One for All, page 12
When the music reached the appropriate point, we curtsied and bowed, respectively, then started into the demi-coupé. All my lessons, all my training—those moments in the parlor, of sculpting my allure, practicing ways to reel men in. I batted my eyelashes as we approached each other before traveling in a circle, right palms pressed together.
“Do you have something in your eye?” Henri inquired.
“No, I—”
“Smile, Tania! You mustn’t stop smiling! And not too big—less teeth! You’re not a prancing horse!”
As the notes shifted into an allemande, I grasped his hands in mine. “I’m sorry,” I said through my smile as I twirled under his raised arm. I certainly wasn’t counting the beats under my breath.
“What for?” he asked.
I hazarded a glance over my shoulder, but Madame de Treville wasn’t interested in our conversation, just our steps. Besides, we were supposed to keep up appearances—and whispered conversation gave the perfect opportunity to cement a target’s interest. Portia did this with ease, her voice silk smooth. In her target’s mind, she spoke for him, and for him alone. My attempts during Madame de Treville’s lessons were painful even to my own ears. But then, Henri didn’t scare me.
“What she said about … well, she’s been anxious all day. She shouldn’t take it out on you, but still. She didn’t mean it, but that doesn’t mean what she said is all right. I get frustrated with her, too. It’s difficult, trying to prove yourself but coping with her criticism.” I paused as Henri’s eyes widened. This was the first time I’d seen them up close. The color of fall leaves right before they turned brown and brittle. With just that bit of gold remaining.
He relaxed his shoulders. He wasn’t the most graceful dancer, but ever more practiced than me. No uncertainty in foot placement, no hesitation in how he led me around the room. Growing up in the Parisian noblesse must do that to a boy. But it was strange, this ease. As if he’d been affecting his bumbling nerves, and his true self was someone I didn’t know at all.
“I feel the same way … but then, part of me wonders if she’s right.” Henri looked so crestfallen I almost stopped dancing. All thoughts of him pretending to be anything he wasn’t disintegrated. “Maybe I have talent—I’d like to think so—but the only reason I had access to the apprenticeship in the first place was because someone else got me through the door. The opportunity was never truly mine to begin with.”
Papa, fixing my grip on my sword. Papa, clucking over my wobbly lunge. Papa, draping me in his cassock, watching me squeal and sprint around the room.
“Don’t waste it, then,” I insisted.
“What?”
“You have the opportunity to do important work. Don’t waste it. Prove to them you deserve it. Prove it to her. It might not be the job you want, not really, but a map can change the world. It’s like the map of Lupiac you gave me: Most people think the village unimportant, unworthy. It was the first rendering of it I’d ever seen. There have to be other places like Lupiac. Written off for their size or their people or their wealth. And you have the power to teach people to think beyond themselves. To see beyond themselves.”
In that next moment I became acutely aware of his hand holding mine, the two of us side by side, Henri regarding me from my left. His golden-brown eyes on my flushed face. Jeanne must’ve started a fire in one of the grates before we entered; I wouldn’t have noticed it, too busy trying to prove myself to Madame de Treville. Henri’s hand slipped from mine, ink-stained fingertips grazing my palm.
“Thank you for the dance,” he mumbled. He did not step away.
Madame de Treville’s loud cough startled me. “I suppose that will do.”
I turned to meet her gaze. “Do you mean it? Truly?” Excitement bled into my voice.
I didn’t think Madame de Treville was capable of looking proud. It was smugness, surely; she’d managed to shape the unshapable girl into a perfect curve. “You’ve proved yourself ready for this weekend.”
“This weekend?”
“A smaller ball, one of the final ones before the season opening at la palais. The last nobles are returning to the city from their summers in the countryside, as are others who are finally making their way back to Paris for the first time since La Fronde ended two years ago. And then those who have been pardoned by the King in La Fronde’s aftermath. All will be potential recruits for the enemy’s cause. Until you’re ready to take on a target of your own, you’ll shadow the girls. Take extra care watching how they extract information they need from targets. It could mean the difference between your success and, well…” She didn’t have to say it. Failure wasn’t an option. Not for a Mousquetaire de la Lune. My stomach curdled, but I nodded, let the moment fill me to the brim.
