Read Chapter 25: The Sabotage

The final fitting had been a blur of silk and panic. Élodie had worked the blood from the ivory bodice with a damp cloth and a prayer, the stain fading to nothing just as the queen's footsteps echoed in the corridor. Now, hours later, the palace hummed with the anticipation of the diplomatic ball. Candles blazed in every sconce. Musicians tuned their instruments in the Hall of Mirrors. And Élodie stood alone in the wardrobe chamber, her hands steady for the first time in days.

The gown hung before her, a masterpiece of pale gold silk threaded with silver. At the waist, precisely where the Comtesse had instructed her to weaken the seam, Élodie had sewn a hidden reinforcement of sturdy linen cord, invisible beneath the outer fabric. The decoy weakness—a single thread snipped at the interior seam—would give way if the Comtesse tested it with a tug, but the gown itself would hold. The queen would not stumble.

Élodie pressed her palm flat against the bodice, feeling the cord beneath her fingers. A small, secret defiance.

From the doorway came a soft knock. Élodie whirled.

Madame de La Motte slipped inside, her dark gown whispering against the marble. The old woman looked drawn, shadows beneath her eyes. "The Comtesse is in the anteroom," she said. "She asks to inspect the gown before the queen dresses."

Élodie's stomach twisted. "Now? The queen is already in her chemise."

"Precisely." Madame de La Motte's mouth thinned. "She will not wait. You must let her in and pray she does not look too closely."

Élodie crossed to the door, opened it, and there was the Comtesse de Vaudreuil, resplendent in emerald velvet, her smile sharp as glass. She swept past Élodie without acknowledgment, her gaze fixing on the gown like a hawk sighting prey.

"I trust you have done as I asked," the Comtesse murmured, circling the garment.

Élodie clasped her hands behind her back. "Yes, Madame."

The Comtesse reached out and pinched the seam at the waist between two fingers, tugging sharply. The decoy thread snapped with a faint pop. The Comtesse smiled. "Good. And the internal supports?"

"I removed the inner boning beneath the left hip," Élodie said, reciting the lie she had rehearsed. "The weight of the train will pull her off balance."

The Comtesse's smile widened. It did not reach her eyes. She glanced at Madame de La Motte, who stood frozen near the armoire, and dismissed her as one might a piece of furniture. Then she turned back to Élodie, stepping close enough that the scent of rosewater and malice washed over her.

"Remember," the Comtesse said, low and intimate. "When the queen falls, you will be far from the hall. You will be seen in the servants' corridor. You will have an alibi." She pressed a folded note into Élodie's palm. "Should you decide to be foolish, this note—detailing your work for Madame de Pompadour—finds its way to the king's own hand."

She was gone before Élodie could reply, her emerald skirts sweeping out the door like a retreating stain.

Élodie stood motionless. The note in her palm felt heavy as lead. She had not told Madame de La Motte everything—not the decoy, not the confession she still had not written. The old woman stepped forward now, gently prying the note from Élodie's fingers and reading it without asking.

"You did not sabotage the gown," Madame de La Motte said. It was not a question.

"No."

"Then tonight she will be exposed."

"Yes."

Madame de La Motte studied her for a long moment. Then she folded the note and tucked it into her own sleeve. "You will not deliver this to the queen yourself. If you do, the Comtesse will claim you are mad. You are a seamstress, child. No one will believe you over a noblewoman."

"Then what do I do?"

"You will ensure the queen is safe. I will ensure the Comtesse is caught." Madame de La Motte straightened, and for a moment, the years fell away from her face. There was steel in her. Had there always been? "The queen will wear the gown. The seam will hold. And when the Comtesse expects her to fall, the queen will not."

Hours later, the ball began.

Élodie stood in the antechamber, pressed against the wall as the doors to the Hall of Mirrors opened. She had no place here—a servant, a nobody—but Madame de La Motte had secured her a position in the shadows near the dais, ostensibly to attend to any wardrobe emergencies. The queen descended the staircase in a shimmer of gold, her head high, her smile radiant. The court bowed. The king himself turned to watch her approach.

Élodie's breath caught. The gown moved perfectly. The hidden cord held true.

The queen glided into the hall, and Élodie allowed herself a single moment of relief before she forced herself to watch the crowd. Near the far pillar, the Comtesse stood rigid, her face frozen in a smile that did not reach the sharp angle of her jaw. She was waiting. Waiting for the stumble that would not come.

The queen reached the center of the hall. She turned, courtiers parting before her like water. The Comtesse shifted, her gaze flicking to the hem of the gown, the waist, the hip. Nothing. The fabric held. The queen moved as though she had never worn a gown in her life.

The Comtesse's mask cracked, just for an instant. Confusion. Then chagrin. Then something harder and darker.

Élodie ducked lower behind the pillar, her heart pounding. It worked. It actually worked.

But then—the doors burst open.

Two guards in royal livery strode into the hall, their boots echoing against the marble. Behind them, a man in a captain's uniform. Élodie's blood turned cold. Not him. Not here.

But it was. Armand. Captain Armand's face was pale, his wrists bound behind his back. The guards flanked him like a pair of black crows.

The king had turned. The music faltered and died. A murmur rippled through the crowd.

"Your Majesty," the captain of the guard announced, bowing. "We have arrested this man on charges of espionage. He was found carrying a letter addressed to an officer of the English court."

Élodie's vision swam. A letter. A letter she had carried. Armand's final letter to Hélène. She had delivered it to the queen's chambers, and the queen had given it to someone, and someone—

The room tilted. Madame de La Motte's hand closed on Élodie's elbow, steadying her.

"No," Élodie whispered.

The Comtesse de Vaudreuil stepped forward, her smile back in place, brighter than before. "Captain Armand," she said, her voice silky with triumph. "I had no idea you were so well connected."

Armand lifted his head. His eyes found Élodie across the hall, only for a second—a brief, terrible moment of recognition. Then the guards dragged him away, and the doors slammed shut behind them.

The music resumed. The court began to murmur and dance, as if nothing had happened.

Élodie stood in the shadows, her hands shaking, the gown still safe on the queen's back, the Comtesse victorious on the dais.

And the note in Madame de La Motte's sleeve, the note that would have exposed the Comtesse, suddenly seemed very small and very useless.