Read Chapter 28: The Mask of Desire

The roar of the crowd in the Hall of Mirrors was a living thing—a thousand voices layered over music, laughter, and the clink of glasses that never seemed to stop. Candles blazed from every chandelier, catching the jewels and sequins of a court dressed in its finest delirium. I stood at the edge of it all, my heart hammering against the silk of my own gown, the one I’d sketched in charcoal on a sleepless night and stitched with borrowed hands.

The queen had wanted a revolution. A statement. Something that whispered, *I am still France, and France is still mine.*

I’d given her a gown of midnight blue—the color of the sea before a storm—threaded with silver constellations. The bodice was structured like a military uniform, sharp and unforgiving, but the skirt cascaded in a waterfall of fabric, hidden pockets sewn into the seams. On her chest, instead of pearls, I’d placed a single, seven-pointed star made of diamonds, a compass rose pinning her to the center of the world.

Marie Antoinette swept into the ballroom an hour ago, and the crowd parted like a prayer answered. She was electric. Untouchable. And as she turned to acknowledge the gasps and murmurs, she caught my eye and raised her glass.

“Madame Dubois!” Her voice carried over the din, clear as a bell. “Come. Stand beside me.”

The court turned to look at me. All of them. Bertin, standing near the queen’s chairs with her usual swarm of sycophants, went the color of spoiled milk. Her lips pressed into a thin, white line.

I made myself walk forward. Not too fast. Not too slow. My gown—a simple ivory thing, cut clean and modern—moved with me like a second skin. The queen extended a gloved hand, and I took it, sinking into a curtsy that was more stable than I felt.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the queen announced, “this is the woman who has restored my faith in French artistry. She is the seamstress of my dreams. Whatever she asks, she shall have.”

Applause rippled. Some of it genuine. Most of it performed. I smiled in the right places, nodded at the right faces, and felt the weight of Bertin’s hatred land on my shoulders like a cloak made of poison.

“Your Majesty honors me beyond my worth,” I said, low enough that only she could hear.

“Nonsense,” she said, her smile sharp with amusement. “I’ve decided you’re to be my secret weapon. After the fête, I’ll have you travel with me to the Petit Trianon. I want gowns for every season. Gowns that tell stories. You’ll have a studio, whatever materials you require, and—of course—my protection.”

My protection. The words were iron and silk both. It meant I was no longer a nobody. It meant Drouet would have to be more careful. It meant I had a foothold.

But it also meant the new moon—now two nights away—was closing like a trap.

I murmured my thanks and excused myself to the edge of the floor, seeking air that didn’t taste of candle smoke and perfume. I’d just reached the shadows of a marble column when a figure stepped out of the crowd, masked in black velvet with silver trim. His costume was rich but not fashionable—a deliberate restraint that marked him as someone who wished to be noticed on his own terms.

“Enchanté, Madame,” he said, his voice low and smooth, with an accent I couldn’t quite place. “I wonder if I might have a word about the future.”

I tensed. The word *future* in this place was never casual.

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.”

He laughed, soft and easy. “Of course you do. You know exactly what I mean. But we must be careful, mustn’t we? Even here, in the light of a thousand candles, shadows have ears.”

He gestured to a small alcove, curtained in velvet the color of dried blood. Every instinct screamed no. But the locket—now back in my pocket, warm against my thigh after our escape from Drouet’s office—seemed to pulse with curiosity.

I followed him.

Inside the alcove, the noise of the ball faded to a dull hum. The masked man turned to face me, his eyes dark and unreadable behind the velvet. He held up a hand before I could speak.

“You’ve been gifted with a needle,” he said. “A device that can puncture the seam of time itself. And you’ve been told that at the new moon, beneath the Apollo Fountain, you can use it to go home.”

My blood went cold. “Who are you?”

“A friend. A traveler. Someone who’s been where you are and made the wrong choice.” He tilted his head. “The baronne told you the door holds a choice—to mend the seam or rend it. But she left out the cost.”

“Which is?”

“If you use that needle to open the door, this timeline—this world, with every soul in it—will be erased. Snuffed out like a candle. Your friend Marguerite. Your Édouard. The queen herself, who named you her favorite. All gone. Replaced by something you won’t recognize.”

I blinked. The words didn’t quite land, but I felt them anyway, a slow wave of nausea rising in my chest. “That’s not—I was told there was a choice. Mend or rend. Return or destroy.”

“Fairy tales,” he said, almost pityingly. “The baronne has her own agenda. She came through the same door forty years ago, and look what she’s become—a recluse, hoarding secrets, terrified of the world she built. Do you want that? To escape, only to find that every life you touched here was unstitched?”

“You don’t know that,” I said. My voice shook, and I hated it.

“I know enough,” he said. “I know you’re from a time when France is a republic. I know you design for a future that hasn’t happened yet. And I know that if you choose the door, you’ll burn this timeline to ash to get back to it.”

“Who are you?” I demanded again. “How do you know all of this?”

He smiled, slow and thin, like a blade being drawn. “I’m from the same future you’re trying to return to. A slightly different branch, perhaps—but close enough. I came through the door three weeks ago, and I’ve been watching you ever since. You’re the only other traveler I’ve found. And I didn’t come here to stop you. I came to warn you.”

My mind raced. Three weeks ago—that matched. The locket. The needle. The baronne’s cryptic warnings. Another traveler meant another set of facts, another truth I couldn’t fully trust.

“If you’re from the future,” I said slowly, “why would you care what happens to this timeline?”

He placed a hand over his heart. “Because I’ve seen what it becomes. The Revolution comes. The Terror follows. Blood in the streets. The queen loses her head. And worse—far worse—a darkness spreads that swallows half of Europe. It’s coming here, Madame. Whether you stay or go, it’s arriving in five years’ time. But if you use that needle now, you’ll erase whatever good might come after. You’ll erase the chance to stop it.”

“Stop it,” I repeated. “You mean to change history?”

“I mean to save it.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “But I can’t do it alone. I need your help. Your knowledge. Your future. Together, we might be able to blunt the worst of it. Save the queen, perhaps. Save France. But not if you run away.”

He stepped closer, his presence filling the alcove. “Two nights from now, you’ll have the power to go home. You’ll stand at that fountain, with the needle in your hand, and you’ll make a choice. I’m asking you to choose wrong. I’m asking you to stay.”

I opened my mouth, but no words came.

Behind him, the curtain rustled, and Étienne’s face appeared. He looked from me to the masked man and back, his jaw tightening. “Camille,” he said carefully. “Is everything well?”

The masked man turned, bowed, and disappeared into the crowd without another word.

I was left alone with the echo of his warning, the weight of his words pressing down on my chest like the night sky about to fall.