Maybe Papa was right. Maybe I really could do this. I’d told myself I would succeed for him, would prove myself worthy to the Musketeers, worthy of their help in avenging him. But telling is one thing; believing is another. And maybe I didn’t believe, not yet, but I didn’t need belief in myself. Not with a sword in my hand and a grit to my teeth. His belief had gotten me this far; it would get me where I needed to go.
“I won’t let you down, Madame.”
“You have more of your father in you than I first realized.” When my mother said something like this it was meant as an insult, a curse. But in Madame de Treville’s voice, it was the highest praise. Papa’s signet ring was warm against my sternum. I turned to bid goodbye to Henri, but he was hurrying out the door, a quick wave for me as he disappeared from sight. “Now, the real work begins,” Madame de Treville said.
I half listened to her list all the tasks I needed to complete before this weekend. My eyes lit on the far wall as we exited the room. The only thing in the fireplace were cool ashes and smoke stains from last night.
* * *
If the previous weeks had been a whirlwind, the days leading up to the ball were a summer storm, a constant shriek of thunder and lightning. There were last-minute alterations on the corset, on the breeches, on the belt that would rest underneath my gown for my sword and dagger. What a blessing the current fashion of oversized skirts was—no one would discern I was hiding weapons under layers of silk, delicate lace, and scattered pearls. By the morning of the ball, my mind was crammed fit to bursting with names of key players in la noblesse and dances and all the ways to bring a man to his knees.
“Mon Dieu!” Portia exclaimed as I entered the dining room. “You look like you haven’t slept in weeks!” Aria and Théa glanced up from their breakfast.
My stomach fluttered. I’d done my best to ignore the purple circles in the mirror this morning; they felt like they were pressed into my skin. I pushed my meal around my plate. Crumbled fresh bread between my fingertips. Last night, wrapped in blankets, I’d traced the outline of Lupiac on the map, traced the path my father took with Beau, all the way out of the village, all the way off the parchment until he was gone from the face of the earth. It didn’t matter that I was about to be initiated into the duties of a Musketeer, that a Musketeer was supposed to put the King above all else—I’d give a thousand kings for Papa at my side. Not for the father who let me believe in his betrayal. But for the Papa who called me his daughter, all pride and no shame.
“Tania?” Théa put forward tentatively. “Asking if you’re okay seems pointless, but I don’t really know any other way to put it…”
The words “I’m fine” died on my tongue; they tasted of ash and burning. My lip quivered, and I bit down hard, harder. Now the only taste was iron.
“I didn’t mean it, about the circles. I can cover them up. You’ll see,” Portia said. “It’s not too hard. Just some extra makeup.”
There was a space of quiet, a strained hush. Théa shifted in discomfort. “I made a mess of my first ball in Paris!” she finally blurted out. She went blistering red as everyone turned to her. “C’est vrai! It’s—it’s true,” she stammered. “I tripped. But I didn’t fall, because Aria was dancing nearby, and she helped me find my balance before anyone besides my partner noticed. And then I completely lost control of a conversation with a visiting duke—I was so nervous I was on the verge of tears—but Portia saw me struggling and stepped in to help.” Théa’s eyes glistened; her voice broke, but she persisted. “We’re Musketeers. We are sisters in arms. We don’t let each other fall, and we never will.”
“She’s right,” Portia said after clearing her throat, blinking rapidly. “I mean, that was all very flowery and maudlin, but she’s right. Anything you’d like to add?” She positioned her body away from us and toward Aria.
Aria, face impassive as usual, examined me. “This is an annual event. It’s never the most important of the season. You’re making your debut, but the royal family won’t be present. Neither will the highest-ranking nobles. Madame de Treville wouldn’t ask this of you if she didn’t think you were ready.”
