One for All, page 18
Months ago, the aftermath of overusing energy would have rendered me bedridden for days. But I made it to the dining room for a little supper, and the next day I even managed some footwork. I wasn’t any less dizzy than before, any less sick. But my legs were stronger. They were fighting for me. All the same symptoms, but no fainting. The day following, I was ready for Portia when she arrived in the training room, a twinge of a smile on my lips. It wasn’t without pain, no. But it was fully mine and it was true. It wasn’t there to make myself look appealing. It wasn’t there for anyone but myself.
Amid all the parties, all the dancing and flirting and spying, fencing was like coming home. The clash of steel against steel. Knees bent, eyes narrowed. The crash of a parry riposte.
Portia laughed as she countered my attack and nearly swept my sword out of my hand. But I was craftier and waited until she attacked. Waited until she thought she’d won before I jumped back, out of her lunge’s reach.
Théa cheered from somewhere nearby. Portia’s face scrunched in concentration.
She lunged again. My blade met with hers. And there it was.
It wasn’t anything I could control. At the sight of sparks, my sword clattered to the ground. A sob wrenched from my throat.
Swept into the memory of Papa and me, in the barn: morning light through holes in the rafters, motes of dust in the air, me spinning to meet the clash of his blade.
“Papa!” I’d shrieked, dropping my sword at the sight of sparks, bright and sharp and gone in an instant.
But Papa hadn’t been angry, no—he’d laughed. “Don’t be afraid. Look how powerful you are, ma fille. Look at what you’ve created with your own hand and sword.”
I’d glanced with trepidation at the blade. My father had reached to pick it up, and then presented it to me. “Your weapon, Mademoiselle la Mousquetaire.”
The very first time he’d called me that.
“Mon Dieu, did my sword catch you? Are you bleeding?” Portia grabbed at my arms, frantically checking for wounds.
“Papa,” I managed to say, but then my breath hitched again, and again. I was underwater and trying to take a breath. Expecting air but finding liquid that filled my lungs.
I wept whole histories into my hands.
Arms draped around me, led me from the light, the noise. I was shepherded into a seat. When I finally opened my eyes, they revealed Madame de Treville’s study.
Our mentor handed me a cup. “Here.” I took a few slow sips and waited for my breaths to ease, to stop pulling and tearing at my rib cage.
“Where are the others?”
“I requested they give us some privacy,” she said as she examined me. “You’ve done so much to suppress what happened. Honestly, I’m surprised you haven’t broken down before now.”
“It’s just … when the swords…”
“You don’t have to explain,” she said with a kindness I wasn’t expecting.
I drank more, then set the cup on her desk. Fear wormed into my chest. “Please, don’t remove me from the next mission. I know it seems like I’m broken, but I’m not. I can handle this.”
“For someone who believes everyone questions her capabilities, you do a lot of questioning yourself.” Madame de Treville paused. Something was eating at her. She let out a sharp breath, nodded to herself. “I haven’t been completely forthright with you. At first it was a matter of protecting the Order. You refused to truly address your sorrow—and I know that everyone grieves differently, but you stoppered it up so tightly … then, as time went on, I didn’t want to provide further distraction. Even with your reservations to joining and the complicated reasons why you eventually did, ones I’m not sure even I know the extent of, you’ve taken to being a Mousquetaire de la Lune in a way I never foresaw. I thought I’d do a kindness for your father. That maybe you’d be helpful to the others, ensure missions were successful, but would never have your own targets. But you are an asset in your own right; you are as essential to our mission as Portia, Théa, and Aria. Your dedication to and passion for fencing is a rare gift, one that makes you passionate in all areas of the rest of your life. And I didn’t want to threaten that. But now it’s clear the truth will be what stitches you back together … and what ensures your dedication to the Order.” She rubbed at her brow. Fingerprints left a red-pink trail across her forehead.
“I’m not sure I understand,” I said.
“There’s reason to think Monsieur Verdon, the elder that is, is more involved in the plot than we initially believed. He doesn’t have a title, so Mazarin and I thought the Comte de Monluc—Portia’s target at your first ball—was a likelier suspect, since he holds sway over more nobles. But when we learned the younger Verdon brother was visiting him, we started to realize that perhaps the very fact that Verdon senior doesn’t have a title gives him motive. When the King exiled scores of nobles after La Fronde, he redistributed some of their titles to those he perceived loyal. But Verdon received nothing. He could’ve been planning this for years. Do you see now? It’s like I told you before: Verdon senior is too difficult a target to approach head-on. We need to use the son to get to him. That’s why he’s your target.” She was adamant, fervor in her face. “And if we can get to Verdon senior…”
I let out a short breath and fought to keep from rubbing at my temples. “I wish you’d told me your suspicions when you learned of them. But I know I’m new to the Order. And I suppose I haven’t been the most obedient. And it’s your prerogative to…” A gruff voice echoed in my memory. I and two others were called to investigate a death en route from Le Rare Loup Inn to the residence of a Monsieur Verdon … Madame de Treville’s meaning of keeping this from me, of what it had to do with my father, it all fell into place. “No. It can’t be.” My tongue choked me, sealed against the roof of my mouth with tears and spit, cheeks freezing hot. “Verdon was supposed to host my father. But he was the one who notified the others when Papa didn’t arrive.”
