One for All, page 15
“Monsieur!” I cried out. He turned on his polished heel. “J’aimerais prendre un peu de votre temps. Only a brief moment of your time, please.”
“Ladies, leave us,” Madame de Treville said. Aria had already exited the entryway; Théa was at the door frame. Portia huffed in frustration before pulling Théa into the hall and closing the door.
“Cette fille,” he asked Madame, “this girl, she is the one? The daughter of de Batz?” Madame de Treville nodded, but she didn’t interject. Removing his hat, he crouched down, as if I were a small child. I recoiled instinctively. But still, this could be my father’s friend, so I forced a receptive smile, readied for him to wax on about Papa, willed my eyes to be dry as forgotten bones. “We mourn your father’s loss with you,” he declared.
Time stretched painfully before he stood up with a groan. “The body of an old man, I have. Should’ve stretched while I had the chance!”
Papa’s laughter hit me with a slap; his jokes about his aching knees, his badges of honor. I blinked and the man was walking away. “Monsieur! His death was suspicious. Wasn’t what the maréchaussées painted it to be.”
Madame de Treville stiffened, a small angry breath escaping her lips.
On route to his head, his hat paused midair, brim gripped by scarred fingers. Those weren’t fingers flayed from breaking apart a fence; he’d earned those scars. That’s what Musketeers did. Earned their wounds. “I didn’t know your father as well as I would’ve liked; when he left for Lupiac I was only beginning my duties. But what I did know about him, from what I observed and from stories, was that the Musketeers’ duties? He fully embodied them. Honor, duty, sacrifice. We sign our lives over in service to the country. And our King, Mademoiselle, he is in danger. We can’t afford to draw attention—we don’t have the resources to investigate every retired Musketeer’s death.”
“Papa did everything to protect his King, and this is how you repay him? The King will always be in danger,” I retorted, the weight of it leaving me breathless. Madame de Treville burned livid beside me.
For a brief moment, I wondered if he’d curse at me. But instead, he returned his hat atop his curls, shadowing the hard lines of his profile. “Precisely, Mademoiselle. Our King will always be our priority.” He looked to Madame de Treville. “Perhaps it would be wise to remind these girls who exactly they’re fighting for.”
My breath, my heartbeat, they all rushed in my ears. “I assure you,” Madame de Treville gritted out, “my Musketeers are well under control. In fact, I’m about to write to Cardinal Mazarin about the girls’ discovery today.” I opened my mouth to speak, desperate to further plead my case. But Madame de Treville’s hand came down on my shoulder, tightened, as she said: “Au revoir, Monsieur.”
At the sound of the front door closing she spun me around, face gleaming with fury. “You foolish girl! Have you forgotten everything I’ve told you? Your very purpose in being here?”
“I told you I wanted to fight for my father—I didn’t know that fighting for the King meant giving up fighting for Papa!”
“Don’t you see, Tania! Can’t you see!” Madame de Treville’s face was warped with uncharacteristic emotion. “Fighting for the King is fighting for your father.”
I shook my head, strands of hair threaded with tears. “I have to speak with another officer. One who knew Papa, knew him better, knows…”
“Knows what, Tania? What do you know that they don’t?” The cloaked robbers, Papa’s overturned desk, Beau’s empty stall. Papa on the side of the road, Papa a piece of stone they carved into, Papa Papa Papa.
“I have to try.”
“Let’s say you go. What makes you think they’ll take you seriously? Besides Monsieur Brandon, who does not take kindly to being insulted, none of les Mousquetaires du Roi know about us. And Brandon is the most understanding of the lot! If you told them, you’d compromise Mazarin’s purpose for us. And they wouldn’t even believe you—remember, I know these men. I know what they say about determined young women. I will not let you throw away everything we have worked for. Everything you have worked for.” Head thumping, stomach churning, I clawed at the side table for balance. Some of the heat leached from Madame de Treville’s face. “Believe me when I tell you that the best thing you can do is help find the traitors. Especially now.”
Through the dizziness, through the haze, my mind tightened. “Especially now?”
