Read Chapter 4: The Vicious Circle

The Comte’s gaze was a blade, and he wielded it slowly. He stepped aside from the escritoire, the stolen leather book already tucked somewhere within the dark folds of his coat. His eyes moved from Camille’s face to the sapphire gown in her trembling hands, then back again, as if weighing which crime to charge her with first.

“The Comtesse keeps a seamstress hidden in her wardrobe now?” He tilted his head, a faint smile playing on lips that had never once known kindness. “Or do you prefer the term *voleuse*? Thief.”

“I am neither, Monsieur le Comte.” Camille forced her voice steady, though her heart battered against her ribs. She lifted the gown slightly, letting the candlelight catch the repaired seam. “I mended this tear. The Comtesse requested it.”

“Requested it.” He laughed — a short, ugly sound. “From a laundress. In the middle of the night. In her private chambers, while her guests are below at supper.”

The logic of it was damning, and Camille knew it. She could not explain that she had been smuggled in by a footman on the word of a courtier’s maid. She could not explain why she cared so much for a gown that was not hers to touch. Every truth she possessed sounded like a lie in this gilded hall.

“Search me,” she said instead, and held out her free hand, palm up. “If I have taken anything, you will find it.”

The Comte’s eyes narrowed. He took a step closer, and the scent of his cologne — something bitter, like crushed herbs — filled the space between them. His hand moved, but not toward her. Instead, he plucked the gown from her grasp, holding it up to the light.

“The work is fine,” he admitted grudgingly, tracing the repaired seam with a gloved finger. “Too fine for a laundry maid. Where did you learn to stitch like this?”

Camille almost laughed. Twenty years of haute couture, of pattern cutting in Paris ateliers, of fittings with duchesses and film stars. How did one explain that in a single sentence?

“My mother taught me before she died,” she said, which was a lie in one life and the truth in another.

The Comte studied her for a long moment. The candle guttered. Outside, the distant swell of music from the great hall drifted through the walls — the rhythm of a minuet, impossibly civilized for a world so barbaric.

“I do not believe you,” he said at last. “But I have no desire to bring a scandal upon the Comtesse’s household. You will come with me —”

The door opened before he could finish. Étienne stood on the threshold, breathless, his livery slightly askew. Behind him loomed a man Camille did not recognize — young, soberly dressed in dark wool and a plain cravat, with the sharp, assessing eyes of someone who had learned to read rooms before entering them.

“Monsieur le Comte,” Étienne said, bowing quickly. “Forgive the intrusion. I have brought Monsieur Aubert, secretary to the Queen’s wardrobe mistress. The Comtesse sent for him regarding the state of her gowns for the fête next week.”

The stranger stepped forward, his gaze falling on the sapphire gown still held in the Comte’s hands. His eyes widened slightly, then narrowed with professional scrutiny.

“That is the Comtesse’s gown for the ball,” he said. “It was torn at the shoulder this afternoon. I was told it would need weeks of work.”

The Comte’s jaw tightened. “Yes. The girl claims she repaired it.”

Aubert stepped closer, and Camille held her breath as he examined the seam. His fingers traced the stitching, the delicate matching of thread to fabric. He pulled a small glass from his pocket and studied the work up close, then straightened and turned his sharp gaze on Camille.

“Who trained you, girl?”

“A seamstress named Marguerite,” Camille said. It was the name of the woman who had taken her in, fed her, given her a place to sleep in the coach on the way to Versailles. She hoped she was not cursing her with the lie.

“Marguerite of Fontainebleau,” Aubert said, nodding slowly. “I know her work. She taught at the convent school there. Yet her stitches are always heavier on the underlayer — visible on the reverse. This work shows no such sign. It is…” He paused, searching for the word. “*Cleaner*. Like a machine.”

The Comte’s expression darkened. “This is a petty matter. The girl was trespassing. I will handle it.”

“With respect, Monsieur le Comte,” Aubert said smoothly, “the Comtesse has already handled it. She sent for me because her gown was ruined. She believed no one in the palace could repair it in time for the fête. If this girl has done so — and the proof is in your hands — then she has done the Comtesse a service, not a slight.”

Camille saw the calculation flicker behind the Comte’s eyes. He would not risk a public dispute over a servant — not when the stolen book sat against his chest, a far greater prize. He handed the gown to Aubert with a curt bow.

“Then see that she is rewarded for her service and kept from private chambers in the future,” he said, and swept past Étienne and out the door without another glance.

The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on. Aubert turned the gown over in his hands, examining the seams one last time, then looked at Camille.

“The Comtesse is grateful,” he said. “But gratitude is worthless currency in this palace. Talent, on the other hand…” He set the gown down on the escritoire and studied her openly. “You are wasted in the laundry. The Queen’s wardrobe mistress is in need of hands that can repair in a night what her own staff cannot touch in a week. Would you care to meet her?”

Camille’s pulse roared in her ears. She had come to Versailles to find a way home — through the sealed rooms, the brass key in her pocket, the gown that was not from this century and the seam that would take her back to hers. But here was a door opening of a different kind.

“Yes,” she said. “I would.”

Aubert’s smile was thin. “Good. Because I have already told her I found a prodigy in the Comtesse’s rooms. Do not make a liar of me.”

He turned and walked out, and Camille followed, leaving Étienne to mouth a silent *good luck* behind her back.

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The Queen’s wardrobe mistress was old, withered, and utterly unimpressed. She surveyed Camille from beneath hooded lids, noting her rough hands, her laundress’s apron, the still-faint smell of lye clinging to her skin.

“You are the miracle worker Monsieur Aubert has bragged about?”

“I am the girl who repaired the seam,” Camille said carefully.

The old woman sniffed. “The Dauphine is bored with her gowns. She has requested something new for the fête. Something that will not pinch at the waist, will not scratch at the neck, and will allow her to dance without tripping over the train of a court dress.”

Camille blinked. “May I see her measurements? Her fittings?”

“You will see her gowns. You will see her current stiffness, her complaints, her terror of the corset. And you will design something better.” The old woman fixed her with a gaze that promised nothing. “You have five days.”

Five days to design an entire gown. In this century. With borrowed fabric and tools she did not yet own. Camille could have laughed. Instead, she curtsied.

“I will not fail you.”

The old woman shook her head slowly. “Failure does not concern me, girl. Betrayal does. At court, your success will gather enemies faster than your failures ever will. Remember who you serve.”

She turned away without another word, and Camille stood alone in the shadowed antechamber, the brass key pressing against her thigh like a promise. She had found a foothold at Versailles. But she had just made a bargain — with her skills, her talent, her very life — in exchange for a seat at the table of the most dangerous woman in France.