“Thank you,” I said. “It’s just that … I don’t want to let anyone down. What if I get too dizzy and someone notices, what if I faint or—”
“You know, your hometown’s ignorance has completely warped your perception of how capable you are,” Portia said.
“How did you know what they—”
“It doesn’t take a genius to guess how you were treated. I know what it’s like to think yourself incapable of living up to others’ expectations … to think yourself useless in general, truly. But, frankly, who cares about any of that? You’re going to the ball tonight. You will be an asset to the Order. An unknown hero for your country. We’ve seen you fence, Tania, we’ve trained with you. We know what you’re capable of.”
Under her gaze, I swallowed, then let out a deep breath and pictured all the feathery-winged nerves escaping my body. The girls believed in me. They wouldn’t let me fall.
“Right, that’s settled,” Portia finished, a wide grin melting her serious expression. “Now. We have a ball to prepare for.”
* * *
Preparations took up the entire day. We spent hours in front of mirrors and wardrobes, holding jewels to the dips of each other’s throats and placing dozens of pins in our hair. Portia blurred away the dark circles—it took nearly half an hour of awkwardly angling my head as she dotted on paint, then powder. After, she demonstrated how to bite into a halved sweet lemon to redden my lips, how to conceal the acidic sting, how to store it in my tie-on pockets for access during the ball. “You can’t be serious,” I’d said.
Portia had shrugged her shoulders. “If it’s good enough for the Queen of Sweden, it’s good enough for you.” I raised my brows. “Fine, who knows if it actually works or not. But she’s so dependent on it that she brought her entire stash to France a couple summers ago. I figure it’s worth a shot. Worse comes to worst, you have puckered lips and better breath.”
I caught sight of Henri once, when I briefly escaped Portia’s clutches. But even as I called to him, he was gone, head of golden-brown hair disappearing into the kitchen before the back door closed. My mind flashed to our dance, to the familiar ink stains on his skin, to the heat of his palm …
I wore the first of my new dresses: sapphire silk that draped tight over my waist before flowing to the ground. A relief, to look in the mirror and still see part of myself staring back—my mother’s hair tucked up and finished with a crystal-encrusted comb, ringlets framing my face. My father’s smile. The bodice’s plunge wasn’t as daring as Portia’s, but it still showed more skin than I was used to. But not so low that I couldn’t wear the signet ring; it rested, safe, on its long chain beneath my neckline.
“Perfect,” Théa said. Even Aria nodded her approval.
I tried not to think too much about what was waiting for me at the end of the carriage ride: A ballroom full of people I needed to impress, to charm, if I wanted to stay in Paris and have any chance at uncovering the truth about Papa.
“Madame de Treville, I really would appreciate some insight into tonight, so I know what you need of me, so I can prepare myself for—” I started as we entered the front hall to meet our mentor.
She blinked at me. “Oh, that’s right. It’s been a while since we’ve had a new mademoiselle. Into the carriage with the lot of you, and we’ll discuss the rest on the way. I prefer giving assignments in the carriage. That way I can focus on your training and won’t be bothered with questions about upcoming events during the rest of the week,” she said, looking pointedly at me. “But, as I said earlier, you’ll be shadowing the girls for the first few events. This time, it’ll be Aria.”
I was so nervous that I didn’t work up the courage to ask more until we were nearly at our destination: the Marais hôtel particulier of a noble’s son—technically he was a noble as well, just a noble whom the Order wasn’t as familiar with. A new player in the upcoming social season.
“Look alive, ladies. Eyes up, chests out!” Shadows cut across Madame de Treville’s face. The carriage was cramped with all of us in gowns, lace and crinoline skirts crinkled together, not even our slippered feet visible. Gemstones dripped down our bodices, our sleeves, pinched our earlobes, nested in our curls.
“This is so exciting,” Théa trilled, her round face close to the carriage window. “Usually the Marquis de Toucy throws the party at his city residence, but this year it’ll be his son! Just think—a new generation in charge of the season!”
