Read Chapter 25: A Cruel Bargain

The Orangerie cell stank of wet stone and cold. Camille pressed her back against the wall, arms wrapped around her knees, watching Étienne pace the narrow space like a caged wolf. Above them, the filtered light of late afternoon slanted through a grated window, casting bars across the floor that matched their own.

Drouet had not come back for hours. That was worse than his presence.

"He's waiting," Étienne said, stopping mid-stride. "He wants us to rot a little before he makes his offer."

"Then we don't answer." Camille's voice came out steadier than she felt. "We refuse everything."

Étienne looked at her, and something in his face softened despite the grime and the bruise darkening his jaw from their capture. "You know he won't accept silence."

The lock turned before she could reply.

Drouet entered with two guards behind him, one carrying a chair. He set it down across from the cell bars, sat, and crossed his legs with the unhurried air of a man who had all the time in the world. Which, Camille reminded herself, he did not—the new moon was three days away, and he needed her answers before then.

Still, he let the silence stretch. Let the guards shift their weight. Let Camille's pulse climb.

"You've been thinking," Drouet finally said. "Good. That means you understand your position."

"I understand you're holding a needle you can't use and a locket you can't open," Camille replied. "The baronne didn't tell you everything, did she? She can't. She only knows half of what I know."

Drouet smiled. It didn't reach his eyes. "Then you'll tell me the other half."

"Or what?"

He gestured to Étienne with a lazy wave of his hand. "Or I walk to the Minister of War's office with a dossier of forged correspondence between this man and British intelligence. I have the letters. I have witnesses who will swear they saw him passing coin in dark taverns. I have, if I may be immodest, a certain talent for making documents appear genuine."

"Nobody will believe those forgeries."

"Nobody will need to believe them." Drouet leaned forward. "An accusation against a royal financial officer is enough. The investigation alone will ruin him. He'll lose his position, his name, his standing. And then, even if he's cleared, he'll be a man who was once suspected of treason. Do you know what happens to such men, mademoiselle? They disappear into provincial posts. Or they vanish entirely. France has a talent for losing inconvenient people."

Camille's throat tightened. She glanced at Étienne, who stood rigid, fists clenched at his sides, saying nothing.

"You want to know the future," she said slowly. "The revolution. When it comes. Who lives and who dies."

Drouet's eyes gleamed. "I want to know how to survive it. How to be on the right side. The dates, the names, the turning points. You've lived through it—or your ancestors have. You know what I need."

"If I tell you, you'll change everything."

"No. If you tell me, I'll simply ensure that I am positioned to do good when the time comes. To help guide events. Perhaps to prevent some of the worst excesses."

Camille almost laughed. "You think you'd prevent the Terror? You'd be the one holding the guillotine's rope, Drouet. Men like you always are."

He didn't deny it. "Perhaps. But that's my burden to bear. I'm giving you a chance to ease yours. Tell me what you know, and I'll release you both. I'll even return the needle and locket—after I've used them, of course. You can go home. He keeps his life. Everyone wins."

"Except the future."

"The future is unwritten, mademoiselle. You told me that yourself, didn't you? That your presence here has already changed things. So what's a few more changes?"

Camille shook her head. "I won't. You can't make me."

Drouet's face went cold. "No. But I can make him suffer."

He stood, walked to the bars, and studied Étienne like a man examining livestock. "You. The false spy. The man who's been crawling through the queen's shadow pretending to serve a master who doesn't exist." He reached through the bars and grasped Étienne's chin, forcing his head up. "You love her, don't you? It's written all over your face. And she loves you, in her way. It's why she's hesitating."

Étienne wrenched his head free. "Touch me again and I'll—"

"You'll what? You're in a cage. Both of you. And the only key is her cooperation."

Drouet stepped back, adjusting his coat. "I'll give you until dawn. If she hasn't told me everything by then, I'll send word to the Ministry of War that I've uncovered a British spy in the queen's household. By noon, your Étienne will be in the Bastille. By evening, he'll have confessed to everything—whether he's said a word or not."

He turned to leave. Two guards followed.

Étienne waited until the door clanged shut before he moved. He crossed to Camille, knelt beside her on the damp floor, and took her hands. His were steady. Warm. "Don't," he said. "I know what you're thinking. Don't."

"He'll kill you."

"He'll try. But I'm harder to kill than he thinks." A ghost of a smile crossed his face. "And you have a way out. In three days, if you can get the needle and locket back—"

"You'd be dead in three days. They don't move that fast in France, but they do move. And Drouet has money and influence." Camille's voice cracked. "Étienne, I can't let that happen."

"Would you rather hollow out the future? Change everything you know? Everything that made you who you are?" He tightened his grip on her hands. "I'm not worth the world, Camille. I'm just a man."

"You're not just a man."

That stopped him. Something in his eyes shifted, softened, deepened. He opened his mouth to answer—

A distant crack. Then another.