There was pity in Madame de Treville’s eyes.
“I don’t understand…”
“You are thinking like a daughter. But you must think like a Musketeer,” she said softly.
The throb of my heartbeat was loud, loud, loud. The maréchaussée and Monsieur Allard said Papa’s body was found on the road between Verdon’s estate and the village tavern … think like a Musketeer … it wouldn’t have been difficult for Verdon to feign distress for his guest’s safety. He could have met Papa en route and attacked him on the dark, empty road. Who’s to say that, instead of rushing to Monsieur Allard at my father’s absence, Verdon didn’t kill Papa, cover his tracks, and then search for help in order to clear himself of any implication of wrongdoing?
I raised my eyes, horrified, to Madame de Treville.
“I see you’ve happened upon the same possibility I did. But it’s important we don’t view conjectures as truth. There is still so much work to be done.”
My fingers—white, bloodless—gripped my chair. “Verdon was involved in Papa’s death? Why … how could you think that? The bandits. What they did to him. Cutting off his beard, his hair…”
“That’s the first I’ve heard anything of the sort,” Madame de Treville said. “Although”—she hesitated—“it’s not surprising it hasn’t gotten out. That’s something everyone would’ve done their best to keep quiet.”
“Well, it happened. What reason would he have for killing Papa like that?”
“Perhaps he wanted to shame your father. Or have him serve as a warning to anyone who might follow in his footsteps,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“Tania, your father wasn’t traveling to discuss the opening of new fencing academies. Well, he was, but that wasn’t why he went to those meetings. He was gathering information on the plot to overthrow the King. For the Musketeers. For France.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
FURY UNFURLED WITHIN me. “You had no right not to tell me. He was my father. Mine.” My fingers rested above the ring trapped in my bodice.
“I should have told you. For that I am sorry.”
“That’s all you have to say? You kept what you knew about my father to yourself. You’ve been lying to me all this time. And Monsieur Brandon, he treated me like some silly girl…” The memory knifed through me, his patronizing expression framed by a chapeau and cassock, how he’d stumbled over his explanations … “That’s why he hesitated,” I said, watching Madame de Treville for any sign of remorse. “He concealed it by saying they didn’t have enough resources to investigate. But really they don’t want to draw attention to the fact that Papa was spying for them.”
More memories rebounded, of nighttime and open doors and cloaked men stealing through windows. They weren’t looking for Maman’s jewels. They were looking for Papa’s secrets.
How much of what Papa told me were lies? I’d known there was more to it than him humoring nobles, but I’d thought all the traveling was an excuse to see his friends … mais non. They weren’t just his friends. They were still his brothers in arms, no matter if he was no longer reporting to them and instead to Madame de Treville and Mazarin.
“How…” I trailed off, unsure of how to ask all the questions running through my mind.
“What I know is this: Your father was released from his duties after his father-in-law forced the Musketeers to do so. He left for Lupiac thinking his days serving his country were behind him. But that was before La Fronde. The Musketeers needed spies stationed throughout the country to provide intelligence on Condé’s supporters. That’s when your father was contacted by la Maison du Roi and offered the opportunity to rejoin the Musketeers in secret. His role continued after La Fronde’s resolution, and even involved gathering information for the current mission to save the King. I wouldn’t have known the full story if it weren’t for his letter requesting a place be made available to you. He explained the situation, how he feared what your life would be like in the event he passed.”
“That doesn’t excuse the fact that you didn’t tell me,” I said, cutting off Madame de Treville when she opened her mouth. “Yes, I know, you worried that I’d break. You care more about the King’s life than my father’s. But I’m not fragile.”
“I was wrong, Tania, and I’ve apologized. But I will not tolerate being spoken to in such a fashion.” She relaxed her arms but continued to struggle with an invisible weight fixed to the nape of her neck. “As hard as it is, your duty is to France. Don’t you remember what I told you after Monsieur Brandon left that day?”
Fighting for the King is fighting for your father. At the time, the implication had seemed straightforward: Papa’s final wish was for me to serve the King. And I tried to accept his love of country as my own. But that wasn’t what Madame de Treville had meant at all.
The blistering fury dimmed, overtaken by a small bit of hope that flashed bright behind my eyes. “Can it truly be that simple? Discovering the names of those who plot against the King, finding proof to arrest them, could lead to finding Papa’s murderer? Could even be one and the same?”
She eventually met my gaze. “I believe it’s your best chance. Perhaps your only chance. And you’ll only know the truth if we succeed.”
Up until now, I’d thought I was doing my best. But I wasn’t—I could harden myself further; I knew I could. Turn myself fully into steel, become the creature the Order needed. That France needed. Because France meant Papa. And Papa meant everything.
* * *
“What happened? I thought I hurt you!” Portia said when I exited the study. They were waiting for me. My Musketeers.
“We were worried,” Aria added quietly.
My gaze fell to the floor. “Promise me you didn’t know.”
