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

Chapter Twelve - 14. February. 1789

Lizabeth

It was a mistake for Lizabeth to assume the salons would be any different. In the days following word of L’Ange de la Mort, the courtiers had been filled with terror. It was all anyone wanted to talk about—the only thing echoing through the corridors. But as the days passed, so did everyone’s interest. Frantic conversations turned to offhanded mentions. Hysterical whispers turned to casual jests. People became bored of their fear.  

Now, Lizabeth is concealed by an outcropping of shadows in the corner. On her left is a dressing screen, embroidered with an image of budding flowers and looping vines. On her right, a red and white marble fireplace. Her ankles are crossed and her hands are folded in her lap, head held high and scanning the crowd. 

Ever since she discovered the guard’s severed fingers in the pile of upturned snow, she’s been convinced L’Ange de la Mort resides in Versailles itself. He must. How else could he have planted the pouch in a place so frequented by courtiers? How else could he have gathered such a substantial amount of information on the nobility’s schedules and locations? 

She breathes out, willing her mind to focus on the salon alone.

The noise is chaotic—bursts of laughter, hums of gossip, the ever-present nip of whispers. A mix of spiced and floral perfume fills the air, tickling at Lizabeth’s nose. Servants carry silver trays of sparkling champagne through the crowds, and the refreshment table is piled high with cakes, fruit pastries, and meat pies. Loose dogs dart between the table legs, barking and growling at each other, while ladies skirts trail along the floor, soaking up spilled wine. At the table closest to hers, a pair of drunk gentlemen are singing Jean-Baptiste Lully opera refrains, loudly and off-key. 

She has to familiarize herself with this chaos, with these people. Otherwise, she’ll never be able to detect when something is amiss. If she concentrates on this—the sights and smells and noise; the way everything is now, in this moment—she’ll be able to—  

“Lizabeth, there you are! I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” 

Lizabeth turns to see Marguerite, frowning at her with one hand placed against her satin-covered waist. She wears a heavy gown of yellow and white stripes, an embroidery of pearl-tipped canaries sewn onto the bodice. Next to Marguerite, Sophie’s gown is less vibrant but equally indulgent, with flounces of crimson silk and golden brocade around the hem and sleeves. Both squeal with delight upon seeing Lizabeth, lace fans flapping in front of their powdered faces. 

“Why did you come to the salons without us?” Marguerite pouts.

Lizabeth shoots a hesitant glance over her shoulder, though it does little to no good. Her concentration has been ruined.

“I was looking for you as well,” Lizabeth lies. “I thought you’d already be here.”

Marguerite takes Lizabeth by the forearm, pulling her close so she can whisper, “No respectable lady ever enters the salons alone. It will make everyone think you have no friends.” 

Lizabeth wishes to tell Marguerite she doesn’t have friends—not really. But then she spots Jean de Coligny coming toward them, hand resting atop the rapier strapped to his waist. Ladies turn their heads to watch him pass, mouths open in greetings that never quite reach their lips. Marguerite, too, tightens her grip on Lizabeth’s arm, finger’s digging into the skin on her wrist. But Lizabeth doesn’t give any care to Jean’s devilish grin, or the gazes of envious ladies shot in her direction. All she cares about is if Jean is near, then that must mean . . .