Aria grimaced as her eyes darted to mine. “The Marquis’s son is a notorious drunkard,” she muttered. “Besides, you could hardly place him with the mesdemoiselles and messieurs of Paris; he’s well into middle age.”
“What was that?” Théa asked.
“Now,” Madame de Treville said, drawing our attention, “assignments: Théa, you’re in charge of keeping the party’s host preoccupied while Portia endears herself to the Comte de Monluc’s son. The Comte de Monluc has been spotted at the docks on the Right Bank three times this week alone. There’s no reason for his sudden interest in the workings of the trade economy, much less for him to actually interact with dockhands and crewmen. While he probably isn’t the mastermind behind the smuggling operation, he’s definitely a starting point. He could barely afford to rent a Paris residence last season, and now he suddenly has the means to purchase his own hôtel particulier? On the finest street in Marais? Not to mention he’s had a mysterious visitor at his home—my contacts were only able to establish that the visitor was the same person each time based on his clothing, likely a merchant, but haven’t been able to discover the visitor’s identity.”
The others nodded, but my mind was whirling. “But I thought we were working to uncover a plot to overthrow the King?” I asked.
“Trade is never just about money; it’s about power,” Madame de Treville answered. “In this case, there’s a quasi–black market of sorts, funneling in foreign goods that are making their way into certain homes of la noblesse.”
What reason would nobles have for—wait … “They’re being bribed for their allegiance?”
“That’s partially it. But we have reason to believe those aren’t the only items the ships are bringing in. Weapons, Tania,” she added, sensing my confusion. “It takes one weapon to kill a King. Many more to arm the chosen nobles so they’re ready at the first sign of a power vacuum.”
Dry mouthed, I eased my head against the cushions as Aria finished the explanation: “The royal family can’t arrest or exile the suspected nobles without proof. That would spur another Fronde. Or something worse.” I remembered what Madame de Treville had said about la noblesse’s lack of care for the lives of working Parisians. And I looked at Aria, and I knew. That was the something worse—not that the Paris sewers would run royal blue, but that they’d run blue and crimson.
Approval flitted across Madame de Treville’s face. “A good summation. Although I’d add that the King happens to be a thrill-seeking adolescent whose greatest desire is throwing highly attended and lavish parties. That is difficult to accomplish if half your court is in exile from a prior civil war, and the remaining half are locked away because you’re worried they’re determined to kill you. Don’t look at me like that,” she added as conversation quieted in the carriage. “The fact of the matter is, our King is no older than yourselves. You must disabuse yourself of the notion that he is incapable of flawed thinking. It is our job to recognize it. Or risk getting him killed.” She punctuated her sentences with a thump of her lace fan against her palm. “But we’re getting ahead of ourselves. Our mission tonight is to gather information, and to show Tania what to expect from assignments. Aria, you’re a special favorite of the Marquis. I want to know why he’s handed over the reins of this party to his son. He loves being the center of attention—why give that up? What’s he doing instead? Or, what has he been pushed aside to make room for? There’s something brewing there.”
“Does she think it’s related to the smuggling?” I whispered to Aria as our mentor turned her attention to Théa.
“Unclear. But it’s useful information to have,” Aria said. I raised my brow. “We need to know every secret of this city in order to properly protect it. If the Marquis is ever provoked to act against us, we remind him of what we know to keep him quiet. Madame de Treville trusts Mazarin. But if one of us is accused in public, it could be easier for him to feign ignorance, hand us over to the guards, and rebuild an entire new order. We must work to save the King and protect ourselves at the same time.”
The carriage pulled to a halt, voices and music floating through the windows on either side. “Tania, as I told you in the hall, you’ll shadow Aria.” Madame de Treville finally addressed me. “Théa’s and Portia’s targets won’t be amused with another mademoiselle hanging off their skirts. And I can’t afford for Portia’s target, the Comte’s son, to lose interest—he may have the information we need on the smuggling ring.”