“To the parlor; I don’t want to have to repeat myself.” Madame de Treville went to open the door but was forced back when Théa and Portia tumbled through the frame. “Practicing eavesdropping for the upcoming ball, I see.”
Skin acrawl, I prepared for the questions. But Théa slipped her arm through one of mine, Portia the other. And we stayed like that until we sat down in the parlor, waiting for the news.
Madame de Treville sank into the chair nearest the fire. “There’s been an … incident.” She withdrew a letter from her tie-on pocket; the Musketeer must’ve given it to her when he arrived. The gold wax seal stark against the creamy paper. The King’s seal.
Rage and grief mingled deep in my chest, but there was room for guilt there, too. Guilt for my impulsiveness. For my inability to comprehend the gravity of the situation we’d rushed into. What was bad enough to warrant a message from the King?
“An incident?” Portia prompted.
“His servant didn’t know any better and called for the guards. Our King was curious about the commotion in his dressing room, so of course he decided to march right in before anyone had the sense of mind to shut the damn door. The last thing we needed was the King terrified his own quarters aren’t safe—”
“Madame, what was it?” Aria asked.
“Someone completely drenched one of the King’s ceremonial crowns in blood. Smeared a message on the mirror while they were at it. Votre règne se terminera pendant la nuit la plus longue. Vive La Fronde.”
Your reign will end on the longest night. Long live La Fronde.
“Blood?” Théa forced the words out, teeth cracking together. “You don’t actually think someone—”
“Non, they must have procured it à la boucherie.” Madame de Treville’s mention of the butcher calmed Théa, but one glance at Aria’s unconvinced expression was all it took to know that Madame was merely placating her. Trying to keep images of metal and gemstones drowning in thick red streams from invading her thoughts. My nails carved unstringed bows into my palms.
“It’s a clear threat,” Madame de Treville continued, “given the crown’s symbolism—not to mention l’artiste had access to the King’s private quarters.”
“You think someone inside the palace is involved?” Aria asked.
“We can’t be sure, although anyone who had the means to commit the act was fired. New servants will be vetted by the King’s personal guard.”
Again, just like Aria had told me. Again, working Parisians suffered for the greed of the noblesse. Someone was likely murdered to deliver the message. An innocent life, snuffed out because of them.
They’d be alive if we’d discovered the coconspirators. I told myself I hadn’t had enough time to make a quantifiable difference, not yet. But that didn’t alleviate the choking guilt.
“Why warn of a date? What do they have to gain by revealing part of their plan?” Théa asked.
“They want him scared, to cancel festivals and celebrations and public appearances. It’ll lead to angry nobles, angry merchants … angry Parisians. He’s already on thin ice. Some think he’s spending too much; others think he’s not spending enough. There are nobles who would’ve preferred the outcome of La Fronde to be something very different,” Madame de Treville said. “Our job is to uncover the truth; that hasn’t changed. But there can be no more hesitation, no more waiting: The time for less dangerous missions is behind us, now that we know there’s a deadline. Choosing the winter solstice is no coincidence. They’ll have the added cover of darkness for their uprising, and it’s in the middle of des fêtes de Noël. Can you imagine the chaos they’d rain down upon Paris, upon all of France, if they not only killed the King, but killed the King then?”
Horror struck Portia’s face. “Mon Dieu … isn’t that the day of the Winter Festival? The banks of the Seine will be packed. You don’t think they’d attempt anything there? Or after, at the ball in the palace?”
Théa shivered. Portia looked to Aria. And I sat there, staring at the gold wax seal, unable to keep it from shifting and transforming into a bloody golden crown that sat atop my father’s head, little strands of gray peeking through his brown hair.
* * *
The intimate garden soiree was so very different from last week’s ball. At least, it seemed like it was; it was hard to tell as lookout. My position at the window afforded me a view of the office entrance, a few paces over from where I was posted, as well as le Jardin des Tuileries, which bloomed across the Seine. The guests’ daytime party gowns were mere pastel dots along the northern terrace of the gardens.
