Lire le chapitre 29: The Choice of a Lifetime

The corridors of Versailles had never felt so narrow. Camille’s heels clicked against the marble as she hurried beside Étienne, her mind a storm of contradictions—the masked man’s warning echoing louder than the queen’s promises of protection.

“He said using the portal would destroy this timeline,” she whispered, breath short. “He said he came from the same place I did. Twenty years ago.”

Étienne’s jaw tightened. “And you believe him?”

“I don’t know what to believe.” She stopped short, forcing him to turn. “But I can’t ignore it, Étienne. If he’s right, then going home means erasing everything—this court, the queen, you. Everyone I’ve come to—everyone who exists in this world.”

He studied her, the morning light catching the worry etched into his brow. “Then we find out who he truly is.”

They found their answer quicker than expected—in the form of a trembling servant at the palace gates, clutching a crumpled letter.

“Mademoiselle Dubois.” The boy thrust the paper into her hands, then fled before she could speak.

Camille unfolded it, scanning the elegant script. It was from the Comte de Provence’s secretary, replying to an inquiry she had never made. But the words stopped her cold.

“Lefèvre,” she read aloud, “born in Lyon, 1741. A gambler, a charlatan, and a forger who has twice been banished from court for spreading false prophecies to unsettle noble houses. He claims to have arrived from the future to warn of calamity—yet his predictions have proven consistently false, and his true occupation is the fleecing of credulous aristocrats.”

Étienne read over her shoulder, his brow furrowing. “He was testing you. Seeing how easily you’d be shaken.”

“Or someone wanted me to think that.” Camille folded the letter. “This came too conveniently—right when I needed reassurance. Someone in the queen’s household knows about our meeting. Rose, perhaps. Or Drouet, whispering through his sources.”

But the seed had already been planted. Even as she discredited Lefèvre with mounting evidence—the discrepancies in his story, the timing of his warning, his convenient vanishing into the gardens—something gnawed at her.

She saw it in the faces of the courtiers as she passed: the hunger, the cruelty, the casual indifference to human suffering. And yet—she also saw the seamstresses who shared their bread, the gardeners who sang while they worked, the queen who had defied convention to protect her.

They found shelter in a quiet alcove overlooking the orangery. Orange blossoms perfumed the air, a brief respite from the chaos. Étienne leaned against the balustrade, watching her pace.

“You haven’t told me everything,” he said quietly.

Camille stopped. “What do you mean?”

“The masked man said something else. I saw it in your face when he spoke. Something that made you reconsider everything.” He stepped closer. “What was it?”

She wanted to lie. To protect him. But the weight of the secret had grown unbearable.

“He told me that Thomas Morel—the man who built the locket’s mechanism—left a warning in his final notes. That the passage between times is not a door, but a wound.” Her voice cracked. “That every traveler tears it further, and that breaching it again could collapse the threads that hold this world together.”

Étienne was silent for a long moment. Then he took her hands in his.

“Camille. I am a man of numbers and ledgers. I deal in certainties.” His thumb traced circles on her knuckles. “But since you appeared in my life, I’ve learned to accept the impossible. Whatever you decide—stay or go—I will not stand in your way.”

“But what about us?” The words escaped before she could stop them.

“I told you once that I wanted only for you to be free.” He lifted her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. “That has not changed. If going home means losing you, I will grieve—but I will bear it gladly if it means your happiness.”

Tears pricked at her eyes. “Étienne...”

“I mean it.” His voice was fierce, tender. “I don’t care if you stay in this century or return to yours. I care that you choose with a full heart, not out of fear or obligation.”

The words broke something open inside her. All this time, she had seen her choice as a binary—return to her modern life or remain trapped in the past. But that was the wrong question.

She thought of her atelier in Paris. The sleek lines, the buzz of the fashion week, the applause. It was everything she had worked for. And yet—here, she had found something she never knew she needed. Not just Étienne, though he was at the center of it. But purpose. A reason to create that went beyond commerce. A life where her hands shaped not just garments, but destinies.

The queen’s commission for the Spanish wedding had given her ten days of protection. But what came after?

“Drouet still has the locket,” she said slowly, thinking aloud. “Even if we reach Reims and find the other portal, I could go home tomorrow. But Lefèvre’s warning—”

“He was a fraud,” Étienne said. “We confirmed that much.”

“Yes. But that doesn’t mean he was wrong.” She looked at him. “Do you understand? I can’t take that risk. If going home means destroying this world—your world—then I can’t do it. I won’t.”

He searched her face. “So you choose to stay?”

The words hung between them. A choice of a lifetime, made in a heartbeat.

“I choose *this*,” she said. “I choose to build something here. To see what I can become in a world that doesn’t believe in what I am.” She laughed, a little broken. “Do you know, I’ve spent every day since I woke in this body wishing I could go back to my old life. But I don’t think I had a life worth returning to. I had a career. A name. But not the things I feel here.”

Étienne’s mask of composure cracked. He pulled her into an embrace, his breath warm against her hair.

“Then let us destroy the locket,” he murmured. “End this threat. Ensure the portal never opens again.”

Camille stiffened. “But Drouet still possesses it. He could use it himself.”

“Which is why we must hurry to Reims.” He pulled back, his eyes burning with resolve. “We find the second portal there—but not to escape. To close it. Both roads must be sealed, so that no one can travel between times again.”

It was madness. A complete reversal of every plan they had made. And yet, as Camille looked at the man before her—honest, steadfast, offering her freedom even at the cost of his own heart—she knew she had never felt more certain of anything.

“We’ll need to get the locket back,” she said. “One way or another.”

“Then we devise a plan.” His lips curled into a smile. “But first, I believe you have a queen waiting for sketches of your new collection.”

Camille laughed, the sound surprising her. “Yes. I promised her a miracle.”

“And I have no doubt you will deliver.” Étienne pressed a kiss to her forehead. “The seamstress of Versailles does not disappoint.”

As they walked back toward the palace, arm in arm, Camille felt the weight of her choice settle into something resembling peace. She was no longer a visitor to this era, counting down the days until her escape.

She was home.

But as they rounded a corner, she froze. There, at the far end of the corridor, stood Rose—Drouet’s spy. The woman smiled, slow and knowing, her eyes flicking to the queen’s apartments. Then she was gone, swallowed by the shadows.

“The poison must work by tomorrow,” the court physician said, his voice barely audible through the library wall.

Camille pressed closer to the crack in the door, Étienne’s hand on her arm to steady her.

“And Her Majesty?” someone asked—a low, male voice she did not recognize.

A soft laugh. Then the physician replied, “By dawn, she will be dead. The fatal diagnosis will come too late for anyone to suspect.”