One for All, page 30
“Aria and I were speaking earlier today about the possibility of an internal leak. You mentioned missing papers, Madame.” I neglected any mention of the thief.
Aria mouthed “Thank you” to me.
Madame de Treville gaped at us. “Oh, mon Dieu. And you two thought it was Henri?”
A gasp—as if someone had been punched in the stomach. I looked up to see Henri’s gaze locked on mine, brows broken, paper slipping from his hands.
Madame de Treville’s brows furrowed. “Aria, we don’t—”
“Non, Tante.” I hardly believed it. But there was Henri. Standing tall, shoulders straight, golden-brown eyes latched onto Aria. His fingers were still trembling, though. “I know I can’t fence and I’m not a Musketeer like the rest of you … but I have my own strengths. I want to help—the last thing I’d want is to harm any of you. Or to anger my aunt,” he added, with a fearful glance toward Madame de Treville. “I think helping organize a power grab would be grounds for my expulsion from the house. And then Aunt would write to my mother.”
“You’re damn right I would,” Madame de Treville muttered.
“We know that, Henri,” Théa said, glaring at Aria and elbowing Portia in her side. “Don’t we, Portia? He wants to help, not hurt. We know that, right?”
Portia startled. “Oh, for the love of—that’s not fair!” Théa tapped her foot. “Fine,” Portia grumbled. “Perhaps I’ve been a little hard on you, Henri.”
“Portia,” Théa said, frowning.
“So help me that is as much as I am going to give you! Ask Tania if you want maudlin declarations.”
I swallowed, my eyes not leaving Henri’s. “We believe you. I believe you.”
Henri looked at me, and the room went very warm. Madame de Treville stepped forward, as if to touch his cheek. But she never raised her hand. Just cleared her throat. “Henri, are you sure about this? Are you absolutely sure?”
He nodded. “I can go through my entire research process, step-by-step! It all started over two thousand years ago in Sparta; they developed these wonderful instruments called scytales—”
“Might I remind everyone that while we stand here arguing, power-hungry nobles are plotting the demise of the country?” Portia announced. “With the way Théa has us blathering on, we’ll be finished decoding the message at the King’s funeral.”
All the flush leached from Henri’s face. “That won’t be necessary! I’ve already started decoding, see? You have to verify the pattern with the original document—but I’ve made progress!”
I leaned forward to examine the paper. M.
“That’s it?” Madame de Treville asked in horror. “That’s all? One measly letter?” She collapsed into a chair. “Théa, ready the tea. It’s going to be a long night.”
* * *
Half-drained teacups littered all surfaces of the library. The dark was on the brink of shifting the sky, a crack in the night, a brief morning haze creeping at the horizon. Papa loved this time. I’d hear him through the walls, huffing about, pulling on his shoes for his early trek to the barn to groom Beau and then practice footwork he knew I couldn’t do. That way I wouldn’t have to sit and watch him perform actions I was too dizzy to try. Or at least, that’s what I’d thought then. I might never be able to perform a flunge. But now … now I could do so much more.
I reached blearily for another sheet of paper, hand bumping into a saucer. Théa snored until Portia flicked her ear. She cackled when Théa woke with murder in her face.
Henri had offered to procure more of that dark drink he’d brought us over a month ago, but Madame de Treville insisted he stay. A good thing, too, and not only because the prospect of Théa bouncing off the walls might be more terrifying than facing down a hundred armed nobles—the hours wheedled by and still all of us worked, candlelight throwing shadows onto the walls, the fire ebbing till one of us rose to stoke the embers.
We each had a copy of the message and our own assigned section. Maybe if we were well versed in code breaking, we’d be finished already. But we were forced to spend time rechecking for missed letters, meaningless words.
I held up what we’d managed so far to my tired eyes. I’d slept for a few hours, knowing how important it was that I wasn’t falling asleep as well as dizzy during the festival, but my sleep was restless. Dreams of Papa kept me near the surface.