“Have you found it yet?” Portia asked from the office door. Our target this afternoon was the business partner of the younger Verdon. As Madame de Treville had predicted, there wasn’t enough time for us to discover the younger Verdon’s location. But his business partner’s was another story. The partner’s office in Paris was bright, airy—and today, empty of bustling merchants and vendors as he laughed and chatted and did whatever else one does when likely trying to convince nobles to betray their King. But even though I could not see her, I knew Théa was entrancing the man to her side, hindering his subterfuge and providing us time to work.
“Aria,” Portia gritted out, “I hate repeating myself…”
“Got it.” Aria riffled through the book. “Records for the past two calendar years. There’s a chance I might need to find earlier records to compare…”
“Everyone down!” I whispered. I peered over the sill while Portia and Aria ducked to the floor. After a closer glimpse of the man weaving through carriages, I sighed. “It wasn’t him. Only someone with the same unfortunate taste in hats.”
“Normally I’d be furious at you for making me worry,” Portia said, dusting off her pleated skirts, “but that might be the first funny thing I’ve heard you say, so I’ll allow it. Next time you won’t be a beginner on lookout duty, though, so take this as a warning.”
Aria cleared her throat, scrawling across a fresh sheet of paper with a piece of charcoal. “Does no one remember that I’ve found what we’re looking for?”
“Go on, then,” Portia said.
“Well, now you have to wait for me to copy it—”
Portia’s eyes glimmered. “I swear, Aria, sometimes you make me want to—”
“And … finished.” Aria tucked the copy into her cloak. “A sudden, though nonetheless large increase of livres on the books in the past two months,” she told us as we rushed to return everything to the way we’d found it. “Not to mention the shift in imports earlier this year. Chocolate, Seville oranges. And then some abbreviations, but we can figure out those later. Suspicious, non? Luxuries that the nobles would love to get their hands on. Perfect for bribes.”
Sneaking out the back entrance was easy enough. Théa had a stash of threadbare clothing she tinkered with in preparation for missions like these; the three of us were draped in dusty brown wool. If anyone suspected us to be other than servants, we had our swords. But I hoped it didn’t come to that.
Once outside, we squeezed the cloaks behind empty barrels. Portia rearranged her garden dress underneath her real cloak. “I thought I was going to suffocate. Théa has all the luck.”
We’d been careful. Hadn’t left a book out of place. I might’ve been new, but I had Portia and Aria with me; they wouldn’t let anything go wrong. But to stave off suspicion, we crossed the Seine and inserted ourselves into the garden party, taking care to greet a handful of nobles each.
Théa was to stay with her target. We might’ve gotten the copies we needed, but if Théa could wriggle more out of him, maybe we could put an end to all this today. Protect the displaced palace workers, the derided inhabitants of La Cour des Miracles, before the nobles even had a chance to spill blood in the streets. I thought back to Aria, when she spoke of how the nobles would blame members of La Cour for the death of the King. People who were told their illnesses, their conditions, were worn like masks.
Portia, attached to my hip in case the heat of having worn two cloaks proved too much for my dizziness, led the way. But not without watching Aria melt herself into a raucous group of young men.
There were Parisians being told they were lying about their illnesses—and yet here I was, dizziness and all, listening to a noble drone on about his portrait gallery’s latest acquisition. Why was I the one who was chewing on a pastry so delicate it could very well float off my tongue? Were there other girls, other girls like me, who were starving in La Cour? “I swear,” Portia said, smile miraculously somehow still intact, as he finally left us, “if I had to spend one more minute listening to that pompous man explain the importance of art, mon Dieu, I would’ve cut out his tongue. Doesn’t he realize he isn’t my tutor? He completely butchered the significance of Nicolas Poussin’s use of color gradient. And worst of all: he made us late! Oh, I hope he’s part of the plot, if only to have the chance to see him cower at the end of my sword.”
We made our way back to Aria, who dallied near the riverbank. Lacy parasols bobbed like multicolored birds through the air. Laughter floated over deep emerald hedges and ornamental trees arranged in miniature groves.
“Shouldn’t Théa be back by now?” I asked Portia, voice hushed. “Wasn’t that the plan?”
Portia didn’t tease me; her dark eyes reflected my concern. “Aria, where’s Théa?”
