One for All, page 26
“We shouldn’t have done that,” I said, voice faltering as I disentangled myself. I ghosted my fingers across my lips.
If someone saw us, the entirety of the Parisian elite would know by the time they returned to their carriages. And what would that mean for me? Surely a girl already accounted for, a girl seen kissing a man, would be of no use to the Order. No other targets would want me. Or worse—they would want me, in ways that I wouldn’t ever let happen.
I looked up at Étienne’s face, at the sharp line of his jaw, at his slightly crooked nose. At his curved lips that were just kissing mine. “I’m sorry to disappoint,” he said. “I for one thought it was fantastic.”
“Étienne, I—”
“Tania.” He dragged his thumb across my cheek. “I’m teasing. You asked me to make my intentions known, so I am.”
Months of training had readied me to seduce targets, to uncover secrets, to duel enemies until I was standing above them, triumphant. But none of it could have prepared me for this. Someone who wanted me. Someone who I wanted in return.
No matter how many times I told myself Étienne didn’t mean anything to me, couldn’t mean anything to me, that didn’t make it true. Aria was right. Yes, he was kind. Yes, he knew I was different and still wanted to kiss me in the starlight.
I had feelings for him, but that didn’t matter. Because I chose the Musketeers—I chose myself. The girls cared and I trusted them. I trusted myself. They thought I was enough. I thought I was enough.
Now: blink back tears, square my shoulders. I was a Musketeer. And a Musketeer did not run from anything or anyone. “Kissing someone hardly reveals your intentions for them.” There. I’d found her again. Tania, Mademoiselle la Mousquetaire—or at least, enough of a glimmer of her to bolster me through this with my heart intact.
“You think that doesn’t reveal my intentions?” he asked. “At first, I was intrigued by your abrupt arrival in Paris, the girl in scarlet who stole everyone’s breath. But that changed as soon as you opened your lips. You’re more than that, Tania, so much more. I don’t have any ulterior motives when it comes to you. How could I, when you are who you are?”
“Truly?”
“Let me prove it. Ask me whatever you wish.”
He stared at me, guileless, gripping my hands in his and gazing at me like I was the only one he would ever—could ever—want. Is your father plotting to kill the King? Did he have a hand in Papa’s murder? Has he forced you to become a part of the plot? What do you know? What do you know what do you know what do you know?
“You didn’t want to tell me about your family before. So tell me now.”
He seemed perplexed but took it in stride. “A strange request, but anything for you. What do you wish to know?”
I needed to be careful. Craft my questions with the precision of a sharpened blade. Something that would give me evidence, or lead me to evidence, that directly connected his father with the plot to kill the King. “What are your parents like?”
“We’ve never been particularly close.”
“But you left Paris the other afternoon at your mother’s request?”
“Since I finished schooling she’s wanted me at the estate more. But that’s born from her worry that I won’t live up to expectations more than any real desire to see me.”
Maman, an explosion of fury. “For once would you do what I say!” My failure etched into the lines in her face.
Oh, Étienne. I wanted to tell him he wasn’t alone, that I knew the burden of being a disappointment, the deep, near-painful yearning to prove worthiness to the person who bore you into the world. But his mother wasn’t who I was after.
“That must be difficult,” I responded cautiously. “And your father?”
“It’s like I told you: We’ve never seen eye to eye.” No matter how meticulous his word choice, his emotions flashed venom across his face.
I observed him in perfectly arranged confusion. “Really?”
“He has his own ideas on how best to serve the country. Foolish, foolish ideas. You’re sure you’re not cold?” he added as a shiver ran through me.
I leaned closer to him for warmth. “You’re different from your father, then?”
Étienne let out a whoosh of a breath. “Very.”
“How so?”
“You’re asking a lot of questions about him.”
My smile froze. “I’m just interested about where you come from. About your family.”
“You mentioned my father the first time we met,” he said.
“My home is not far from Bordeaux, so I’d heard of your family before. It’s a wonder we never encountered each other.”
