thing," she said to no one in particular, stirring her chocolate slowly. "I heard one of the queen's ladies speaking to a jeweler yesterday. Apparently there is some item gone missing from the private apartments, and the queen means to have every servant's room searched by week's end."

That caught them. The chatter around her went still, like water freezing over.

A thin girl with nervous eyes leaned in. "Every servant's room? Even the upper staff?"

"Even the wardrobe women," Élodie said, letting her voice drop to a conspiratorial whisper. "They say the queen is furious. Nothing will be taken on faith. If they find so much as a ribbon that does not belong to you, you will be dismissed without a reference—or worse."

Marguerite had gone very still. Her cup hovered midway to her lips, and Élodie watched the calculation move across her face like shadows chasing a flame. Good. Let her wonder. Let her worry that the pin had already been discovered, that her own basket would be searched, that the thing she had hidden would be found and traced back to her.

Élodie rose, as if bored by the conversation, and carried her cup to the washing basin. She did not look back, but she felt Marguerite's eyes on her all the way to the door.

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The afternoon found the wardrobe chamber quiet, the queen at her music lessons, the other seamstresses scattered to their tasks. Élodie sat at her table, the masquerade gown spread before her like a patient awaiting surgery. She had not yet decided whether to unstitch the lining and remove the note—or whether to leave it in place and pretend she had never found it.

The door opened without a knock. Marguerite slipped inside, closing it behind her with a soft click. Her face was pale beneath its powder, and her hands clasped together too tightly.

"You've been telling stories," Marguerite said without preamble.

Élodie did not look up from her needle. "I've been repeating what I heard. There is a difference."

"You were trying to frighten me."

"Were you frightened?" Élodie set down her needle and met Marguerite's gaze. "I wonder why you would be, unless you have reason to fear a search."

The silence stretched between them, taut as a bowstring.

Marguerite crossed the room and dropped into the chair opposite Élodie, all pretense of composure abandoned. Her voice came out in a ragged whisper. "You found it. You found the pin and you put it back and now you think you can crush me with it."

"I think," Élodie said carefully, "that you put that pin in your basket for a reason. And I wonder who told you to do it."

"I don't know what you—"

"Marguerite." Élodie leaned forward, keeping her voice low and even. "We both know the truth will come out. The only question is who faces the queen's justice. So I will ask you once more, and then I will let the pieces fall where they may. Who told you to take that pin?"

Marguerite's jaw worked. The mask of the accomplished court attendant had cracked, and underneath was something younger and more desperate than Élodie had expected. Her eyes darted to the door, then back.

"She said it would only be a temporary removal," Marguerite whispered. "A few hours, she said. Just long enough to make her point. Then I would return it to the dressing room and no one would ever be the wiser."

"Who said?"

"You cannot tell her I spoke. If she learns I have betrayed her, she will destroy me. Not just at court—everywhere. My family. My prospects. There will be nowhere I can go where she cannot reach me."

Élodie's heart beat faster. "The Comtesse de Vaudreuil."

Marguerite flinched as though struck. Tears gathered at the corners of her eyes, and she wiped them away roughly with the back of her hand.

"She wanted Liselotte disgraced," Marguerite said. "She said there was a game being played at court, and Liselotte was a piece that needed to be removed from the board. I did not understand what she meant. I did not ask. You must believe me, Élodie—I only wanted—"

"You only wanted to protect yourself."

"Yes." The word came out broken. "And I would do it again. I am not proud of it, but I am not sorry for it either. You have never been in my position. You have never had to choose between your own skin and someone else's."

Élodie felt a cold stillness settle over her. The Comtesse wanted Liselotte disgraced. Not merely removed—disgraced. Banished from the queen's favor, stripped of her position, perhaps even sent from Versailles in shame. The cruelty of it took her breath away.

But why? What had Liselotte ever done to the Comtesse de Vaudreuil?

The hidden note flashed through her mind. Orléans. It had mentioned the name as though it were a key, a door that should never be opened. And the Comtesse had been so eager to recruit Élodie as her spy within the queen's own chambers.

"They are connected," Élodie murmured, more to herself than to Marguerite.

"Who is connected?"

Élodie did not answer. She was already rearranging the pieces in her head, fitting them together like the panels of a gown. The Comtesse had wanted Liselotte removed from the queen's service. The hidden note had warned of something planned for the night of the masquerade. The name Orléans—a branch of the royal family that had always chafed against the crown.

Liselotte was not just a friend who needed saving. She was an obstacle. Someone standing in the Comtesse's way.

"What is Liselotte to her?" Élodie asked. "Why does she want her gone?"

"I told you, she did not explain. She only said that Liselotte was too curious, too attached to the queen's person. That she noticed things. That she asked questions that should not be asked."

Questions. Liselotte had been asking questions for Élodie—about her brother Luc, about the Ministry of War, about the movement of soldiers to the south. And before that, Liselotte had been keeping her own counsel, waiting for the right time to tell Élodie what she knew about her grandmother.

What if Liselotte's secrets were not simply personal? What if they were dangerous?

The door opened, and Liselotte herself stepped in, carrying a bolt of pale blue silk. She stopped at the sight of Marguerite's tear-streaked face and Élodie's rigid posture.

"What is this?" Liselotte asked, her voice calm but sharp.

Élodie stood. "We were just discussing the weather," she said. "Marguerite was about to leave."

Marguerite scrambled to her feet, casting one desperate look at Élodie before she fled through the door. It swung shut behind her, and Liselotte turned to Élodie with an expression that demanded the truth.

"Élodie."

"She confessed," Élodie said quietly. "It was the Comtesse de Vaudreuil. She ordered the pin stolen. She wanted you disgraced."

Liselotte's face went very pale. For a long moment, she neither moved nor spoke. Then she set down the silk and walked to the window, staring out at the gardens without seeing them.

"I knew it would come to this," she said. "I had hoped for more time."

"Time for what? Liselotte, what do you know?"

Liselotte turned. Her eyes held a sadness that made Élodie's stomach drop. "Your grandmother was not simply a seamstress, Élodie. She was one of the last people alive who knew what truly happened in this palace thirty years ago. And the Comtesse de Vaudreuil has spent her whole life making certain that no one ever learns the truth."

"Truth about what?"

Liselotte opened her mouth to answer—and a knock sounded at the door, hard and official. A liveried footman entered, his expression blank.

"Mademoiselle Marchand. Mademoiselle Liselotte. The Comtesse de Vaudreuil requests your presence in her chambers. Immediately."

Élodie looked at Liselotte. Liselotte looked back, her face a mask of terror barely concealed.

They had been summoned. And Élodie knew, with a certainty that settled into her bones like the cold of winter, that whatever they were walking into would not be a conversation. It would be a trap.