Aria tensed. “She went with her target after he said he saw you two in the hedge maze. She was wondering where you were, and—”
“Merde.” Portia shot off in the direction of the maze, swooping between lone hedges to remain out of sight.
“Go with her,” Aria said to me. “I’ll wait for Madame de Treville, tell her what’s happening.”
If something was wrong, if something was really wrong—not accidentally-stepping-on-someone’s-foot-during-the-minuet wrong, not snorting-out-a-laugh-when-a-target-proved-himself-a-foppish-fool wrong—what could I do to help, truly help? Draw away attention by fainting? “But I—”
“Go!” Aria repeated. “Théa has Portia to help her. But who will be there to help Portia? What if she…” Aria’s voice broke.
I hurried after Portia. Stopped every so often to rest my palm against a tree, a hedge. Waited for my vision to clear enough to continue.
The maze towered above me, green bushes solid as stone. I didn’t see Portia, but I could hear the shuffling of shoes against dirt, of branches against silk. I found her scrunched against an interior wall, eyes narrowed, ears pricked.
“What’s going on…” Hands slapped against someone’s chest. A voice scratching at the air, warped with panic and almost unrecognizable. Almost.
“Wait here,” Portia whispered. “Keep anyone from coming down this path.” With that, she thrust herself around the corner of the hedge. “Get your hands off her!”
Théa needed us. Which meant not rushing after Portia—no matter how much I wanted to. This was how I could help.
Indistinguishable words in a placating tone. A flurry of voices, a loud exclamation.
I peered around the hedge, clapped a hand over my mouth. Portia’s dagger was poised at a man’s throat—Verdon’s business partner and Théa’s target; I could tell even in the dim. Portia’s teeth bared in a snarl. Théa was hidden in the shadows. Pulling back, I rested against the greenery to calm the wild thrum of my heart.
When Théa and Portia appeared, we didn’t stop, just powered out of the maze, running through the trees for cover until we reached Aria, who led Théa to the banks of the Seine.
He hadn’t followed us.
Portia made a sound of disapproval as I took a small step toward Théa. I searched for the outline of my sword under my dress. The familiar feel of it was a balm in the flush of fear and the running and the sound of Théa’s voice that also wasn’t Théa’s voice at all. “You used your dagger…,” I said.
“He won’t turn me over to the authorities, if that’s what you’re worried about. No gentleman would admit to being bested by a lady—think of what la noblesse would say about his strength and honor. Besides,” Portia said, adjusting a crystal earring that had slipped out of place, “who would believe him?”
“But what happens when someone doesn’t fear social ruin?”
Portia hesitated as she brought a hand to her brow to block the sun’s glare. Her eyes drifted over Théa’s and Aria’s huddled figures, softened. “Hence why weapons are a last resort.”
“Then you haven’t dueled anyone before?”
“Now, I didn’t say that. A month or so before you arrived, we closed in on a murder suspect—we thought he might’ve been affiliated with the smugglers. He wasn’t, though we didn’t know that at the time. Just a man who enjoyed the feeling of silencing a pulse. Aria and I cornered him outside a party and pretended we were interested in … you know…” She trailed off, then refocused. “It was easy to lure him into a secluded alleyway.” She snorted, but her eyes glimmered with something stronger. “He confessed to the murders, two of the King’s favorite personal attendants—he was sure I’d be dead at his hand moments later. I left him bleeding and broken and knocked out cold.”
“Did he … did you kill him?”
“Les Mousquetaires du Roi saw to that. His execution was a spectacle; it’s how they dissuade possible treachery.” She studied me intently. “But if I had to, I would’ve killed him.”
“You say it like it’s so simple.”
“But that’s just it, it is,” she insisted. “I won’t sacrifice my life to keep my hands clean. I meant what I said about leaving a legacy. About making things better for us and all the Mousquetaires de la Lune who will come after us. I won’t have them think me weak, incapable of doing what is necessary, because I’m a woman. Being part of the Order means proving that women are just as capable as men and protecting our sisters. Don’t worry, Tania. Like I said: a last resort.”
