Read Chapter 2: First Night at Court

The great gates of Versailles swung open with a groan that seemed to swallow the last light of the evening. Élodie Marchand stood in the cobbled courtyard, her trunk at her feet, her mother's silver thimble cold against her palm inside her pocket. The carriage that had carried her from Lyon had long since departed, and she was alone—a speck of provincial dust before a palace made of gilded stone.

Guards flanked the entrance, their uniforms immaculate, their faces unreadable. One of them stepped forward, a ledger in his gloved hand.

"Name and purpose."

"Élodie Marchand. Seamstress. I was summoned by the queen's wardrobe."

The guard scanned his pages, his finger tracing lines of ink. He paused, looked up at her with a flicker of something—surprise, or perhaps pity—and nodded.

"Follow the west corridor. The wardrobe offices are beneath the queen's private chambers. Someone will meet you there."

She hauled her trunk across the threshold. The marble beneath her boots was cold, impossibly smooth, polished to a mirror sheen that reflected the chandeliers above. Every step she took echoed in the vast hall, a sound that made her feel smaller with each stride. Tapestries hung from the walls, scenes of gods and battles and gardens so lush she could almost smell the flowers stitched into their threads.

A young woman in a modest gray gown intercepted her in the corridor, lantern in hand. Her face was round and freckled, her smile quick.

"You're the one from Lyon?"

"Yes. Élodie Marchand."

"Liselotte. I'm second assistant to the queen's dresser. You're early—the other candidates won't arrive until morning." She glanced at Élodie's trunk and hoisted one end without waiting for help. "Come. I'll show you where you'll sleep. It's not much, but it's warm, and the rats are mostly gone."

Élodie followed, heart pounding. "The other candidates. How many?"

"Three, including you. But really, only one of them matters." Liselotte lowered her voice as they descended a narrow stone staircase. "Marguerite de Villeroy. The niece of a duke. She's trained at the finest ateliers in Paris, and she's been angling for this post since before the queen's last seamstress retired."

They emerged into a low-ceilinged corridor lined with doors. Liselotte pushed one open. The room inside was small but clean—a narrow bed, a washbasin, a writing desk. A single window looked out onto a darkened garden.

"This is yours."

Élodie set down her trunk and turned to face her guide. "Why are you helping me?"

Liselotte's smile faded. She stepped into the room and closed the door behind her.

"Because I need someone on my side. The queen's wardrobe is a battlefield. Madame de La Motte runs it with an iron needle, and Marguerite has made it clear she intends to run it after her. I've been here four years. I know how these things work." She paused, her eyes searching Élodie's face. "You're new. You're talented, or you wouldn't have been summoned. But talent isn't enough. You need allies, or you'll be destroyed before your first hem is sewn."

Élodie felt a chill run down her spine. The innkeeper's wife in Lyon had warned her the same way, in different words. *The court eats the innocent.*

"I have no enemies here. I've barely arrived."

"You exist. That's enough." Liselotte's voice softened. "Stay close to me. Speak little. Listen more. And whatever you do—don't let anyone see what you're truly capable of until the trial."

"What trial?"

"The trial of needle and thread. Tomorrow morning, in the queen's antechamber. Madame de La Motte will present a task—embroidery, lace-making, some delicate work—and the woman who produces the finest piece is given the position." She smiled grimly. "Marguerite has been practicing for months. She thinks it will be a simple competition of skill."

"And you think otherwise?"

Liselotte was quiet for a moment. Then she reached into her pocket and produced a scrap of linen, no larger than her palm. She unfolded it carefully, revealing a cluster of embroidered flowers so intricate, so alive, they seemed to lift off the fabric. Élodie's breath caught.

She had seen fine embroidery in Lyon. She had even produced some herself. But this was beyond fine. The threads were impossibly thin, the shading so subtle it looked like a painting. And the stitching—she leaned closer, squinting—the stitching was perfect. Small, even, invisible.

"Who made this?"

"Madame de La Motte, when she was young." Liselotte folded it away. "That's the standard. That's what you're competing against."

Élodie's throat tightened. She had practiced her craft for years, had believed herself skilled enough to earn a place at Versailles. But looking at that scrap of linen, she understood the gap between provincial excellence and royal mastery.

"I'll do my best," she said quietly.

Liselotte studied her for a long moment, then nodded. "That's all anyone can ask. Rest now. Someone will fetch you at dawn." She moved toward the door, then paused, hand on the frame. "One more thing. The queen's favorite—the woman who holds more influence over Marie Antoinette than any minister—is the Duchesse de Polignac. She will be at the trial. If she notices you, be careful. Her favor is a gift and a curse in equal measure."

"Does she favor Marguerite?"

"No one knows what she favors until it happens. That's what makes her dangerous." Liselotte smiled, but there was no warmth in it. "Sleep well, Élodie. Tomorrow you learn what you're really made of."

The door clicked shut, and Élodie was alone.

She stood in the center of the room, listening to the distant murmur of the palace—footsteps overhead, laughter somewhere far away, the creak of timbers settling. The air smelled of wax and lavender, unfamiliar and stifling. She crossed to the window and pressed her forehead against the cold glass.

Beyond the gardens, beyond the walls, beyond the miles of French countryside, Lyon was a memory. Her workshop. Her friends. Madame Beaumont's unfinished gown, still on its mannequin, waiting for a hand that might never return. She had left so quickly, so eagerly, certain that Versailles was her destiny.

Now she wondered what she had truly walked into.

She reached into her pocket and pulled out the silver thimble. It was worn smooth on one side, the imprint of her mother's thumb still faintly visible in the metal. She turned it over in her fingers, remembering every garment her mother had ever made—christening gowns, wedding dresses, mourning clothes. All those hours of patient stitching, building a life from thread.

*Keep me safe,* she thought, though she wasn't sure she believed in prayers anymore. *Keep me steady.*

A noise in the corridor made her freeze. Footsteps—soft, deliberate, stopping outside her door. She held her breath, waiting. A long pause, and then the footsteps retreated, fading into the distance.

She let out the air she'd been holding. It might have been a servant. It might have been anyone. But the warning in Liselotte's voice echoed in her mind, and she found herself pressing the thimble more tightly against her palm.

She didn't sleep well.

The dream, when it came, was of her mother's workshop—the smell of beeswax and linen, the sound of her mother humming a folk song from the mountains. But when Élodie looked down at the gown on the table, it was stained with blood, and the needle in her hand was red to the tip.

She woke with a gasp, the silver thimble clutched so tightly her knuckles had gone white. Outside the window, the first gray light of dawn was creeping across the gardens of Versailles.

Tomorrow had come. And somewhere in the vast palace above her, Marguerite de Villeroy was already sharpening her own knives—thread and bone, needle and silk—in preparation for the fight.