Read Chapter 21: The Rose of the Opera

The carriage wheels clattered over the cobblestones as Camille pressed her face to the window, the glittering façade of the Opéra Royal swelling in the lamplight. Beside her, Étienne adjusted his cravat for the third time, his jaw tight with the strain of the evening’s pretense.

“You look like a man being led to the gallows,” she murmured.

“I’d prefer the gallows,” he said. “At least the executioner doesn’t expect witty conversation.”

Camille almost laughed, but the weight of the needle against her bodice reminded her this was no social outing. The court had been summoned for a command performance—a gala celebrating the Austrian ambassador’s visit. Attendance was mandatory, and for anyone under suspicion, an absence would be noted. Camille had no intention of being noted.

They entered through the grand marble foyer, a churning sea of silks and powdered wigs. The air reeked of rosewater and stale sweat, and the crystal chandeliers cast everything in a blinding, merciless glow. Camille kept her eyes moving, scanning faces, searching for one particular spark of gold.

The note from the midwife had described the locket in careful detail: a filigreed oval, the size of a thumbnail, etched with a tiny rose on its face. It had belonged to the vanished mother, and it was hidden near the grotto at Trianon, meant for the one who arrived when the needle was found. But the note had been old, decades old. Whatever had been hidden could have been moved, stolen, lost.

Camille had spent the last three days memorizing every face at court, hunting for that locket on every throat.

“The royal box is two tiers up,” Étienne said, steering her gently by the elbow. “We should take our seats before the king arrives. We don’t want to draw attention.”

Camille nodded, but as they ascended the sweeping staircase, she froze.

There—at the edge of the mezzanine, half-hidden behind a velvet curtain—a woman turned her head, and the lamplight caught the delicate chain at her neck. At its end swung a small, filigreed oval etched with a rose.

Camille’s stomach dropped.

She gripped Étienne’s arm. “Do you see her? The woman in the emerald gown, by the pillar.”

Étienne followed her gaze. “The one who keeps glancing this way?”

“I need to speak with her.”

“Camille, the overture is about to begin. If you’re not in your seat when the king enters—“

“Then tell them I was overcome by the heat. I’m a woman; it’s expected.” She slipped her hand free. “Keep your eyes on me. If I’m not back by the interval, come find me.”

Before he could protest, she descended the stairs, weaving through the crowd with the practiced charm of a seamstress who knew how to move through a room of nobles without touching them. The woman in emerald seemed to sense her approach. She turned, her face pale, eyes wide.

But a man stepped between them—a tall, lean figure in a dark coat and a powdered wig that couldn’t quite hide the sharpness of his jaw. He stood close to the woman, a hand on her arm, possessive, protective. And when he turned his head, just slightly, Camille saw his profile.

She knew that profile. She had seen it in the council chamber, sneering at her while she stood in the dock.

Drouet.

Not the same man—Drouet had been brawny, red-faced, a bruiser in a uniform. This man was lithe, elegant, his features refined. But the set of his mouth, the cold calculation in his eyes—it was the same soul wearing a different skin.

He was in disguise. And he was guarding the woman.

Camille kept moving, her course adjusted. She drifted to a side aisle, pretending to admire the gilded ceiling, watching from the corner of her eye. The woman whispered something to Drouet; he shook his head firmly. She looked toward the exit, and Camille saw a flash of desperation on her face.

Then the house bells rang. The king was arriving.

The crowd surged toward the boxes. Camille was swept along, and when she looked back, the emerald woman and Drouet were gone, vanished into the press of bodies behind the curtain.

Camille forced herself to walk to her seat. She sat beside Étienne, her hands folded in her lap, her pulse hammering so loudly she could barely hear the orchestra tuning.

“Did you speak to her?” Étienne whispered.

“No. He was there. Drouet—in disguise.”

Étienne went very still. “You’re certain?”

“I’d recognize that face if it wore a wig and a mask. He’s here. He’s watching her.” She turned to him, her voice low and urgent. “The woman has the locket. The locket from the note. And whatever she is to Drouet, she’s not wearing it willingly.”

The overture swelled. Up in the royal box, the king took his seat, the queen a glowing portrait of gold satin beside him. Camille watched the stage, but she did not see it. She was mapping every exit, every corridor, every dressing room.

The opera—an interminable tragedy about love and loss, all sung in Italian—dragged through its first act. Camille kept her hands still in her lap, but her mind raced. If Drouet was guarding the woman, then he knew about the locket. He knew about the previous tailor. He was ahead of her.

But he was also bold. Wearing a disguise into an event where he could be recognized was a risk—unless he didn’t care about being recognized. Unless this was a deliberate showing of force: a warning that he was not finished with Camille, that the council’s dismissal had been a setback he intended to avenge.

At the interval, Étienne rose. “I’ll see if I can find out who she is,” he said. “Ask the ushers. They know everyone.”

He left, and Camille sat alone, a quiet island in a chattering sea. She was about to stand—to slip toward the stage wing, where she had glimpsed a row of dressing rooms—when a soft voice spoke beside her.

“You were hunting the woman in emerald.”

Camille turned. The baronne—the mysterious woman from the Bertin confrontation—sat in the seat beside her, appearing to pay rapt attention to the empty stage. Her face was immaculate, her smile nonexistent.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Camille said.

“You don’t lie well,” the baronne said calmly. “It’s a charming weakness. Now, listen carefully. That woman is not the original keeper of the trinket you seek. She is a pawn, sent to draw you out. The man beside her is not a courtier. He works for an office in Vienna that takes a keen interest in accidents of time.”

Camille’s blood went cold. “What office?”

“Does it matter?” The baronne finally looked at her, and for a moment, Camille saw something ancient in her gaze—something that had watched the palace for a long, long time. “What matters is that the locket has a purpose beyond ornament. It holds a key. And if they reach it before you do, you will never see your own century again.”

Camille opened her mouth to ask more, but the baronne rose, her skirts whispering. “The second act will begin shortly. If you wish to find the locket, I suggest you search the place where no one thinks to look: the costumes that nobody wears.”

She disappeared into the crowd, leaving Camille with only the ringing echo of her words.

When Étienne returned, he was pale. “The ushers say no one knows her name,” he reported. “She arrived alone, was given the best box in the mezzanine, and left at the first bell with her escort. The captain of the guard doesn’t have a file on her. It’s as if she doesn’t exist.”

Camille stared at the stage, where the tragedy was about to resume.

“She exists,” Camille said. “She exists, and she’s wearing a key to get home.”

She stood. “Where are the dressing rooms?”

“Camille—“

“The baronne said the locket passes through the costumes. If she was a pawn, she had to deliver it somewhere. The next performance, or the one after.” She looked at him. “I know it’s a risk. But I have to find that locket before Drouet’s master decides to melt it down for luck.”

Étienne held her gaze, and she saw him make the calculation—his career, his safety, his entire life—against the fire in her eyes. He took her hand.

“Then we’d better learn the opera house’s secrets.”