“I hardly see any danger in the son losing interest in me. I first met him with ruffles clinging to my neck and progressed to this,” Portia said, studying her chest. “If my neckline sinks any lower, I’ll be attending balls topless. The poor thing might keel over on the spot.”
“Do you have something in your eye?” Henri inquired.
“No, I—”
“Smile, Tania! You mustn’t stop smiling! And not too big—less teeth! You’re not a prancing horse!”
As the notes shifted into an allemande, I grasped his hands in mine. “I’m sorry,” I said through my smile as I twirled under his raised arm. I certainly wasn’t counting the beats under my breath.
“What for?” he asked.
I hazarded a glance over my shoulder, but Madame de Treville wasn’t interested in our conversation, just our steps. Besides, we were supposed to keep up appearances—and whispered conversation gave the perfect opportunity to cement a target’s interest. Portia did this with ease, her voice silk smooth. In her target’s mind, she spoke for him, and for him alone. My attempts during Madame de Treville’s lessons were painful even to my own ears. But then, Henri didn’t scare me.
“What she said about … well, she’s been anxious all day. She shouldn’t take it out on you, but still. She didn’t mean it, but that doesn’t mean what she said is all right. I get frustrated with her, too. It’s difficult, trying to prove yourself but coping with her criticism.” I paused as Henri’s eyes widened. This was the first time I’d seen them up close. The color of fall leaves right before they turned brown and brittle. With just that bit of gold remaining.
He relaxed his shoulders. He wasn’t the most graceful dancer, but ever more practiced than me. No uncertainty in foot placement, no hesitation in how he led me around the room. Growing up in the Parisian noblesse must do that to a boy. But it was strange, this ease. As if he’d been affecting his bumbling nerves, and his true self was someone I didn’t know at all.
“I feel the same way … but then, part of me wonders if she’s right.” Henri looked so crestfallen I almost stopped dancing. All thoughts of him pretending to be anything he wasn’t disintegrated. “Maybe I have talent—I’d like to think so—but the only reason I had access to the apprenticeship in the first place was because someone else got me through the door. The opportunity was never truly mine to begin with.”
Papa, fixing my grip on my sword. Papa, clucking over my wobbly lunge. Papa, draping me in his cassock, watching me squeal and sprint around the room.
“Don’t waste it, then,” I insisted.
“What?”
“You have the opportunity to do important work. Don’t waste it. Prove to them you deserve it. Prove it to her. It might not be the job you want, not really, but a map can change the world. It’s like the map of Lupiac you gave me: Most people think the village unimportant, unworthy. It was the first rendering of it I’d ever seen. There have to be other places like Lupiac. Written off for their size or their people or their wealth. And you have the power to teach people to think beyond themselves. To see beyond themselves.”
In that next moment I became acutely aware of his hand holding mine, the two of us side by side, Henri regarding me from my left. His golden-brown eyes on my flushed face. Jeanne must’ve started a fire in one of the grates before we entered; I wouldn’t have noticed it, too busy trying to prove myself to Madame de Treville. Henri’s hand slipped from mine, ink-stained fingertips grazing my palm.
“Thank you for the dance,” he mumbled. He did not step away.
Madame de Treville’s loud cough startled me. “I suppose that will do.”
I turned to meet her gaze. “Do you mean it? Truly?” Excitement bled into my voice.
I didn’t think Madame de Treville was capable of looking proud. It was smugness, surely; she’d managed to shape the unshapable girl into a perfect curve. “You’ve proved yourself ready for this weekend.”
“This weekend?”
“A smaller ball, one of the final ones before the season opening at la palais. The last nobles are returning to the city from their summers in the countryside, as are others who are finally making their way back to Paris for the first time since La Fronde ended two years ago. And then those who have been pardoned by the King in La Fronde’s aftermath. All will be potential recruits for the enemy’s cause. Until you’re ready to take on a target of your own, you’ll shadow the girls. Take extra care watching how they extract information they need from targets. It could mean the difference between your success and, well…” She didn’t have to say it. Failure wasn’t an option. Not for a Mousquetaire de la Lune. My stomach curdled, but I nodded, let the moment fill me to the brim.
