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

Chapter Fourteen - 16. February. 1789

Lizabeth

Lizabeth sidles closer to the damp, stone walls, tugging her hood down over her head. Out on the horizon, a thin line of cobalt intersects the otherwise black sky, signaling the approach of dawn. If she wishes to get this done, she has to be fast, before everyone in the town of Versailles wakes and starts their day.

With one more yank on her hood for good measure, Lizabeth makes her way down the cobblestone streets, keeping her eyes low to the ground. She wore her plainest dress and left her jewels in her rooms, but even so, she can’t risk being seen by a passing palace servant or guard. There aren’t many courtiers living in Versailles with hair the color of sunset, after all. Especially not ones who dare to venture out onto the streets alone before daybreak.

She shivers against the chill, pulling her fur-lined cloak closer to her chest. It hasn’t snowed for a few days, but the temperature has dropped, and now each breath feels like a knife in her lungs. The streets of Versailles are well-manicured, with rows of yew trees lining the roads, their twisting branches covered in a thin layer of ice. But paupers crowd the streets nevertheless, huddled in tight groups around smoldering fires. 

It’s difficult to believe only a few minutes away, the courtiers in Versailles are slumbering warm and full in their beds, caring about nothing but silks and gossip and pastries filled with sweet cream. 

Lizabeth shakes these thoughts away, focusing her attention on the map she has clutched in her chilled hands. Though her mother gave her the map before she left England, Lizabeth didn’t plan to use it, determined to complete the mission without assistance to prove she was truly capable. But that had been a silly wish. 

What will Mother say when she finds out Lizabeth has done nothing but waste her days partying and playing cards in the salons? 

The smell of the butcher’s shop wafts through the streets even before it comes into view. A pungent tang of blood and entrails seeps into Lizabeth’s nose, and she instinctively brings up a laced sleeve to cover her mouth, swallowing back the bile creeping up her throat. A handful of seconds pass, and Lizabeth arrives at the shop at last. It’s a building of faded brick, the ice caked around the perimeter permeated with pinpricks of dried blood. Next to the door, a pile of animal intestines sits discarded, still steaming in the dirty snow. 

Lizabeth pushes open the door and steps into the shop. Even in the early hour, the butcher stands behind the counter, preparing meat for servants to purchase later in the day. He looks up when he hears her come in, pulling out his cleaver from a pig carcass with a sickening squelch. 

“You’re no commoner,” he says without preamble. 

Lizabeth glances down at her unblemished, alabaster hands. Even without her jewels or dyed silks, her upbringing shows plain as day. 

“No,” she responds, “I am not.” 

The butcher frowns, swiping a hand along his jaw. A smudge of crimson is left behind on his wrinkled skin. “And why has a lady of Versailles entered my shop at this hour?” 

Lizabeth takes in a breath, allowing the flood of oxygen to calm her racing nerves. She has to remain composed. She’s the daughter of an earl, after all. It doesn’t matter if her parents think she’s worthless. It doesn’t matter if English society agrees. She can—no, she must—do this. “You know why I’ve come,” she says. 

The butcher turns away, running a hand through his thinning grey hair. He stays in that position for a few moments, lost in thought, before directing his attention back to Lizabeth. “My wife no longer engages in business with the nobility,” he says. “Now if you'll excuse me, I must return to work.”