Gabriel
“You're late.”
Gabriel startles at his mother’s voice, heart thundering in his chest as he closes the apartment door, a fear greater than when he ran from the vicomte’s home washing over him. De Froix’s guards are nothing compared to Maman. “I apologize, Maman.”
Lying on a silk chaise on the other side of the antechamber, Anne lowers the thick novel hovering over her head. “You should have seen Maman, pacing the room with so much vigor, I was convinced she would wear a hole in the carpet. I assured her you would be back in time for the Grand Couvert, but no one ever believes me.”
“I apologize,” Gabriel says again. “I was assisting Jean with his wardrobe. I wasn’t aware of how long it would take.”
Anne places the book to her chest, craning her head over the edge of the chaise. “Jean has servants for that, does he not?”
“Anne, posture,” their mother chides. Then to Gabriel she says, “And you didn’t think to inform your father or me of your plans so we weren’t left here waiting for your return?”
Mumbling out another apology will do him no good, so instead Gabriel lowers his head and shuffles in the direction of the bedchamber, where the servants can dress him in peace.
The antechamber is bright, a fresh set of candles flickering orange light onto the crystal ornaments dangling from the gilt-bronze chandelier. In the marble fireplace across the room, a fire blazes, the air from the flames dry and hot, a welcome reprieve to the frozen wind outside. Everything smells faintly of smoke and his mother’s lavender perfume.
He manages to take a total of three steps down the corridor before his mother calls out, “Gabriel, your clothes.”
He freezes, one foot hovering above the Savonnerie rug. His mind goes into an instantaneous frenzy, flitting over the happenings of the past hour. He washed the blood off his hands and arms in a near frozen stream on the outskirts of Versailles, scrubbing at them until the cold sucked the feeling straight from his skin like a ravenous leech.
But it’s possible he missed something—a stray leaf or twig stuck in the lace on his sleeve, or a splatter of blood against his white stockings. It’s been four years since he began working for Baptiste, and he’s yet to be caught. But all it will take is a single mistake to expose everything he’s done, and all the lives he’s ended with a well-aimed shot to the head.
But all Mother says is, “Shall I fetch the servants to have you dressed?”
When Gabriel looks back at his mother, she’s staring at him, one hand clasped over the sapphire pendant dangling from her neck, the last gift Henriette ever gave her. His mother has aged gracefully, raven curls streaked with grey and a network of fine wrinkles branching out from her eyes—memories left over from the days of carefree laughter. The days before her eldest child went missing, and her son transformed from a soft-natured boy into a man of secrets, lies, and a frown that has greatly overstayed its welcome.
“Yes, thank you, Maman,” Gabriel says.
Five steps down the hall and he’ll arrive at his bedchamber. Five more and he’ll reach the box he keeps stashed in a hidden compartment of his desk, with its mahogany wood and heavy silver lock—left open and waiting for his pistol.
But he remains frozen with fear in the corridor, breaths escaping his lips in panicked bursts.
As soon as he turns away, his mother will see the bulge of the pistol beneath his frock coat, or catch the firelight glinting off the sweat at the nape of his neck. She’ll find out her son is a liar.
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L'Ange de la Mort (The Art of Revolution #1)
Historical Fiction{Wattys 2018 Winner - The Contemporaries} Versailles, France 1789: Where the only things more prevalent than opulence and wealth, are secrets. At the dawn of the French Revolution, Paris is divided. In the glittering palace of Versailles, courtiers...