“My parents shipped me off to school when I was ten. My mother visited for the holidays, but my father never did. He didn’t want me home; he thought I needed to be tougher, and that traveling home would defeat the purpose of school in the first place, make me weak.”
And the thread unwound: his father’s insistence on solitude, a period of time when he could do whatever work he pleased without fear of interruption. Like balancing ledgers … or planning a King’s assassination. Perhaps this had been in the works before La Fronde. Maybe he stayed neutral during the scourge, lying in wait for the opportune moment. I just needed Étienne to keep talking. For him to let further information slip. Could I ask him where his father was, right now? Or would that be too much of a giveaway?
His hand found mine. “It’s a shame I wasn’t at home more—perhaps we would have met sooner. In the countryside. In the sunlight.” He toyed with one of my curls. “It was overcast that day.” I blinked in confusion. “At the university. It was overcast. I’ve never seen your hair in the sunlight—in candlelight, yes, but it’s not the same.”
He leaned in again. A muffled crash shrieked across the empty balcony, and I jerked toward the noise.
“Someone must’ve dropped a glass.” Étienne’s fingers found my chin, pressed gently until I turned my face to his. “We should return to the party before we’re missed. I’ll call on you Monday afternoon; I know I promised no more interruptions, but whatever you need to say, tell me then … we won’t have to hide anymore.”
I’d asked him to reveal his intentions—but I had never let myself believe they were honorable. The very thought of him entering the Order’s headquarters shot ice through my veins, colder than any Parisian winter. None of it could happen. Not the courting, not the kissing. None of it.
But what if it could save the King’s life?
He placed a lingering kiss on my forehead. Grinned at the blush he thought was for him, unaware of the guilt that had its fingers around my throat. Papa’s face flooded into my mind, covered in blood. I nearly retched.
After we wound back through the columns, Étienne kissed my hand. Then he walked around the corner and disappeared from sight. I shivered, finally aware of the bitter cold leeching under my gown.
“I can’t care about you,” I tried out, resting the words on the cutting night air. They twisted into rings of smoke, dissolved into the darkness, and became part of the endless Parisian sky. At the next gust of wind, I shook my head. Waiting here until I froze was the last thing a Musketeer would do. So, I returned to the warmth.
As I passed over the threshold, I could’ve sworn a fragment of pale yellow fabric fluttered around the corner, near the balcony. I blinked, and it was gone. A trick of the light.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
SURELY, THE OTHERS would see it in my face, would see the echo of it on my lips—the betrayal of my father, of my new sisters, of our mentor.
And yet the world continued on. The party guests danced and drank and laughed until they were red in the face, the same shade as their painted mouths and cheeks.
“Where have you been?” Madame de Treville surprised me at the edge of the ballroom. Was my hair mussed? Makeup smudged? “Well, that’s no matter now. Portia told me everything.”
“She did?” I squeaked.
“Yes…,” she said, lowering her voice, “about your observation of a particular accessoire? And the writing on it?” I gaped at her. “Did you speak to Verdon? Did our plan work?”
“Yes,” I breathed out. There was no time to explain before I was shepherded into the carriage.
Our mentor waited for the groomsman to close the door and the steady clop of hooves before she spoke. “Portia’s already informed me you saw the Comtesse de Gramont with the man from the docks.”
I recounted their conversation: the Comtesse’s odd interest in why the man’s wife hadn’t attended her party, their weighted language, how she’d brought a gift to a ball, of all places. “There was writing on the fan. Hidden between the ribs. It shimmered a bit, too, like it was made of metal.”
“Probably to ensure the writing doesn’t fade. Perhaps it’s a letter? It has to be the same as the one she had custom made, non?” Portia wondered.
“Maybe…” I stopped, then continued on. “Maybe it’s connected to the coded message I found?”