Messieurs,
Rendez-vous du quartier général. Demandez au patron.
Instructing others to meet at “headquarters” wasn’t actionable material. And it wasn’t clear if patron meant “boss” or “man of the house.” Context would be key. If we ever acquired any.
There was no time to be caught up in frustration. And yet, every moment brought the looming knowledge that perhaps by this time tomorrow, I would know the identity of my father’s killer. The anger, the fury, all of it fueling me … and I’d finally be forced to reckon with it.
“Zut alors!” Henri cried. Ink flooded over a fresh ream of paper, knocked over by his elbow. Madame de Treville and Aria rushed for towels. Henri strained, beet red. “Please excuse my unconscionable language—”
“I think,” said Portia, “we’ve reached the point where you can curse in front of us without fear of damaging our fragile female sensibilities.”
“Now, then,” Madame de Treville said, once everything was cleaned and we were seated again. “Théa, what do you have?”
I tried to catch Henri’s eye, but he was lost in his notes. When he finally looked up, he saw me staring at him and a hint of a smile passed across his face. Relief washed through me. After those months of mistrust and worry, after his declaration and the way he looked at me when I said I believed him, the air between us felt different, somehow. Closer to when we first met, but slightly altered, like one changed note in a piece of music.
“I’m not sure it makes sense,” Théa said. “Vous trouverez notre camara de régimend?”
“Here, let me see.” Portia took the paper, scanned it, gaze stuttering every so often over an underlined letter, an errant comma. She started scratching at the paper with a piece of charcoal.
“Wait! What are you—”
“You missed a few letters. It’s not camara, it’s camarades.” With a final flourish, Portia straightened. “Vous trouverez nos camarades de régiment.”
“How did you do that so quickly?” Théa asked in awe as she went back through her notes.
“I didn’t. You missed some letters, so I considered the possible words that could be completed, and selected the only ones that made sense. You will find your fellow servicemen.”
“You’re brilliant, you know that?” Portia flushed at Aria’s murmured compliment.
I looked to the window, to the sky glowing with painted purple cinders, the orange rising sun. In the palace, the King was still asleep. A wave of anger crested, pulsed. If only he had canceled the festival. If only he were more King than boy.
“I’ll be there to meet you.”
We hushed at Henri’s words. “What was that?” I said.
He fumbled with his papers. “That’s the next line, the one I just finished. Je serai là pour vous rencontrer. But who is I?”
“It’s probably at the end of the message,” Aria said. “A way for the reader to be sure it’s from a verified source. Since there’s a cipher, they wouldn’t expect anyone other than their intended recipients to be able to decode the name.”
“Well, whoever je is, they must be the leader, non?” Théa piped up. “No one else would have the authority to make such plans.” She yawned, extended her arms wide, fingers outstretched.
I turned to Henri, anticipation in my throat. “Is there much left? To the message?”
“I don’t think so.” He squinted at the harsh light, blinked. “Oh, morning already?”
Madame de Treville glanced to the window, her face flooded in light. “Quick, change into the gowns I brought down to the parlor. And although I sincerely hope this reminder isn’t necessary, try not to forget your swords.”
“But, Madame—” Théa started.
“The King won’t make an appearance at the procession, but it’s chaotic and packed and the perfect place to distribute weapons to other nobles without spectators taking note.”
In the haze of tea and codes, there was no time to admire the extravagant festival gowns, the jewels, the matching slippers. We all helped one another: Portia drew up my hair while I sorted through gemstones that Théa then dropped from our earlobes. Aria found the correct shoes and placed them at our feet.
“Venez, Mesdemoiselles!” Madame de Treville’s voice echoed down the hall, under the door. “Venez! Come! You need time to scout the perimeter before the noon rush.” Aria burst through, me at her heels, Portia and Théa not far behind. Madame de Treville fastened the clasp of her silvery cloak, pulled on her gloves with a snap of leather. “We’ll finish on the way. Henri, get your things.”
