L'Ange de la Mort (The Art of Revolution #1)

Chapter Six - 5. February. 1789

Lizabeth

The gardens are the only place Lizabeth feels the slightest bit free in this stifling gilded cage of a palace. Here, the air is fresh, the skies open and wide. And, the absolute best part of it all is that she can be alone. Though she’s aware the gardens are teeming with courtiers in the warmer months, now most of them stay in the salons during the day, too afraid to venture outside where the grand canal is covered in a thin layer of ice and the flowers still slumber far beneath the frozen ground. 

Lizabeth clutches her mother’s unopened letter close to her chest, scouring the gardens for the best spot to read it in peace. Though she knew the letter was coming, that does nothing to lessen the apprehension weighing heavy on her heart. But she can put off reading it no longer. All stalling will do is confirm Lizabeth is as scared and as useless as her mother always led her to believe she was. So, letter in hand, she walks through the twisting rows of garden hedges, gravel crunching under her heeled shoes, and toward the balustrade overlooking the orangerie. Upon reaching it, she takes in a breath of chilled air and glances down to the Parterre Bas below. 

Tucked in between two grand stone staircases, the orangerie sits—a perfect square interlaced with manicured pathways that loop like calligraphy strokes, trimmed evergreens glittering in the mid-morning sun. The rows upon rows of fruit trees Lizabeth has heard about are nowhere to be seen. Instead, the place is covered in a light dusting of snow, as if angels have swooped down from the heavens to sprinkle the space with powdered sugar. 

Lizabeth moves to make her way down the staircase when the sound of footfalls comes from behind her. She stops and turns, eyes landing on a girl a few years her junior with a mass of hair the color of raven’s feathers, cheeks stained pink from the cold. 

“They’re inside,” the girl says. 

“Pardon?” 

“They’re inside. The fruit trees. That’s what you were looking for, is it not?” 

Lizabeth tucks her mother’s letter into the pocket of her dress, trying her hardest to make her expression appear pleasant. “I was, yes.” 

“They’ll be inside until May.” The girl walks up to her, placing her shoulder near Lizabeth’s as if they’re already close friends. “You’re the new English girl.” 

Lizabeth takes an involuntary step away. It seems she can’t go thirty minutes without someone from the palace gawking at her like she’s a prized peacock in the menagerie. “I am.” 

“I’ve so wished to meet you.” The girl beams. “We rarely have interesting visitors to the palace. At least, never girls close to my age.” 

Though Lizabeth continues to smile, her mouth grows tight, her lips feeling forced up by wires. Hidden away in her pocket, Mother’s letter carries the weight of ten stones. “Then it’s a pleasure to meet you . . . ”

“Anne de la Marche.” 

“Anne de la Marche,” Lizabeth says.

“You met my older brother in the salons a few nights ago.” 

“Did I?” 

Anne frowns. “Well, you were supposed to have met him.” 

“I’ve met many people over the last few weeks,” Lizabeth says. “The names are all beginning to run together in my head. I apologize for not remembering.”