Maybe Papa was right. Maybe I really could do this. I’d told myself I would succeed for him, would prove myself worthy to the Musketeers, worthy of their help in avenging him. But telling is one thing; believing is another. And maybe I didn’t believe, not yet, but I didn’t need belief in myself. Not with a sword in my hand and a grit to my teeth. His belief had gotten me this far; it would get me where I needed to go.
“I won’t let you down, Madame.”
“You have more of your father in you than I first realized.” When my mother said something like this it was meant as an insult, a curse. But in Madame de Treville’s voice, it was the highest praise. Papa’s signet ring was warm against my sternum. I turned to bid goodbye to Henri, but he was hurrying out the door, a quick wave for me as he disappeared from sight. “Now, the real work begins,” Madame de Treville said.
I half listened to her list all the tasks I needed to complete before this weekend. My eyes lit on the far wall as we exited the room. The only thing in the fireplace were cool ashes and smoke stains from last night.
* * *
If the previous weeks had been a whirlwind, the days leading up to the ball were a summer storm, a constant shriek of thunder and lightning. There were last-minute alterations on the corset, on the breeches, on the belt that would rest underneath my gown for my sword and dagger. What a blessing the current fashion of oversized skirts was—no one would discern I was hiding weapons under layers of silk, delicate lace, and scattered pearls. By the morning of the ball, my mind was crammed fit to bursting with names of key players in la noblesse and dances and all the ways to bring a man to his knees.
“Mon Dieu!” Portia exclaimed as I entered the dining room. “You look like you haven’t slept in weeks!” Aria and Théa glanced up from their breakfast.
My stomach fluttered. I’d done my best to ignore the purple circles in the mirror this morning; they felt like they were pressed into my skin. I pushed my meal around my plate. Crumbled fresh bread between my fingertips. Last night, wrapped in blankets, I’d traced the outline of Lupiac on the map, traced the path my father took with Beau, all the way out of the village, all the way off the parchment until he was gone from the face of the earth. It didn’t matter that I was about to be initiated into the duties of a Musketeer, that a Musketeer was supposed to put the King above all else—I’d give a thousand kings for Papa at my side. Not for the father who let me believe in his betrayal. But for the Papa who called me his daughter, all pride and no shame.
“Tania?” Théa put forward tentatively. “Asking if you’re okay seems pointless, but I don’t really know any other way to put it…”
The words “I’m fine” died on my tongue; they tasted of ash and burning. My lip quivered, and I bit down hard, harder. Now the only taste was iron.
“I didn’t mean it, about the circles. I can cover them up. You’ll see,” Portia said. “It’s not too hard. Just some extra makeup.”
There was a space of quiet, a strained hush. Théa shifted in discomfort. “I made a mess of my first ball in Paris!” she finally blurted out. She went blistering red as everyone turned to her. “C’est vrai! It’s—it’s true,” she stammered. “I tripped. But I didn’t fall, because Aria was dancing nearby, and she helped me find my balance before anyone besides my partner noticed. And then I completely lost control of a conversation with a visiting duke—I was so nervous I was on the verge of tears—but Portia saw me struggling and stepped in to help.” Théa’s eyes glistened; her voice broke, but she persisted. “We’re Musketeers. We are sisters in arms. We don’t let each other fall, and we never will.”
“She’s right,” Portia said after clearing her throat, blinking rapidly. “I mean, that was all very flowery and maudlin, but she’s right. Anything you’d like to add?” She positioned her body away from us and toward Aria.
Aria, face impassive as usual, examined me. “This is an annual event. It’s never the most important of the season. You’re making your debut, but the royal family won’t be present. Neither will the highest-ranking nobles. Madame de Treville wouldn’t ask this of you if she didn’t think you were ready.”
“Thank you,” I said. “It’s just that … I don’t want to let anyone down. What if I get too dizzy and someone notices, what if I faint or—”
“You know, your hometown’s ignorance has completely warped your perception of how capable you are,” Portia said.
