Read Chapter 24: The Map to Tomorrow

The palace records room smelled of dust and old secrets. Camille held the lantern while Étienne pulled leather-bound ledgers from the shelves, flipping pages with practiced urgency. His fingers were ink-stained, his cravat loosened, and there was a furrow between his brows she had come to know—the one that meant he was close.

“Apollo,” she said, watching him scan a garden map from 1774. “The baronne said the grotto. But there’s no grotto at Versailles anymore. They tore it down when Louis XIV rebuilt the gardens.”

Étienne didn’t look up. “They tore down the decorative grotto. But the fountain that fed it—the Apollo Fountain—was redirected underground when they built the Bassin d’Apollon.” He traced a line on the yellowed parchment. “There’s a service tunnel. It runs from the old pump house to the fountain basin. If the message says the Apollo fountain at midnight, it may mean the original fountain head, not the basin everyone sees.”

Camille leaned closer. The map showed a spiderweb of channels beneath the formal gardens. “Can we reach it?”

“We can try.” Étienne straightened and rolled the map carefully. “The new moon is in three days. The service tunnels are used by the water engineers—I know one of them. He owed me a favor after I cleared his brother’s accounts.” He met her eyes. “We go tomorrow night to scout. The following night, we act.”

Camille nodded, but her stomach tightened. Three days. It felt both impossibly soon and far too long.

The door behind them clicked.

Not the soft click of a latch settling. The deliberate click of a bolt thrown.

Camille spun. Drouet stood in the doorway, flanked by two armed guards in royal livery. The lantern light caught the cruel smile on his narrow face. Behind him, the baronne stood with her hands clasped, her face unreadable.

“Mademoiselle Dubois,” Drouet said, stepping into the room. “How resourceful of you. Following breadcrumbs through opera houses and garden tunnels. I confess, I underestimated you.”

Étienne moved in front of Camille. “You have no authority here, Drouet. This is palace property.”

“I have all the authority I need.” Drouet produced a folded document from his coat and held it up. “Signed by the Comte de Vergennes himself. Authorization to investigate irregularities in the accounts of the Queen’s household.” His eyes slid to Étienne. “And your name has appeared in several of those accounts, Monsieur Marchand. Irregularly.”

Étienne’s jaw tightened. “My books are clean.”

“Your books are _creative_. Which is not the same thing.” Drouet snapped his fingers, and the guards moved forward. One seized Étienne’s arms, the other grabbed Camille’s shoulder with bruising force.

“Search them,” Drouet ordered.

The guard patted Étienne down first, finding nothing. Then he turned to Camille. She tried to twist away, but the other guard held her firm. The hands moved over her skirts, her bodice, and she felt the hard shape of the needle case hidden in her sleeve. She hadn’t sewn it in. It had moved there on its own, nestling against her wrist like a living thing.

The guard found it anyway.

He pulled the case out and handed it to Drouet, who opened it with theatrical reverence. The needle caught the lamplight, its silver gleam sharp and ancient.

“So this is what all the fuss is about,” Drouet murmured. “A needle. I expected something more dramatic.”

“You have no right—” Camille began.

“I have every right.” Drouet pocketed the case. Then his eyes fell on the locket hanging at her throat. He reached for it, and Camille flinched back, but the guard’s grip kept her still. Drouet unclasped the chain with careful fingers and held the locket up to the light.

“And this. The prize you stole from the opera house.” He smiled. “I have a buyer in Vienna who will be very pleased.”

Camille’s heart hammered. “The baronne told you.”

Drouet laughed. “The baronne told me nothing. She simply happened to be outside this door when I arrived, and I insisted she accompany me.” He glanced at the older woman. “You see, Mademoiselle, I’ve been watching the ledgers. When Monsieur Marchand requested access to the water-engineering plans, my sources informed me immediately. It was simply a matter of waiting for the right moment.”

Étienne struggled against the guard. “You’ll be executed for this. Detaining a royal officer without charge.”

“I have a charge.” Drouet’s smile turned cold. “You are a spy for the English crown. I have documents that prove it.” He reached into his coat again and produced a sheaf of letters. “Handwriting is a marvelous thing, isn’t it? Easy to forge, difficult to dispute—especially when the forger is skilled and the accused is already suspected.”

The color drained from Étienne’s face. “You wouldn’t.”

“I would. And I will, unless Mademoiselle Dubois cooperates.” Drouet turned to Camille, and his eyes were flat and hungry. “I know what you are. I know you’re not from here. The baronne has been most forthcoming since I applied pressure.”

Camille looked at the baronne, who stood motionless, her face a mask of old regret. “You told him?”

“Not everything,” the baronne said quietly. “But he already suspected. Time travelers have left marks before. The needle, the grotto, the door—it’s all been whispered about for decades. He pieced the rest together himself.”

“She confirmed it,” Drouet said. “That’s enough. Now, Mademoiselle Dubois—or Claire Martin, or whatever your real name is—you will tell me what you know. About the door. About the future. About the Revolution that is coming.” His smile widened. “I have heard whispers of that too. A starving people. A king who loses his head. It makes a man curious about his investments.”

Camille stared at him. The locket and needle were inside his coat now. Everything she needed to get home. Everything she had risked Marguerite’s schemes and the baronne’s warnings and the last shreds of her sanity in this impossible century to find.

“I know nothing,” she said.

Drouet sighed. “Pity. Then I will have to make an example of Monsieur Marchand.” He nodded to the guards. “Take them to the cells beneath the Orangerie. We’ll see if a night in the cold improves her memory.”

The guards dragged them through the door, past the baronne, whose eyes followed Camille with something that looked almost like sorrow. Camille twisted her head back as they went.

“The baronne warned me about you,” she called to Drouet. “She said you have powerful allies. What do you want with the future, Drouet? Money? Power?”

Drouet paused, and for a moment, his mask slipped. “I want what every man who has ever served a fool king wants, Mademoiselle. I want to be on the right side of history before it happens.”

Then the door closed, and the dark swallowed them.