Read Chapter 12: Under Lock and Key

The heat of the salon still clung to Camille’s skin like a second dress as she hurried through the dark colonnade. The marble columns threw long shadows, and every footstep seemed to echo louder than it should. Drouet’s parting smile—that thin, knowing curl—had not left her mind since she’d stepped into her carriage. She’d lied to him about America, about her origins, and he’d let her go without a fight. Men like Drouet did not let matters drop. They waited.

She reached the door to her chamber and had barely turned the key when a hand closed over hers.

“Do not scream.” The voice was low, smooth, and French to the bone. Drouet.

He stepped from the alcove beside the door, his face half-lit by the guttering candle in her hand. He wore no powder, no wig—his own dark hair pulled back plainly. In the daylight, he was a fixture of salon chatter, an amusing wit, a friend to ambassadors. At night, he was something else entirely.

“Monsieur Drouet,” she said, forcing her voice to remain level. “This is a most improper hour for a call.”

“Improper is precisely why I came.” He released her hand and stepped past her into the room, as though he had been invited. He walked to the window and drew the curtain back a finger’s width, looking down into the courtyard below. “You move quickly, Mademoiselle Dubois. Faster than most. Faster than is natural.”

“I am simply efficient with my time.”

“That is one word for it.” He turned. His eyes, dark and flat, fixed on her. “Another word is practiced. Another is trained. Another is *spy*.”

Camille kept her expression neutral. She had spent years in Paris fashion houses, reading clients who lied about their measurements and budgets. She knew how to hold still. “I am a seamstress, Monsieur. I cut cloth and I sew seams. Nothing more.”

“Then why does the Queen summon you to private chambers within days of your arrival? Why does a laundress from the countryside negotiate contracts with the Comtesse de la Roche-Guyon as though she were born to the table? Why does the Minister of Police leave her quarters without a single mark on her record?” He tilted his head. “Why does she speak of America with too much knowledge, and of France with too little?”

“You flatter my accomplishments.”

His smile did not reach his eyes. “I do not flatter. I investigate.” He reached inside his coat and pulled out a small leather-bound book. The diary.

Camille’s blood turned cold. Every muscle in her body froze.

“You recognize this,” Drouet said. Not a question.

“I have never seen it before.”

“Liar.” He opened it to a marked page and read aloud: “‘The August sky will offer a door to those who know where to look. The twenty-second day will bring the celestial dance, and the mirror will not lie.’” He closed the book with a snap that cracked like a whip. “Poetic. But hardly the ravings of a simple dressmaker.”

Camille’s mind raced. How had he found the atelier? Had he followed Étienne? Had he searched her rooms while she was at the salon? She had kept the diary hidden behind a loose stone in the wall, wrapped in muslin. She had taken every precaution.

“I do not know where you found that,” she said slowly, each word measured, “but it is not mine.”

“Oh, I found it in a most curious place. Behind a tapestry in a sealed corridor. A room that, according to the palace records, does not exist.” He stepped closer. “Tell me, Mademoiselle Dubois, who wrote this? And more importantly—which of them was *you*?”

“I am the only me there is.”

He laughed—a short, ugly sound. “Then I will be more direct. I have met many spies. Austrian, Prussian, English. They are all alike. But you are different. You do not seek information. You do not carry documents. You do not arrange meetings in dark corners.” He tapped the diary against his palm. “You ask about ships. You speak of things that have not yet happened. And you make dresses that no one in this century has ever dreamed of.”

Camille’s breath caught.

“That is the word, is it not?” Drouet said, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Century. You are from another time. The diary speaks of a door that opens in the sky. The previous tailor who scribed it warned of ‘watchers in plain clothing.’ I have been watching for three years.” He smiled. “I have been waiting for you.”

“You are mad,” Camille said. She tried to step past him toward the door, but he caught her arm.

“I do not care if you are a witch, a spirit, or a creature of the stars. What I care about is that you *know*. You know what comes. You know what happens to France, to the King, to the Queen.” His grip tightened. “And you will tell me.”

“There is nothing to tell.”

“Then I will take you to the Bastille and let their questioners persuade you otherwise.”

The door burst open. Étienne stood in the frame, chest heaving, a pistol in his hand. His eyes went from Drouet to Camille’s arm in the man’s grip, and something dangerous settled on his face.

“Release her,” Étienne said. His voice was low, flat, and utterly without compromise.

Drouet did not let go. “Monsieur Valois. How interesting to see you here at such an hour. I had heard you were a man of principle, not of passion.”

“I said release her.”

Drouet’s eyes flicked between them. Slowly, deliberately, he loosened his fingers. Camille pulled free and took a step toward Étienne, who did not lower the pistol.

“You are making a grave error,” Drouet said to Étienne. “I have the King’s ear. The Minister of Police owes me favors. You threaten me at your own peril.”

“Then leave the lady alone and we will all sleep soundly tonight.”

Drouet smiled. He tucked the diary back inside his coat. “Oh, I have no intention of sleeping. I have reading to do.” He walked to the door, pausing just before crossing the threshold. He looked at Camille. “I will give you one day to decide whether you will speak to me willingly. Tomorrow night, I will return with the King’s guard if I must. And when I do, I will take both of you.”

He stepped into the corridor and disappeared.

Étienne lowered the pistol, turning to Camille. His face was pale, drawn, furious. “How did he find the diary? You told me it was safe.”

“It was. I hid it.” She shook her head. “He must have followed you. He must have seen you go through the tapestry.”

“I was careful.”

“Not careful enough.”

Étienne let out a breath. He holstered the pistol in his belt and took Camille by both shoulders. “Listen to me. Whatever he suspects, whatever he knows—he cannot prove it. The diary’s language is vague enough to be poetry or prophecy. He has no witnesses, no evidence that it is yours.”

“He has the book itself.”

“And you will deny it. You will say it belonged to the previous tailor. That you discovered it and did not understand its contents. That you were afraid to report it.”

Camille stared at him. “You are teaching me to lie.”

“I am teaching you to survive.” He looked toward the door. “But he knows your name now. He knows mine. He will have us watched.”

“What do we do?”

Étienne was silent for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper. “Tomorrow night, we go to the atelier. You will read me every page of that diary. And we will find out exactly what that door is, and where it leads.” He paused. “And if there is a way to leave Versailles, I will be at your side when you take it.”

Camille’s throat tightened. He still did not fully understand. He still did not know that the door was meant for her alone, that her world was two centuries away. And yet he stood there, offering himself to a future he could not possibly imagine.

“You should not risk your position for me,” she said.

“I am not risking it,” he said. “I am spending it. There is a difference.”