“How did you know what they—”
“It doesn’t take a genius to guess how you were treated. I know what it’s like to think yourself incapable of living up to others’ expectations … to think yourself useless in general, truly. But, frankly, who cares about any of that? You’re going to the ball tonight. You will be an asset to the Order. An unknown hero for your country. We’ve seen you fence, Tania, we’ve trained with you. We know what you’re capable of.”
Under her gaze, I swallowed, then let out a deep breath and pictured all the feathery-winged nerves escaping my body. The girls believed in me. They wouldn’t let me fall.
“Right, that’s settled,” Portia finished, a wide grin melting her serious expression. “Now. We have a ball to prepare for.”
* * *
Preparations took up the entire day. We spent hours in front of mirrors and wardrobes, holding jewels to the dips of each other’s throats and placing dozens of pins in our hair. Portia blurred away the dark circles—it took nearly half an hour of awkwardly angling my head as she dotted on paint, then powder. After, she demonstrated how to bite into a halved sweet lemon to redden my lips, how to conceal the acidic sting, how to store it in my tie-on pockets for access during the ball. “You can’t be serious,” I’d said.
Portia had shrugged her shoulders. “If it’s good enough for the Queen of Sweden, it’s good enough for you.” I raised my brows. “Fine, who knows if it actually works or not. But she’s so dependent on it that she brought her entire stash to France a couple summers ago. I figure it’s worth a shot. Worse comes to worst, you have puckered lips and better breath.”
I caught sight of Henri once, when I briefly escaped Portia’s clutches. But even as I called to him, he was gone, head of golden-brown hair disappearing into the kitchen before the back door closed. My mind flashed to our dance, to the familiar ink stains on his skin, to the heat of his palm …
I wore the first of my new dresses: sapphire silk that draped tight over my waist before flowing to the ground. A relief, to look in the mirror and still see part of myself staring back—my mother’s hair tucked up and finished with a crystal-encrusted comb, ringlets framing my face. My father’s smile. The bodice’s plunge wasn’t as daring as Portia’s, but it still showed more skin than I was used to. But not so low that I couldn’t wear the signet ring; it rested, safe, on its long chain beneath my neckline.
“Perfect,” Théa said. Even Aria nodded her approval.
I tried not to think too much about what was waiting for me at the end of the carriage ride: A ballroom full of people I needed to impress, to charm, if I wanted to stay in Paris and have any chance at uncovering the truth about Papa.
“Madame de Treville, I really would appreciate some insight into tonight, so I know what you need of me, so I can prepare myself for—” I started as we entered the front hall to meet our mentor.
She blinked at me. “Oh, that’s right. It’s been a while since we’ve had a new mademoiselle. Into the carriage with the lot of you, and we’ll discuss the rest on the way. I prefer giving assignments in the carriage. That way I can focus on your training and won’t be bothered with questions about upcoming events during the rest of the week,” she said, looking pointedly at me. “But, as I said earlier, you’ll be shadowing the girls for the first few events. This time, it’ll be Aria.”
I was so nervous that I didn’t work up the courage to ask more until we were nearly at our destination: the Marais hôtel particulier of a noble’s son—technically he was a noble as well, just a noble whom the Order wasn’t as familiar with. A new player in the upcoming social season.
“Look alive, ladies. Eyes up, chests out!” Shadows cut across Madame de Treville’s face. The carriage was cramped with all of us in gowns, lace and crinoline skirts crinkled together, not even our slippered feet visible. Gemstones dripped down our bodices, our sleeves, pinched our earlobes, nested in our curls.
“This is so exciting,” Théa trilled, her round face close to the carriage window. “Usually the Marquis de Toucy throws the party at his city residence, but this year it’ll be his son! Just think—a new generation in charge of the season!”
Aria grimaced as her eyes darted to mine. “The Marquis’s son is a notorious drunkard,” she muttered. “Besides, you could hardly place him with the mesdemoiselles and messieurs of Paris; he’s well into middle age.”