Through the open library door, Henri’s expression grew wide, hopeful, his arms full of papers. “I’m … I’m coming with you?”
“You want to be part of the Order? Don’t slow us down,” she retorted, yanking open the front door and exposing us to a wintery blast of air. “Another set of eyes won’t hurt.”
There was a moment’s pause, and then everything was a flurry of gowns and dueling swords and whispered prayers. Someone gripped my hand, fingers lacing through mine like the ribbons of a corset, tight. I squeezed back without knowing who, because it didn’t matter. We were together; we were one. And soon, I would finally know the truth.
* * *
I winced at every bump, every pause of the horses.
Le Marais was home to la noblesse, many of whom wouldn’t attend an event as common as a street procession. But a few servants were out and about, off work for the day, ribbons in their hair and a bounce in their step. Once we left the neighborhood, made our way to the heart of the celebration, the roads bristled with festival goers. Cramped market stalls housed vendors selling winter fruits and ladling steaming thick brown liquid—chocolat chaud—to customers bundled in cloaks. And then, the screaming children looping around carriage wheels, adorned with faux tinsel crafted from loose thread and masks that resembled animals and mythical beasts. Some painted wood, others sculpted from feathers. Mothers and fathers looked on, or didn’t look on, cupping flagons of mulled wine, laughs frosty in the air. In the darkened corners, a few eyes peeked out, a few smudged hands. Hungry children. Hopeful children.
These were the people we needed to protect. These were the people who would suffer if nobles used bloodshed to replace one King’s rule with another.
“These other conspirators. The ones who weren’t already in Paris for the season … if they’re all staying in one place, how are they managing to keep a low profile?” Aria asked.
“The message on the King’s mirror did mention the solstice. Theoretically, everyone could show up on different days as long as they arrived before that deadline. They could easily pass themselves off as visitors to the city, or merchants here to examine goods. Or participants in the festival,” Portia added.
“Henri, how much longer?” Madame de Treville gritted out. “We’re getting close. We’ll run into the procession.”
He reached for his bag, presumably for another piece of charcoal, his hands stained black gray, but it was out of reach. Portia grabbed it, riffled through the contents.
She retrieved a charcoal, and with it, a small unbound stack of papers. “What’s this?”
“My personal sketches—wait!” Henri cried out as Portia flipped through them eagerly.
“Tania, here’s one of you! How sweet—look, you’re in the gown from your first ball! Didn’t I tell you it was divine?”
For all the times I’d seen him blush, I’d never seen Henri so embarrassed as he was at this very moment. It was just a sketch—like the sunset on the Seine, like the doves in flight. And I wanted to look at the paper Portia was gesturing to. I wanted to know how Henri saw me. But I couldn’t tear my eyes away from his flushed face.
Madame de Treville took the papers right from Portia’s fingers. “Focus! The cipher is what’s important, not Henri’s artistic abilities.” She nodded to Henri, who returned to the code, scratching away, the tips of his ears pink and surrounded by curls.
“We’re almost there,” I warned from my spot at the window.
Madame de Treville rapped on the ceiling; we’d make the rest of our way by foot. Portia grabbed my arm to prevent me from falling into the street headfirst through the window opening as the driver screeched to a halt. First out of the carriage, her nose wrinkled as she avoided an unidentifiable pile of sludge. Aria was next, then Théa. They were waiting for me, but I couldn’t move. I was rooted to the seat by Papa’s voice.
Tania. Tania. Tania.
Back to that night. Back to the windows like eyes, Papa’s voice, following, the sound of the fence and my heart crunching underfoot.
“Tania.” A hand on my shoulder. Madame de Treville glanced from me, to Henri marking up the page with charcoal, and back to me again. “Whatever happens, this won’t be the end. We’ll find out whoever killed—”
“I have it,” Henri announced.
I reached out to him, hands shaking. Held the paper close to my face.
Two lines. The first, a parting. Sincèrement. As if it were only a letter. As if I were writing to Maman.
And there was the second. A name.
