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

Chapter Seventeen - 22. February. 1789

Lizabeth

The dagger is heavy in Lizabeth’s palms. 

She flips it once, fingers brushing over the silver hilt. Its polished blade reflects the pinpricks of stars overhead, and she studies them as she runs a thumb along the weapon’s sharp edge. If she applied a bit more pressure, she could break skin, watch blood drip down her hand and splash onto the snow-soaked dirt. If she plunged the blade into someone’s chest, she could be responsible for their death. 

Has it always been this easy—thinking about death? 

Startling at her own thoughts, Lizabeth releases her grip on the dagger, and it tumbles out of her hand, landing in a patch of brown grass. She takes in a deep breath, squeezing her eyes shut. Though there is no one else in this part of the gardens, she has to be careful. It will be strange enough for her to be spotted out here alone after nightfall, but if she’s spotted alone after nightfall and carrying a dagger? She shakes her head, shoving the thought away. 

One month. That’s how long she has been in Versailles, and how long she has spent asking around for shoddy information on the identity of L’Ange de la Mort. But not anymore. Not only does she have a dagger and vial of arsenic, she is convinced L’Ange de la Mort resides in Versailles. Either that, or he’s a frequent visitor. Which means all her card games and parties and coupes of champagne haven’t been for naught. 

If she’s able to discover who L’Ange de la Mort is, she can get close to him—gain his trust. That way, it will be far simpler to poison him when he least expects it. Or slide a knife across his throat. She glances down at her dagger and frowns. 

She’s had experience handling weapons. Decorative knives her father had lying around the house or guns in the estate’s hunting armory. Things she practiced with on her own, knowing they would never taste another’s flesh. But the dagger in her hand now is different. It’s heavy, glittering, real. Something about holding it—knowing it’s hers to do with whatever she wishes—makes her feel in control in a way she never has before. 

She’s a disappointment to her family. 

But she has a chance to make things right. 

The whole of English society believes her to be cursed. 

But she can gain their admiration and forgiveness.

She killed her brother without meaning to. 

But now she can choose who is next to die. 

She spins around, heel skidding across a patch of frozen ground, and hurls the dagger at a nearby chestnut tree. It whips through the air, silver blade catching the moonlight, and thunks into the tree’s chipped bark. A bubble of laughter builds at the base of Lizabeth’s throat. A sharp bite of anticipation coats her tongue.

All she must do is discover the identity of L’Ange de la Mort, and he’s as good as dead. 

Then, from behind her, she hears footfalls crunching against the gravel pathway. 

Lizabeth rushes to the tree, wraps her fingers around the dagger, and yanks hard. Her sweat-slicked palms slip against the hilt, and she curses, scolding herself for her momentary lapse of attention. She shouldn’t be out here flinging around daggers when she could very well be caught. What was she thinking? 

With a second tug on the weapon, the dagger mercifully comes free. Lizabeth shoves the thing into the pockets tied beneath her yellow skirts, careful not to snag the gown’s delicate stitchery. Then she waits, for an aimless greeting or exclamation of surprise—for the moment she must think of an excuse for being alone in the gardens at night. But a second passes, and another, and nothing happens.