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

Chapter Eight - 8. February. 1789

Lizabeth

“I had the most delicious dream about Jean de Coligny last night,” Marguerite muses, velvet gloves pressed to her chest. Her porcelain cheeks are tinted with a smattering of pink, but Lizabeth can’t tell if it’s a result of rouge, thoughts about Jean de Coligny, the cold, or all three. 

“You already told me about it this morning.” Sophie frowns. “Besides, I thought you were interested in Lucette de Bombelles.” 

Marguerite sighs. “Yes, months ago. Where has your mind run off to?” 

Sophie shrugs, swiping at a stray brown curl on her forehead.

The wind is relentless today, whipping Lizabeth’s mint cloak back from her dress and seeping into the skin under her bow-trimmed bodice and sable fur muff. It’s hardly the proper weather to be venturing to the gardens for a game of paille-maille, but Marguerite insisted it was the perfect way to escape the thick sense of dread that’s hung over Versailles since the death of Henri de Froix. 

Though Lizabeth would much rather spend her day trying to learn more about de Froix’s killer, saying no to Marguerite’s requests will only cause her to become suspicious. Half of Lizabeth’s mission in Versailles is to blend in, after all, and if that includes running off to the gardens on a day when it would be far more fitting to pass the hours in front of a blazing fire, then so be it. Though she does wish her fingers weren’t so frozen.

“I know I told you I had the dream, dearest Sophie.” Marguerite’s painted lips flick up in the corners. “But did I tell you about where Monsieur de Coligny put his—” 

“Marguerite!” Lizabeth exclaims. “Surely it’s improper to speak of such things!”

Marguerite lifts her grey eyes to the passing clouds, adjusting the pearl hairpin tucked into her updo. Today, her curls are powdered the light blue of robin’s eggs. “Honestly, Liza, if I knew you were going to be so clueless, I wouldn’t have taken pity on you when you first arrived in France.” 

Lizabeth shrinks back, internally cursing herself for yet another mistake. Which, at this point, are becoming more common than whispered bits of gossip during morning chapel services. Yesterday, she’d tried far too hard to make her hair a fashionable white and subsequently spent the afternoon brushing large clumps of powder and mutton tallow off the shoulders of her navy sacque-back gown. And last week, thinking Marguerite was making an elaborate joke, she’d laughed aloud at the prospect of Marie Antionette dressing in the clothes of a farmgirl and tending to pigs and chickens in a makeshift hamlet on the grounds of Versailles. It wasn’t a joke, she learned later. The hamlet is very real, as is the queen’s penchant for playing shepherdess. And poking fun at Her Majesty for it is, evidently, just not done.

But it isn’t as if Lizabeth has spent much time in public, or speaking with girls her age. Her knowledge of proper socialization has been reduced to the few times her older sister had friends over for afternoon tea. The visits never lasted more than a few hours, and even then, Lizabeth was forced to sit in the stairwell and observe in silence—such is the fate of being the daughter that brought ruin to her family. 

“Sorry, Marguerite,” Lizabeth mumbles, keeping her eyes trained on her jeweled shoes as they sink into a fresh coat of glittering snow, “I wasn’t thinking. I—”