Both of them froze. Camille heard shouting, muffled by stone walls. A bell began to ring—urgent, insistent, the clangor of alarm.

"Fire," Étienne said.

Smoke had begun to drift through the grating. Camille smelled it now—wood and fabric and something chemical beneath. It was daylight still, but she could see the orange flicker through the high window, shadows dancing against the courtyard wall.

The shouting grew closer. Boots on stone. Someone screamed.

Étienne was at the cell door, rattling the lock. "Guard!" He pounded on the iron. "Guard, there's a fire—you'll burn alive too if you don't open this door."

A young guard appeared, face pale with soot. He looked between the cell and the corridor behind him, where smoke curled like a serpent's tongue. Panic warred with duty in his eyes.

"Please," Camille said, rising to her feet. "The fire's in the Orangerie wing. If it reaches the glass, it'll spread to the palace. You have to let us help. You have to let us out."

The guard wavered.

Étienne caught his eye, lowered his voice. "You were in the king's service once, weren't you? I've seen you at the château. You're a loyal man. Loyal men know when duty means opening a door, not keeping it shut."

More shouts. The orange glow brightened through the window. The guard made a decision.

He shoved his key into the lock and twisted. The door swung open.

"Go!" he shouted. "The main corridor is clear—use the gardens."

They ran. Camille's skirts tangled around her legs as she lunged through the doorway, Étienne behind her, both of them coughing as smoke rolled down the corridor. Servants rushed past in the opposite direction, buckets and blankets in hand. A woman screamed. Somewhere above, glass shattered.

They burst into the colonnaded walkway that bordered the south parterre. Cold air hit Camille's face, and she gasped, sucking in breath after breath. Behind them, flames licked from the Orangerie's upper windows. Guards converged with water buckets. The palace bells rang on.

"Come on," Étienne said, tugging her arm. "We need to get further away before—"

"Drouet." Camille stopped. "He has the needle and the locket. He had them in his coat."

Étienne's jaw tightened. "He's probably still inside. If the fire spreads—"

"He'd have gotten out. Men like Drouet always find a way out." Camille looked back at the burning building, at the chaos of servants and guards, at the smoke that was already spewing black against the pale spring sky. "He'll have them somewhere. Hidden until he can retrieve them."

"Then we find them before he does."

"We don't even know where—"

"Camille." Étienne took her shoulders, turned her to face him. "One thing at a time. We're free. We're alive. Drouet doesn't know we escaped. That's an advantage. We can use it."

She drew a steadying breath. He was right. Drouet thought them still caged. He'd return to the cell to make his dawn deadline, and he'd find nothing but ash and smoke.

"I need the queen," Camille said slowly. "The locket and needle are gone, the new moon is in two days, and I have nothing left."

"No." Étienne looked at her, something strange flickering in his eyes. "You have me. Whatever you need, whatever this costs—I'm with you."

For a moment she forgot to breathe.

Then a shout cut through the night. "Mademoiselle! Monsieur!" A figure appeared at the end of the colonnade—a woman in a plain dress and kerchief, her face soot-streaked. Camille recognized her after a heartbeat: Marie, one of the queen's second-tier chambermaids, a girl she'd helped with a hemline in the sewing rooms two weeks back.

"Mademoiselle, thank God." Marie rushed toward her. "Her Majesty has been asking for you since the fire began. She's in a fright—she fears the flames reached the petits appartements." Marie looked between Camille and Étienne, concern creasing her brow. "Are you hurt? You look… you look shaken."

Camille glanced at Étienne. He gave an almost imperceptible nod.

"We're fine," Camille said. "Take us to the queen."

Marie led them swiftly through the gardens and into the palace's north wing, where the air was clearer and the corridors were filled with courtiers pressed against windows, watching the fire burn. Servants ran past with buckets and cloths. No one paid them any mind.

The queen's private salon was a chaos of ladies-in-waiting and attendants. Marie Antoinette stood at the window, her face pale against the flickering light outside. When she turned and saw Camille, relief flooded her features.

"There you are." The queen crossed the room in a rustle of silk. "I sent for you. They said you were below. They said you might have been caught." She gripped Camille's hands, her own trembling. "You're unhurt. Thank God."

"Your Majesty." Camille's voice caught. "I—"

"Don't speak of it." The queen squeezed her hands. "What matters is that you're alive." Her gaze moved to Étienne, assessing him for a moment, then returned to Camille. Something passed across her face—a question she didn't voice. Instead, she said, "I have need of your talents, mademoiselle. A gown for the fête in three days. I want something no one has ever seen. Something that will make them forget this sorry business."

Camille opened her mouth. Closed it.

Three days. The new moon was in two days.

But the queen had just handed her a way back into the palace's good graces. A reason to stay close. A chance.

"Yes," Camille said. "I'll make you something unforgettable."