Read Chapter 14: A Price to Pay

The merchant’s shop smelled of turpentine and wool, a scent so unlike the lavender-scented air of Versailles that Élodie felt she had crossed into another world. She stood before a counter cluttered with ribbons and sketches, clutching a bundle of royal silk wrapped in plain linen, her heart hammering against her ribs like a caged bird.

“You are certain no one will notice?” asked Maître Blanchet, a stout man with quick, clever eyes. He unfolded the fabric with the reverence of a priest handling a relic. “This is Lyon silk. The queen’s own bolt.”

“It is from the surplus,” Élodie said, the lie sour on her tongue. “The royal store receives more than is ever used. It will be logged as damaged and discarded.”

Blanchet raised an eyebrow. “Damaged and discarded,” he repeated slowly. “And yet it is flawless.”

Élodie forced herself to meet his gaze. “That is the beauty of the system, monsieur. No one questions what is already forgotten.”

The merchant smiled, and Élodie saw the calculation behind it. He was not a cruel man—she had determined that much in their two meetings—but he was a businessman, and she was a desperate woman offering him a golden opportunity. Three gowns, court quality, for his wealthy clients who could not secure a royal seamstress. Three hundred livres, enough to pay the steward and breathe again.

“I will need more fabric,” she said, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands. “For three gowns, I will need three bolts. Different colors. The queen prefers pastels this season—rose, celadon, pearl grey—but your clients will want something bolder to distinguish themselves.”

“Naturally.” Blanchet folded the silk carefully and set it aside. “You will deliver the first gown in ten days.”

Ten days. Élodie’s mind raced through her obligations—the queen’s morning fitting, the alteration of the Duchess of Burgundy’s traveling dress, the endless mending of lace that seemed to tear itself in protest. She would work by candlelight, stealing hours from sleep. Her fingers would ache, her eyes would burn, but she would do it.

“Twelve days,” she countered. “I will not sacrifice quality for speed.”

Blanchet laughed, a warm sound that did not reach his eyes. “Ten days, mademoiselle. If the gown is as exquisite as I believe it will be, I will commission two more at a higher price. But I must have the first quickly—my client’s patience is not infinite.”

Élodie nodded, sealing the bargain with a handshake that felt far too final. As she left the shop, the October wind bit through her cloak, and she pulled it tight, trying to warm herself against more than the chill. Three hundred livres would clear her debt. Three hundred livres would buy her time. But the cost, she knew, was measured in more than livres.

She had barely reached the palace gates when she heard footsteps behind her—quick, light, purposeful. She turned, her heart seizing, but it was only Liselotte, her face flushed from hurrying, her eyes wide with alarm.

“Where have you been?” Liselotte demanded, grasping Élodie’s arm. “I have been searching everywhere. The Comtesse has requested your presence in the east gallery.”

Élodie’s blood ran cold. “She has no authority over me.”

“She has the authority of the king’s favor,” Liselotte said grimly, “and she has requested you in front of half the court. If you refuse, it will be noted. You cannot hide from her forever.”

Élodie wanted to argue, but she knew Liselotte was right. The Comtesse de Vaudreuil had not summoned her out of kindness. This was a move in a game Élodie did not fully understand, but she had no choice but to play.

The east gallery was nearly empty when Élodie arrived, the long hall of mirrors reflecting only the Comtesse, who stood before a portrait of the late king, her posture perfect, her smile feline. She wore a gown of deep purple, the color of bruised grapes, and her jewels caught the dying light with cold fire.

“Mademoiselle Marchand,” the Comtesse said, turning to face her. “How kind of you to come.”

“You gave me little choice.”

“I gave you an invitation. The choice was always yours.” The Comtesse gestured to the space beside her, and Élodie reluctantly approached. “I have been thinking about our conversation the other day. You made your position quite clear, and I confess, I admired your spirit. But spirit, mademoiselle, is a currency that depletes quickly in this place.”

Élodie said nothing, watching the older woman’s face for any hint of her next move.

“I have observed you these past weeks,” the Comtesse continued, her voice soft and conversational. “You are talented. Industrious. The queen adores you, which is no small thing. But you are also”—she paused, as if searching for the right word—“delicate. Fragile, in ways you do not yet understand.”

“I am not fragile,” Élodie said.

“No?” The Comtesse’s smile widened. “Then you will not mind me mentioning that I saw you leave the palace this afternoon. And that you returned with empty hands, though you departed with a bundle large enough to hold a bolt of silk.”

Élodie’s heart stopped. She forced her face to remain neutral, but she felt the blood drain from her cheeks.

“Ah,” the Comtesse said softly, almost tenderly. “There it is. The crack in your armor.”

“You have no proof of anything,” Élodie managed.

“I have my eyes, and I have witnesses. A young woman carrying a bundle from the palace to a merchant’s shop in the Rue Saint-Honoré. A merchant known for his discreet transactions with members of the court who find themselves… short of funds.” The Comtesse tilted her head, examining Élodie like a curious specimen. “Tell me, Mademoiselle Marchand, what is a seamstress doing with a bolt of royal silk? Selling the queen’s fabric for private profit, perhaps?”

Élodie’s mind raced, searching for an escape, a lie, anything. But the Comtesse had her cornered, and they both knew it.

“I could have you arrested,” the Comtesse continued, her voice light, conversational. “I could have you dismissed from the palace in disgrace. The queen would weep, of course, but she would survive. The court would forget you within a week.” She paused, letting the words hang in the air. “Or… we could come to an arrangement.”

Élodie stared at her. “What arrangement?”

The Comtesse stepped closer, her perfume heavy and cloying. “There is a certain nobleman who visits the queen’s private chambers on Tuesday evenings. He is a man of importance, but his presence there is… unconventional. I want to know what they speak of. What letters pass between them. I want to know everything.”

“You are asking me to spy for you.”

“I am offering you a way out of the trap you have built for yourself.” The Comtesse’s eyes were hard, pitiless. “Your silence for mine. Your loyalty for your life. It is a fair trade, mademoiselle.”

Élodie thought of the queen’s kindness, her trust, the way she had smiled at Élodie’s first finished gown. She thought of the hidden note she still carried, the name Orléans burned into her memory. She thought of Liselotte, of the secret she had yet to reveal, of the danger that surrounded them all.

“I will think on it,” Élodie said, her voice barely above a whisper.

“You have until tomorrow evening,” the Comtesse said, turning away. “Do not disappoint me, mademoiselle. I would hate to see such talent wasted.”

Élodie walked back to her quarters in a daze, the Comtesse’s words echoing in her mind. When she opened the door, she found a sealed letter on her pillow, addressed in a hand she did not recognize. She broke the wax and unfolded it, her hands trembling.

The note was brief, written in a careful, anonymous script:

*You think you know your enemy. You do not. The Comtesse is a servant, not a master. The true threat sits closer to the throne than you imagine. Trust no one. Watch the queen’s favorite.*

Élodie read the words three times, her heart pounding. The queen’s favorite. Who was the queen’s favorite? And who had sent this warning—a friend, or a new enemy seeking to manipulate her?

She crumpled the note in her fist, staring at the flame of her candle. Tomorrow evening, she would have to give the Comtesse an answer. But now, with this new warning burning in her hand, Élodie was no longer certain which choice was the right one—or which choice would destroy her first.