For the first time in weeks, Madame de Treville looked like she wasn’t shouldering the weight of all of Paris. The strain was still there in the hold of her neck, the furrows of her brow. But hope alleviated the worst of it. “I think it’s time we paid the éventailliste a visit. Well done, Tania.” Her voice was so full of pride that I wanted to melt into the seat cushions. I didn’t deserve it, not when I’d been kissing my target less than an hour ago.
She could never know. Not if I wanted to discover the truth about what truly happened to Papa. And she wouldn’t have to know—it wouldn’t happen again. It could never happen again.
“You and Portia will question the éventailliste tomorrow.”
Portia’s eyes were brilliantly bright; her smile nearly glowed in the carriage’s dim interior. “We won’t let you down, Madame.”
In the corner of my vision, I watched Aria lean forward, as if unaware of the motion. And then, a thud. “Sorry,” Aria muttered, retrieving her own fan from the floor, body halfway off the seat and cheeks uncharacteristically pink. “I lost my balance.”
“Now, the next matter at hand—what did Verdon say?” Madame de Treville asked.
The carriage was already small; now it felt minuscule. “His father spends a great deal of time at home without family present. If Verdon senior wanted time to plan, to discuss the plot with other local nobles, or even host exiled persons, he had the opportunity … but this started well before La Fronde.”
“Did he reveal anything else?”
“He only reinforced that he and his father are very different men.”
“And?” Madame de Treville said. “How did you leave things?”
“He wants to call on Monday.”
Théa let out a little gasp. Portia grinned. Aria remained motionless.
Madame de Treville furrowed her brow. “Now this presents an interesting dilemma.”
“How so?” Théa yawned her words, trying not to fall asleep. “Tania was supposed to make him fall for her, and she did! Look at all the information she’s found for us!”
“Information that means nothing without verbal confirmation. If we’re wrong, if Verdon isn’t the leader, we’ll risk everything we’ve worked for.” Each of Madame de Treville’s words was an executioner’s noose that tightened around my neck. Traitor. Traitor. Traitor.
I fisted my hands in the skirts of my dress to hide my trembling fingers. “It’s difficult … he’s difficult.”
Madame de Treville grimaced. “That one’s as slippery as an eel. If I thought we could get away with having you call on him, I’d send you over there in a heartbeat. Propriety: what an unfortunate hindrance to assassination investigations.
“We have our work cut out for us. Tomorrow Portia and Tania will question the fan maker. Aria, Théa, you’ll accompany me. One Madame has wanted to meet my pupils for a while now, and since she’s a friend of the Comtesse’s, I think it’s high time she does. If Tania gets the information we need on Monday, we might even have a few days to spare. Especially if that cryptography book of Henri’s is as useful as it purports to be.”
Aria tensed against the corner she’d burrowed herself into—that is, as much as one could wearing a gown.
The lull of the carriage’s sway was deep in my bones. My limbs ached like we’d spent another night escaping the docks.
“It’ll be over soon,” I said to Aria, who was watching me. Her disbelief of Henri’s loyalty. The fear that, because of our inability to confirm the plot’s leader, a horrible fate would befall the King, that innocents would be blamed and their blood shed, while the nobles reaped the reward of an empty throne. When we saved the King, we’d have leverage. He’d owe his life to a girl from La Cour. That had to mean something: Surely Mazarin and the rest of the royals would pay dearly to keep it from getting out that we accomplished what the other Musketeers couldn’t? We could leverage that into something greater, something that could help future women in the Musketeers, like Portia wanted, but also help La Cour. Maybe even girls like me.
Soon, the man who killed Papa would be locked away in the Bastille.
Aria’s exhale drew me back to earth. “Yes,” she said. “It’ll all be over soon.”
* * *
Portia yanked me to her as a cart trundled past us on the busy street.
“I don’t see why the carriage couldn’t let us off in front of the shop.”
She sighed theatrically as she avoided a steaming pile of horse droppings, twirling in a wide circle so her shoes met worn stone instead of dung. “What would we do if customers were inside? Even the most oblivious Parisian would notice a carriage loitering outside a shop with its riders peeking through the curtains. Remember, Tania: spies!” she whispered, her fingers spread like stars.