“What was that?” Théa asked.
“Now,” Madame de Treville said, drawing our attention, “assignments: Théa, you’re in charge of keeping the party’s host preoccupied while Portia endears herself to the Comte de Monluc’s son. The Comte de Monluc has been spotted at the docks on the Right Bank three times this week alone. There’s no reason for his sudden interest in the workings of the trade economy, much less for him to actually interact with dockhands and crewmen. While he probably isn’t the mastermind behind the smuggling operation, he’s definitely a starting point. He could barely afford to rent a Paris residence last season, and now he suddenly has the means to purchase his own hôtel particulier? On the finest street in Marais? Not to mention he’s had a mysterious visitor at his home—my contacts were only able to establish that the visitor was the same person each time based on his clothing, likely a merchant, but haven’t been able to discover the visitor’s identity.”
The others nodded, but my mind was whirling. “But I thought we were working to uncover a plot to overthrow the King?” I asked.
“Trade is never just about money; it’s about power,” Madame de Treville answered. “In this case, there’s a quasi–black market of sorts, funneling in foreign goods that are making their way into certain homes of la noblesse.”
What reason would nobles have for—wait … “They’re being bribed for their allegiance?”
“That’s partially it. But we have reason to believe those aren’t the only items the ships are bringing in. Weapons, Tania,” she added, sensing my confusion. “It takes one weapon to kill a King. Many more to arm the chosen nobles so they’re ready at the first sign of a power vacuum.”
Dry mouthed, I eased my head against the cushions as Aria finished the explanation: “The royal family can’t arrest or exile the suspected nobles without proof. That would spur another Fronde. Or something worse.” I remembered what Madame de Treville had said about la noblesse’s lack of care for the lives of working Parisians. And I looked at Aria, and I knew. That was the something worse—not that the Paris sewers would run royal blue, but that they’d run blue and crimson.
Approval flitted across Madame de Treville’s face. “A good summation. Although I’d add that the King happens to be a thrill-seeking adolescent whose greatest desire is throwing highly attended and lavish parties. That is difficult to accomplish if half your court is in exile from a prior civil war, and the remaining half are locked away because you’re worried they’re determined to kill you. Don’t look at me like that,” she added as conversation quieted in the carriage. “The fact of the matter is, our King is no older than yourselves. You must disabuse yourself of the notion that he is incapable of flawed thinking. It is our job to recognize it. Or risk getting him killed.” She punctuated her sentences with a thump of her lace fan against her palm. “But we’re getting ahead of ourselves. Our mission tonight is to gather information, and to show Tania what to expect from assignments. Aria, you’re a special favorite of the Marquis. I want to know why he’s handed over the reins of this party to his son. He loves being the center of attention—why give that up? What’s he doing instead? Or, what has he been pushed aside to make room for? There’s something brewing there.”
“Does she think it’s related to the smuggling?” I whispered to Aria as our mentor turned her attention to Théa.
“Unclear. But it’s useful information to have,” Aria said. I raised my brow. “We need to know every secret of this city in order to properly protect it. If the Marquis is ever provoked to act against us, we remind him of what we know to keep him quiet. Madame de Treville trusts Mazarin. But if one of us is accused in public, it could be easier for him to feign ignorance, hand us over to the guards, and rebuild an entire new order. We must work to save the King and protect ourselves at the same time.”
The carriage pulled to a halt, voices and music floating through the windows on either side. “Tania, as I told you in the hall, you’ll shadow Aria.” Madame de Treville finally addressed me. “Théa’s and Portia’s targets won’t be amused with another mademoiselle hanging off their skirts. And I can’t afford for Portia’s target, the Comte’s son, to lose interest—he may have the information we need on the smuggling ring.”
“I hardly see any danger in the son losing interest in me. I first met him with ruffles clinging to my neck and progressed to this,” Portia said, studying her chest. “If my neckline sinks any lower, I’ll be attending balls topless. The poor thing might keel over on the spot.”
