Read Chapter 3: A Favor for a Footman

The stench of lye and damp wool had finally left Camille’s nostrils by the time Étienne found her behind the kitchens, shaking out a tablecloth that had seen better centuries.

“You look like a drowned rat,” he said, grinning.

“You look like a man who owes me an explanation,” she shot back, snapping the cloth in his direction. “You said Versailles was a palace. You didn’t mention it was also a sweat shop with marble floors.”

Étienne laughed, low and quick, then glanced over his shoulder. The corridor was empty, save for a scullery maid scrubbing pots with her back to them. Still, he lowered his voice.

“The Comtesse’s gown. The tear is worse than I told you. She’s due to attend the Queen’s evening reception in three days, and she’s already sent two seamstresses away in tears. If she appears in a mended gown that looks mended, she’ll be a laughingstock. If she appears in the same gown twice without repair, she’ll be a different kind of laughingstock. Either way, heads will roll.” He paused. “Metaphorically.”

“And yours is nearest the axe.”

“Precisely.” He produced a folded square of fabric from inside his coat—silk, deep sapphire, with an intricate floral embroidery running along one edge. Even folded, Camille could see the damage: a jagged tear along the side seam, nearly six inches, and a separate fray at the shoulder where a jewel or brooch had snagged the thread.

She ran her thumb over the silk. Fine. Eighteenth-century loom width, probably Lyons weave. The embroidery was hand-done, chain stitch and satin stitch worked in silver thread. Whoever had made this had been skilled.

“Can you fix it?” Étienne asked.

Camille didn’t answer right away. She was already counting stitches, calculating thread weight, thinking about how the tear would need to be stabilized from the underside before the surface could be reworked. The silver thread was the tricky part—matching it would be nearly impossible, but she could unpick a section from the hem facing and reuse it.

“Where is she?” Camille asked.

“The Comtesse? Her rooms are in the north attic—she’s not important enough for the grand apartments.”

“No. The tailor’s rooms. The sealed ones.”

Étienne’s grin faded. “Why do you keep asking about that?”

“Because I think the key I found might open the door.”

She didn’t show it to him. Not yet. But Étienne’s eyes flicked down to her pocket, then back up to her face, and something shifted in his expression. Wariness, maybe. Or curiosity.

“The east wing,” he said slowly. “Third floor. The rooms were sealed after Maître Chenier died. Plague, they said. Others say it was something else.”

“What do you say?”

“I say the Queen’s tailor was too good at his job, and too good at keeping secrets.” Étienne shrugged, but there was a tightness around his mouth. “He made gowns for the Queen that no one else could replicate. He knew things—about the court, about the women who wore his dresses. What they whispered in fitting rooms, what they hid in their sleeves.”

Camille felt a chill that had nothing to do with the damp air.

“The rooms are still furnished,” Étienne continued. “Tools, fabrics, patterns. Everything left as it was. The key was supposed to have been buried with him, but—” He stopped. Looked at her again. “You said you found a key.”

“I did.”

“Where?”

“It’s complicated.”

Étienne studied her for a long moment. Then he nodded once, almost to himself. “Alright. Here’s my offer. You repair the Comtesse’s gown tonight, in her rooms, without anyone knowing. She thinks I’m sending it to a discreet modiste in the city. If you do this well, and she’s pleased, I’ll get you into the east wing. One hour. That’s all I can manage.”

“Why would you risk that?”

“Because the Comtesse is my only patron, and if she’s ruined, I’m ruined. You’re my only chance to save her. And you want something I can give you.” He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “That’s called a bargain, girl. In Versailles, it’s the only kind of friendship that lasts.”

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The Comtesse de Pons’s rooms were not grand, but they were warm, which was more than Camille could say for the laundry. A fire crackled in the grate, casting dancing shadows over faded tapestries and furniture that had seen better decades. The Comtesse herself was nowhere to be seen—Étienne had arranged for her to be occupied at cards in another lady’s apartments for the next three hours.

“You have until midnight,” he said, setting a lantern on the escritoire. “If anyone knocks, you hide in the wardrobe. If the Comtesse returns early, you climb out the window onto the ledge. If you fall, you die, and I never knew you.”

“Comforting.”

“I try.”

He left. The door clicked shut, and Camille was alone with the sapphire gown and a lifetime of experience she wasn’t supposed to have.

She spread the dress across the bed and examined it under the lantern light. The tear was clean, not ragged—a caught heel, perhaps, or a too-eager hand pulling at the fabric during a dance. Six inches along the side seam, just below the waist. The embroidery would need to be partially lifted, the underlying silk stabilized, and the pattern reworked to hide the repair.

Camille pulled out the small kit she’d assembled from scraps in the laundry—needles, thread, a thimble she’d bartered from a maid who’d wanted her extra bread ration. Not ideal tools, but workable. She’d done more with less in her first year at the atelier, back when she was still Claire Martin and the world was a place where time moved forward and seams didn’t glow.

She worked quickly, hands moving from memory. Unpick the embroidery along the tear line. Stabilize the silk with tiny, invisible stitches. Re-lay the silver thread in the original pattern, matching the flow of the floral design. The shoulder fray was easier—a simple re-securing of the fabric edges, reinforced from beneath.

The minutes slipped away. The fire crackled. Camille lost herself in the rhythm of the needle, in the familiar language of thread and fabric. For a little while, she wasn’t a laundress in a palace that smelled of old sweat and newer lies. She was Claire Martin, and the only thing that mattered was the dress.

A floorboard creaked.

Camille’s hands froze. She listened, breath held, needle hovering mid-stitch.

Silence.

Then the latch of the door lifted, slowly, deliberately. Not a servant’s knock. A key turning.

Camille looked at the window. The ledge Étienne had mentioned was narrow, and the drop was three stories. The wardrobe was closer.

She dove for it, gown in hand, and pulled the door almost shut behind her. Through the crack, she watched.

The door swung open. A man entered—tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in deep burgundy velvet that probably cost more than the Comtesse’s entire wardrobe. His face was handsome in the way of carved stone: cold, sharp, unyielding. He carried a walking stick topped with a silver lion’s head, and he moved through the room with the casual ownership of someone who had never been told no in his life.

The Comte de Vaudreuil.

Camille had heard the name whispered in the laundry. A favorite of the Queen’s circle. A man who collected favors and secrets the way other men collected debts. He was not supposed to be here.

He walked to the escritoire, opened a drawer, and removed a small leather-bound book. He slipped it into his coat, then turned—and stopped.

His eyes fell on the bed. On the empty spot where the gown had been.

Camille’s stomach dropped. She’d moved the dress. It was in here, with her, crushed against her chest.

The Comte’s gaze swept the room. Slow. Methodical. He took a step toward the wardrobe.

Camille pressed herself deeper into the shadows, gripping the gown so tightly her knuckles went white. Through the crack in the door, she saw him stop just inches away. She could smell his cologne—bergamot and something dark, like smoke.

“I know you’re in there,” he said. His voice was low, smooth, unhurried. “The question is whether you’re a thief, a spy, or something far more interesting.”

He reached for the wardrobe door.