“What do you mean?” Théa asked.
“My father. He was spying for the Musketeers. Madame de Treville thinks Verdon might’ve murdered Papa after he learned too much about the plot to kill the King.”
“Your target!” Portia’s eyes were sharp as a pair of dueling swords. “He murdered your father, and she assigned him as your—”
“No, not Étienne. His father,” I said.
She fell silent. Even Aria was taken aback.
“What are you going to do?” Théa said finally. “What can we do?”
I willed my insides into hammered metal. The girls were staring back at me, waiting. “We’re going to take them down … and then we’re going to make them pay.”
Portia, Théa, and Aria weren’t the Musketeers who populated my childhood stories. They weren’t Papa’s Musketeers. But they were warm enough to thaw the dark Parisian night that squeezed at my throat, the fear of how somewhere, out in the cold, there were traitors who plotted the King’s assassination. Traitors whose hands were already stained with Papa’s blood.
They may not be the Musketeers I’d imagined. But they were better, because they were mine. And I knew, as I looked at them and saw the cold steely resolve inside me mirrored in their eyes, that I was theirs.
* * *
I thought the next time I’d see Étienne would be at a party. But instead, he appeared the day after the sparking swords in the form of a broken wax seal: a lion rearing on its hind legs.
“Tania, you have a letter,” Madame de Treville said.
Théa, hunched over a slice of bread and wrapped in sleep, sat up ramrod straight, her shoulders pushed so far back it was stunning they didn’t stick there. “A letter?”
Madame de Treville placed the envelope next to my plate. I pushed my cooling cup of tea aside; her expression betrayed nothing. “It was delivered this morning. Henri’s been sorting the post before he heads to Sanson’s for the day: If I didn’t know him any better, I’d suspect he wanted to be part of the Order!”
Mademoiselle Tania,
I hope this letter finds you well, and much recovered from our first encounter. I would have enquired this of you from my own lips, but I didn’t want to be an imposition. It seems propriety has managed to latch its claws in me after all. Balls are such stuffy affairs, all decorum and no substance, but meeting you was like a breath of fresh air on the most crowded street corner.
A ball is no place to get to know someone. Which is why I respectfully request your presence as my guest at the Gramonde theater opening three evenings from today. Madame de Treville and the other mesdemoiselles under her care are of course invited as well.
Your humble servant,
E. Verdon
“You must say yes.” Madame de Treville’s voice was insistent.
“You know what it says?” The seal was broken; of course she had opened it.
“Obviously I wouldn’t give you a letter I hadn’t closely examined first,” Madame de Treville said. “And under other circumstances, I would want to know what exactly he means by ‘recovered.’ But given everything that happened yesterday…”
I squared my shoulders. “He doesn’t know the truth. I handled it.”
I mentioned nothing of his kindness. Madame de Treville was wrong about the finer points of his character. Her betrayal of my privacy, her incursion on the first letter I’d ever received from a man, stung more than I cared to admit. It wasn’t a love letter—his words showed fondness, not adoration. Not that it mattered; I just never thought I’d receive a letter like that. That I’d have a man interested to the point where he set quill to paper and revealed a thin underlayer of his heart. A man who didn’t believe dizziness was a sign of inferiority.
Madame de Treville informed me how to accept his request, and what words to use: It would be short notice, and apparently I had “other engagements” earlier in the day, but I would “make time.”
Nose wrinkled, I fiddled with my cup’s saucer. “But won’t that make me sound indifferent?” I asked.
“Not indifferent, in demand. It’s for that same reason we won’t send your response until tomorrow. Remember, Tania, he’s playing a game like we are. A different one, to be sure, but a game nonetheless. You mustn’t let him think he’s won before he’s played all his cards.”
* * *
On the night of the theater opening we waited outside, breaths crackling in the air. Winter was not too far off now and nipped at our ears … and neither was the Winter Festival that the King refused to cancel—Madame de Treville had posited the idea to Mazarin, who in turn was met with a resounding non. Plus other words not fit for gentle ears. Madame de Treville said it was exactly what she expected from him—a whiny adolescent threatened with losing his favorite event of the season. I burrowed further into my cloak. Protecting the King wasn’t about proving my worth anymore—I had to uncover all the nobles and proof of their treachery to solve Papa’s murder. If the worst happened, surely that would mean the end in my quest for the truth … and the death of innocent people. I looked at the girls with a pang in my chest. It would mean the end for other things, too.
Portia shifted her weight and cursed under her breath before plastering on a smile. “Wonderful night.”
“A bit crisp, perhaps,” Aria said. “Did you forget your gloves again?”
“Non, they’re in my tie-on pockets, and my fingers are too frozen to—wait, what are you doing?”
Aria had grasped Portia’s waist and was busy loosening the ties of the pockets. “Getting your gloves, obviously.” When Aria had retrieved them, she looked to Portia, whose wide eyes were framed with dozens of curls. “I suppose you’ll need help putting them on. Since your fingers are frozen.” Portia nodded emphatically and held out a hand, the other fisting the skirt of her dress. Aria took Portia’s hand in hers, slid on the glove finger by finger.