Verdon.
CHAPTER THIRTY
“IT’S HIM.” I thrust the paper at Madame de Treville. “It has to be. The man who killed my father.”
Tania. Tania. Tania.
The truth of it hummed in my bones. I’d already known, hadn’t I? But the name on the paper, that was real. The confirmation the Order had needed all along: Verdon was the mastermind behind the plot. And now, now we could arrest him. Save the King. And … and I would finally learn the truth. Would finally know if he was responsible for taking Papa from me. Now that the moment was so close, the anger I thought I’d tamped down flared in my chest; it had morphed into something disciplined and wieldable like a sword. Verdon. Verdon had killed Papa. It was his fault Papa was gone.
Madame de Treville’s eyes darted to the paper, to my face, to the trio standing outside the carriage. “We’ll have Musketeers sent to Verdon’s Paris residence, as well as the residences of the Comte de Monluc, the Gramonts, everyone implicated. All at once, so they can’t let the others know what’s coming. I’ll try to get hold of Brandon in time for him and his men to make the arrests before the festival gets too far underway. The streets will be packed.”
“And if Verdon senior isn’t there? What if he decided at the last minute to go home, to be with his wife and son?” Portia questioned. I’d wondered this, too … but my mind was full of Papa. Of Maman’s broken face. Of Monsieur Allard and the maréchaussée, how they’d looked at me like I was a little girl, just some little girl with anger that didn’t belong in such a breakable body.
“As I’ve told you before, he’ll be skulking about the city, lying in wait to take full advantage of the chaos. But I’ll have Mazarin send the Musketeers’ two fastest riders in that direction. I’ll make sure they’re heavily armed, too. And stay safe,” she reminded us. “I don’t know if they have any other tricks planned.” She made to close the carriage door but stopped when I latched onto her arm. I needed to go with her. I needed to be the one to deliver Verdon’s fate. See the look in his eyes as he recognized the echoes of my father’s face in mine. And yet, that didn’t feel like enough. He hadn’t spared Papa’s life. I imagined Verdon, how he must’ve stood over Papa as he bled into the unforgiving night. I wanted … no. It didn’t matter what I wanted. I was a Musketeer. Not some executioner. And I was needed here. I stepped back. Stepped back into the line of my sisters in arms, who radiated heat, strength.
For the first time since learning of the kiss, Madame de Treville smiled at me. Or, at least, her version of a smile. “Your father would be proud.”
* * *
“Cheer up, Tania. Try some of, well, whatever this is.” Portia thrust a sticky, bun-shaped pastry at me. “For someone who saved France, you sure are frowning a lot.”
“We didn’t save France. We stopped the King from being assassinated,” Aria said. “Technically, we haven’t even done that. Not yet, at least.”
We staked out the perimeter of the festival center once Madame de Treville and Henri left. We listened as traveling performers sang of the glory of France. Watched the throngs of people cluster, disperse, cluster again. Children accompanied by their parents begged for livres to buy sweets.
“That very well may be, but if you think I’m going to say that in front of Mazarin or, truly, anyone affiliated with the King, you’re mistaken. We have to be better than them for even a chance at being considered true Musketeers. And if I don’t start practicing now, who knows what I’ll blurt out when we meet him? Probably something about how he should be prostrating himself before us.” Portia grunted as yet another person jostled into her. “Maybe you have the right idea, Tania. It’s starting to get miserable here.”
Aria, the tallest of us, searched for a spot of refuge, but even she had to stand on tiptoe. “The entire bank is packed,” she sighed as she settled down on her feet.
My stomach churned. I returned the half-eaten sticky bun to Portia, who grimaced. “Come, now,” she said. “It’s over. At this very moment Musketeers are swarming Verdon’s residence and taking him out in chains! The only downside is we’re not there to jeer and throw rotten vegetables.”
I swallowed. When would Étienne hear the news? Would he be at his mother’s bedside when he received word his father was arrested? Could his mother handle such a shock?
