Read Chapter 26: The Queen's Favor

The pale walls of the queen’s private salon glowed with the diffused light of a dozen beeswax candles, their flames dancing in the silk-draped alcoves. Camille stood before Marie Antoinette, her hands pressed flat against her skirts to stop them trembling, acutely aware that beneath the floorboards of her borrowed finery her entire future—her entire *era*—sat locked in Drouet’s keeping.

Marie Antoinette pivoted slowly before the gilt mirror, examining the fall of a pearl-studded bodice with the practiced eye of a woman who had been dressed by the finest hands in Europe. “You understand, Mademoiselle Dubois, that this fête is not merely an amusement.” Her voice carried that peculiar blend of gaiety and steel that defined her reign. “The Austrian ambassador will be present. As will my husband’s ministers. As will—” she paused, meeting Camille’s gaze in the reflection, “—certain factions who believe my taste for extravagance has bankrupted a nation.”

*If only they knew*, Camille thought. *If only you knew what’s coming for all of you.*

“Your Majesty,” she said carefully, “wishes for a gown that speaks to both splendor and… frugality?”

The queen laughed, a genuine sound that softened her famously painted features. “Frugality! You are the first designer at court who has dared utter that word in my presence.” She turned, and the silk whispered against the parquet. “My mother taught me that clothes are politics. A gown is a treaty worn upon the body. I need a gown that whispers *reform* while still commanding *authority*.”

Camille’s mind raced. This was her opening, her foothold in the court that would allow her to move freely about the palace in search of Drouet’s hiding place. But she needed more than goodwill—she needed access.

“I will need to examine fabrics from the royal stores,” she said, bowing her head. “And patterns from previous commissions. The… the silk merchants on the Rue Saint-Honoré have certain weaves unavailable in Versailles. With your permission, I might send correspondence, procure samples.”

Marie Antoinette waved a hand dismissively. “Whatever you require. Rose will provide you a pass to the storerooms and the courier’s office.” She smiled, but her eyes held a sharp intelligence. “I have seen what you did with the Countess de Polignac’s gown—that architectural bodice, the geometric hem. Revolutionary.” A pause. “I trust you will not make me *too* revolutionary.”

The word hung between them. *Revolutionary*. If only she knew.

Later, as Camille was shown from the salon with a signed pass embossed with the queen’s fleur-de-lis, she nearly collided with Étienne in the antechamber. He was wearing the sober uniform of a palace accountant, a ledger clutched to his chest like a shield.

“You received the summons?” he murmured, falling into step beside her as they walked the long gallery toward the north stairs.

“The queen wants a dress.” Camille’s voice was low. “I now have access to the storerooms west of the Orangerie. Drouet’s office is on the same corridor.”

Étienne’s jaw tightened. “I know. I’ve been mapping his movements since the fire. He spends his mornings reviewing seized documents in the records room, then retires to his office after the noon bell for exactly two hours. He lunches alone, always from the same culinary cart that comes up from the kitchens.”

Camille stopped walking, turning to face him. “You’ve been watching him.”

“Someone must.” Étienne’s eyes were dark with sleeplessness. “We have two days until the new moon. The baronne said the door will close—if it closes, you’re trapped here forever.”

*Trapped here forever*. The words echoed against the marble columns. A lifetime in a world that would soon drown in blood.

“We need a plan,” she said.

“We need a distraction.” He glanced around the gallery, ensuring they were alone. “The queen’s request for a revolutionary gown—do you realize what that means? The court is buzzing. Modistes are already competing to interpret her command. If you were to present a public *esquisse*, a sketch of your design, to the assembled courtiers in the Hall of Mirrors during the afternoon reception…”

Camille’s breath caught. “Every eye in the palace would be on me.”

“Because every eye is always on her, and by extension, on those she favors.” Étienne smiled, and for a moment the mask of the careful financier slipped to reveal the man beneath. “While you dazzle the court with drawings of silk and lace, I will be emptying Drouet’s safe.”

“He might have hidden them elsewhere.”

“He’ll have kept them close—the fire burned his apartments. Men like Drouet, when stripped of their lair, move their treasures to their place of daily dominion.” Étienne tapped the ledger. “I’ve requisitioned his office records. His safe is a Chubb’s pattern, guarded by a combination lock.”

Camille raised an eyebrow. “And you know how to open a Chubb’s pattern?”

“I’m a financier. I’ve studied every lock between Paris and the Hague.” His voice carried a quiet confidence. “But I’ll need ten minutes inside his office. Uninterrupted.”

“I can give you fifteen.” Camille’s mind was already sketching the performance she would give—the bold strokes of charcoal on fine paper, the theatrical presentation of a revolutionary silhouette that would horrify and delight in equal measure. “But Étienne, what about the baronne? What about what she said—that the needle could *rend* the seam of time, not just mend it?”

His expression darkened. “I’ve been thinking about that. The baronne knows more than she’s told us. Drouet got his information about you from her. But she also warned you about Marguerite’s intentions.”

“So who do we trust?”

“We trust each other.” He took her hand, and his palm was warm against the sudden chill of her fingers. “We retrieve the artifacts. We go to the grotto at midnight. And whatever the needle can do—we face it together.”

A distant bell tolled the hour, and Étienne released her hand as a pair of courtiers rounded the corner, their powdered wigs bobbing in animated conversation.

“Tomorrow,” he whispered. “After the noon bell.”

He turned and walked away, and Camille watched him go, her heart a tangle of fear and something far more dangerous.

She made her way through the palace corridors in a daze, planning the gown she would present—a riding habit reimagined with columns of white muslin, a tricolor sash worked in subtle thread—when a shadow detached itself from a doorway alcove behind her.

“Mademoiselle Dubois.”

Camille spun. The baronne stood before her, dressed in unrelieved black, her silver hair coiled beneath a widow’s cap. In the dim light of the sconces, her face seemed older than it ever had before, carved from ancient stone.

“Madame la Baronne.” Camille’s voice was carefully neutral. “I wasn’t aware you were still at court.”

“I returned from my estates this morning.” The old woman’s eyes searched Camille’s face. “They say the queen has commissioned a gown from you. A gown that speaks of revolution.”

“It’s merely an interpretation of current tastes.”

“Tastes are never merely anything.” The baronne stepped closer, her voice dropping low. “I did not tell Drouet everything, child. I told you that much. But I did not tell you what I withheld.”

Camille’s pulse quickened. “What did you withhold?”

The baronne’s hand emerged from her sleeve, holding a small scrap of paper, yellowed with age. “The needle does not merely mend or rend the seam of time. It *can*—for a price—carry more than one soul across. The man who paid Marguerite to deliver that locket knew this. He has been waiting forty years for someone with the gift to activate it.”

“Who?”

The baronne pressed the paper into Camille’s palm. “That is the name he used at the court of Louis the Fifteenth. Whether it is his true name, I cannot say. But he is still alive, and he is coming to Versailles for the fête.”

Camille uncurled her fingers. On the paper, in faded copperplate ink, was written a single name.

*Fouché.*

For the first time since her arrival, the name meant nothing to her. But the baronne’s face was hollow with dread.

“He knew your predecessor,” the old woman said. “He was the one who drove her through the door in the first place. And if he reaches the grotto before you do, child—” her voice cracked, “—he will tear the seam open so wide that all of France will bleed through.”