Once we reached the storefront and determined the shop was empty, I followed the swing of Portia’s skirts as we entered to bells jingling.
“Un moment, s’il vous plaît!” A voice carried from behind the register. My gaze roamed around the store, halting as Portia rearranged the front of her dress, her cleavage spilling out of her bodice. I rolled my eyes, but she looped her arm through mine and pinched the inside of my elbow.
The store, while small, was the finest shop I’d ever been in, with its wood paneling and framed fans on the walls. No price guide to be found, but then, that was common with la noblesse. Money did not matter the way it should, and to have reference to it, out in the open, would be seen as uncivilized. To think: The money spent on such fragile things, paper light and delicate as feathers, easily ripped and ruined, could feed a family for weeks. Months, even.
A man emerged from what looked to be a storage room. “Bonjour, Mesdemoiselles—” His words cut off as he traveled the length of our bodies. He scrambled to put the material clasped in his arms on the counter. “How may I help you? I assure you, my shop has the finest fans in all of Paris. Whatever you search for, you will find it here.”
“Oh, we are well aware of your reputation,” Portia demurred, trailing her fingers along the edge of the counter that separated them.
“My lady is too kind. Is there anything in particular she desires?” But his gaze wasn’t focused on Portia. It was focused on me. Even more so when Portia pushed me forward.
“One moment, please! I must discuss my … fan-ly desires with my sister,” I blundered, pulling Portia away. “What was that? I thought you were running lead?” I whispered. The man, confused, stared at us as he rearranged scraps of fabric on the countertop.
“Apparently he’s not a breast man. Such a shame.” She glanced down at her exposed cleavage and sighed. “You look wonderful today; it’s that mean man’s fault. Even you, Péronelle.” She tapped her left breast with a fond sigh.
“You named them?”
“You haven’t? I’ll have you know that Péronelle earned her name. Little stone indeed. Do you know how difficult it is to get a dress lacing right when one breast is noticeably smaller than the other? And Péronelle is very sensitive to chafing. Padding is out of the question.”
“I just … I…”
Portia took the opportunity to push me back to the countertop. “Go on! Time to fly, Tania!”
I clunked into the furniture. The man looked up, his whole face brightening. “Mademoiselle. You’re back!”
I flashed him my most dazzling smile. His fingers tightened on the countertop, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed once, twice. “I heard from a particular Comtesse that you created exquisite designs for her.”
“A unique circumstance. We went through many personal consultations—I wanted to be sure I gave her exactly what she wanted.”
Oh, pour l’amour du ciel. For the love of God. But I didn’t escape through the door—instead I let my hand rest mere inches away from his on the countertop.
“Perhaps we too can come to an arrangement. Though I’d like to see what I’m paying for first.”
The man extracted a fan from one of the displays. “This is too simple,” I said, frowning at him. “Nothing like what the Comtesse has. I don’t want to be thought unfashionable.”
“Of course not, Mademoiselle! The Comtesse’s fans were couture, made specially for her. This is the base design.”
“What was so special about them?” I breathed.
“W-Well…,” he stammered, patting his forehead with a handkerchief and pulling his eyes away from the length of my neck, the span of my collarbones, “she had me inscribe a poem between the ribs. I did the calligraphy myself. Nothing too ostentatious, but it turned out beautifully, if I do say so myself.”
“What kind of poem? A love poem, perhaps?”
“A lullaby her mother sang to her when she was a child. I copied it as requested, but she still read it over three times before she deemed me—I mean my work—satisfactory.”
I forced down bile. Replaced my innocent smile with a coy smirk I’d been practicing for months. “Do you remember the lyrics? I’ve been told I have a wonderful voice.”
* * *
“We did it! Or, really, Tania did!” Portia crowed, waving her own fan in the air as she skipped through the front door.
