The Consequences of Champagne and Murder

Chapter Six - Wherein My Life Makes Less Sense Than Goats Playing Whist

I wasn’t sure what I’d expected, but it wasn’t for Étienne to look the same as he had the last time I saw him. Part of me thought something might have changed now that he was in the Bastille—perhaps the set of his features or the look behind his eyes. But nothing was different. 

He stood in the corner, his dark hair pulled into its usual groomed queue, wearing the same chartreuse frock coat he had the night of our parents’ party. There wasn’t a single wrinkle, stain, or out of place hair to be found. It was all ridiculous. Perhaps if something had changed, then everything would have made more sense. 

“God, Ollie?” he asked again. “Is that you?”

I ran to my brother and threw my arms around him, much as I had when we were children and he helped stop my nervous attacks. I felt like a child now, clinging to him while I told myself everything would be all right because my older brother was here. He was here. He would figure out what to do and solve all this and we could go back to the way things used to be. 

Étienne returned the hug, tightening his arms around my back. “How are you here, Ollie?” he asked into my shoulder. 

It will be all right now, I repeated to myself, forcing my breaths to remain calm, though a few hysteric gulps still managed to escape into my brother’s satin-covered shoulder. Étienne is here, so everything will be all right. 

But then his arms fell and he pushed me away, saying, “I’m so glad to see you—so glad—but you have to leave.” 

“What?” 

“You shouldn’t be here, Olivier. You have to leave. It isn’t safe.” 

I stared at him, uncertain if I’d heard him correctly. 

“But I came here for you,” I said. “Renée and I had to take aid from Madeleine de Froix and deal with the God-awful prison governor and his spectacularly high breeches. But we both let him so we could help get you released.” 

Étienne looked over at me, dark eyebrows drawn together. “You and Renée wish to have me released? Even after all the trouble I caused?” 

I returned his look with an equally perplexed one of my own. “What do you mean? Of course we do. You’re our brother.” 

“I know. But I’m not really of your blood, and you—” He shook his head and lowered himself onto the stone floors. He tried to keep his expression concealed in the shadows, but I could see his jaw working, opening and closing like he couldn’t decide what to say. Finally, he chose, “You have to leave. I don’t wish for you or Renée to be involved in any of this.” 

“Involved in any of what?” I asked, sitting down next to him, close enough that our knees touched. My voice sounded rough and hoarse, mirroring the exhaustion welling within. “What happened? Why did you confess?”

Étienne rubbed his palms across his breeches, utterly silent. Somewhere in the room, the damp ceiling drip, drip, dripped onto the stone floor. 

“Say something,” I pleaded. “Say it was a mistake and it will be cleared and you’ll be back home soon.” 

He didn’t respond. 

I was used to silence from my brother. He was silent when lost in a book, silent when he sketched birds, silent when he listened to Renée or I talk about our worries and fears. But that was always a calm sort of silence. The kind of silence that slowed my racing heart and made me feel as if there was someone out there who would always care what I had to say. Not the way he was now. Like he wished the unspoken could somehow erase the false accusations of sin buried deep into his bones.