Read Chapter 17: The Queen's Trust

Élodie did not sleep. She lay awake in her narrow bed, staring at the ceiling beams while the palace groaned around her like a living thing—settling stones, distant footsteps, the whisper of silk in corridors she could not see. The Comtesse's offer coiled in her chest like a serpent waiting to strike. Spy on the queen, or be exposed as a thief who had borrowed royal fabric for private gain.

Tomorrow evening, her answer was due.

She rose before dawn, dressed in her plainest working gown, and slipped through the service corridors toward the wardrobe atelier. The work would not wait. Three gowns in ten days, and the first was barely half-sewn.

The morning passed in a blur of pins and thread. Liselotte worked beside her in careful silence, asking no questions, for which Élodie was grateful. Her friend had eyes that saw too much, and Élodie had no more lies left in her.

It was nearly noon when a liveried footman appeared at the atelier door, his expression grave. "Mademoiselle Marchand," he said, his voice carrying through the room, silencing the other seamstresses. "Her Majesty requests your presence in her private chambers. At once."

Élodie's needle froze mid-stitch.

Liselotte's hand found her wrist, squeezing once, hard. "Go," she whispered. "Whatever you've done, don't make her wait."

The walk to the queen's apartments was a gauntlet of marble and gilt. Élodie's reflection flickered in the polished floors—a small figure in gray wool, her dark hair pulled back with ruthless efficiency, her hands calloused from the needle. She did not belong here. She had known that from the first day. But she had also known she would not be leaving easily.

The queen's private antechamber was smaller than Élodie had imagined, a cozy space of cream damask and morning light. Marie Leszczyńska sat by the window with a book open in her lap, her plump face lined with the quiet weariness of a woman who had borne ten children and watched her husband's heart belong to another. She looked up as Élodie entered, and her smile was surprisingly kind.

"Mademoiselle Marchand." She gestured to a nearby stool. "Please. Sit."

Élodie curtsied low, then obeyed, perching on the edge of the stool with her hands folded in her lap. "Your Majesty honors me."

"I have been thinking about you," the queen said, closing her book. "Ever since the affair of the sapphire pin."

Élodie's stomach dropped. She had hoped—foolishly—that the matter had been put to rest. "I only wished to see justice done, Your Majesty."

"And you did." The queen's voice carried no rancor. "You stood before half the court, a provincial girl with no title and no protector, and you forced a noblewoman to confess her theft. Do you know how rare that is?"

"I did not think of rarity, Majesty. I thought only of my friend."

The queen studied her for a long moment. "Yes," she said softly. "That is precisely what I noted. You risked your own position to save a servant from disgrace. You sought no favor, no advancement. You simply acted."

Élodie said nothing. There was nothing safe to say.

"Liselotte tells me you are the finest needle in Versailles," the queen continued. "She speaks of your work with something approaching reverence."

"She is too generous, Your Majesty."

"Modest, too." The queen's smile deepened, and for a moment she looked almost like a mother assessing a promising daughter. "My current personal seamstress is retiring next month. She returns to her family in Bordeaux. I have been considering a replacement."

Élodie's heart seized. She could not dare to hope—and yet the queen was looking at her with such intent.

"I have had occasion to observe gifts like yours before," the queen said. "They are rare, and they are wasted on those who seek only to advance themselves. But you, Mademoiselle Marchand—" She leaned forward slightly. "You have the gift of loyalty. And I find myself in need of loyal women."

"Your Majesty," Élodie breathed, "I would serve you with everything I have."

"Would you?" The queen's eyes sharpened, a politician's gaze beneath a mother's brow. "Even if that service brought you into conflict with powerful women? Even if it meant keeping secrets that would burn your tongue to hold?"

The Comtesse's face flashed before Élodie's eyes. The serpent's smile. The whispered threat.

She thought of Armand, of Hélène, of the letters hidden in gowns.

She thought of her debt, of the borrowed fabric, of the noose tightening daily around her neck.

"Your Majesty," she said carefully, "I have already learned that this court is a garden of knives. I have been cut. I have bled. But I have not yet retreated."

The queen leaned back, a glint of approval in her eyes. "Then you will accept the position. You will become my personal seamstress, with access to my chambers, my wardrobe, and my person. You will answer to me alone."

"Your Majesty is too generous—"

"I am not generous," the queen cut in, and now her voice carried iron beneath the velvet. "I am practical. My ladies speak to me of fashion and scandal, nothing more. My confessor hears my sins. But I need someone who sees. Someone who notices the threads others miss. You have demonstrated that you can see, Mademoiselle Marchand. And you have demonstrated that you can act."

Élodie's mouth went dry. The queen was not offering her a promotion. She was offering her a role in something far more dangerous.

"I have heard whispers," the queen continued, her voice dropping. "Whispers of a conspiracy that reaches toward my husband's throne. Men who speak of my son's weakness, who plot to position favorites and forge alliances in the shadows. I am a queen, but I am also a mother." Her eyes flashed. "And I will not see my children displaced."

"I am a seamstress, Your Majesty," Élodie said, hating how small her own voice sounded. "I sew gowns. I do not understand court politics."

"You understand people," the queen said simply. "You understand loyalty. You understand what it costs to hold your tongue when speaking would save you pain." She paused. "I understand that you have debts. I understand that you have been pressed from above. And I understand that you have, so far, refused to break."

Élodie's blood ran cold. How much did the queen know?

"I will pay your debts," Marie said, naming a figure that matched the steward's demand to the livre. "I will grant you a purse for your own use, and a room in the palace. In return, you will serve me. You will watch. You will listen. And when you see something that threatens my house, you will tell me."

The room was silent save for the ticking of a small clock on the mantel.

Élodie's mind raced. The queen was offering her everything she needed—rescue from debt, protection from the Comtesse, and a position that would place her at the very heart of the court. But she was also asking Élodie to become a spy. Not for the Comtesse. Against her.

And yet—the Comtesse's servant was still watching. The final letter was still undelivered. The queen's favorite still lurked in the shadows, their identity unknown.

If she accepted the queen's protection, she would have cover. She would have access. She would have a reason to be in the queen's presence at all hours.

She would also have a new master.

"My answer is yes, Your Majesty," Élodie whispered.

The queen's smile was warm, but her eyes were not. "Then we understand each other, Mademoiselle Marchand. You will begin tomorrow. A seamstress of the queen is expected to attend her during bodice fittings, of course."

Bodice fittings.

Élodie's heart stuttered. The fourth letter to Hélène—it was still concealed in her workbasket, still waiting for the queen's evening audience.

"The queen's evening audience," Élodie said carefully, "I had a gown to deliver for one of Her Majesty's ladies. If I am to become your seamstress, perhaps I should be introduced during the fitting."

Marie tilted her head. "Which lady?"

"Hélène de Montfort," Élodie said, forcing her voice to remain steady. "She has been waiting several days for a fitting."

The queen's expression flickered—a shadow of something Élodie could not name. "Hélène," she repeated slowly. "Yes. I have been meaning to speak with her about her future."

The words landed like a knife.

Her future.

The king planned to marry Hélène to a foreign prince. Armand's wife. Armand's secret.

And Élodie was now the queen's personal seamstress, accepted into the heart of the queen's confidence, about to deliver a letter that could doom them all if discovered.

She curtsied low, hiding her face.

"I live to serve, Your Majesty."