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

Chapter Twenty-Three - 5. March. 1789

Lizabeth

For once, the salons are silent. People continue to play cards and gamble, but the tables are quiet. No bursts of laughter, no surprised exclamations, no hum of gossip. 

Only silence.

Lizabeth doesn’t want to be here herself. Though she barely knew Pierre, his death hit something deep inside her, like a sudden stab to the heart. She can’t help but think if it weren’t for her—if it weren’t for her incompetence and cowardice—Pierre would still be alive. She came to Versailles to kill L’Ange de la Mort, and all she’s done thus far is scramble for pieces of useless information while he was off killing someone who did nothing to deserve it.

Her mother was right. She’s worthless. And always will be. 

“Liza, ma choupinette, your roses are green,” Marguerite whispers, inclining her head at Lizabeth’s embroidery.

“What?” Lizabeth asks, her eyes only then falling on where she’d started stitching the outline of the embroidery’s delicate rose petals without changing the colored thread.

Marguerite sets her embroidery on her lap and runs a hand over her hair. Today, it isn’t powdered or decorated, save for a single black ribbon pinned to the base of her neck. Her gown is a modest grey muslin, with a smear of rouge on her sleeve she hasn’t bothered to wipe away from this morning’s memorial service for Pierre, where Sophie had rested her head on Marguerite’s shoulder and sobbed until she was too exhausted to stand.

In the few days following Pierre’s death, Lizabeth had felt like a needed comfort to everyone around her. She let Sophie cry and scream until her voice grew hoarse. She held Marguerite’s hand as they walked across the salons so the girl wouldn’t falter. She whispered sweet words to Gabriel, telling him everything would be all right. 

But today, that sense of comfort had slipped through Lizabeth’s fingers like strands of spun sugar. Instead of joining everyone during the memorial service, she remained at the back of the chapel, feeling nothing more than an unwelcome voyeur. Everyone in Versailles had known Pierre for years. Known his family their entire lives. Lizabeth, on the other hand, is a mere foreigner who came to court at the wrong time. 

And yet, it’s her fault he’s dead. 

But she can’t admit that to anyone. Not to Gabriel, who stood next to Jean the entire service, utterly composed. All but the hand he kept gripped around Jean’s forearm, like he was afraid they would both collapse if he let go. Not to Sophie, who ran off the second the service was finished and hasn’t been seen since. Not to the king, who declared he would discover the identity of L’Ange de la Mort, no matter what it took. 

So, Lizabeth stayed quiet then, and she stays quiet now, watching the sorrow and despair and fear unfold in front of her, powerless to do anything about it. All she does is focus on the stitches in her embroidery so she won’t have to think about how she’s failed everyone. Her mother. Jane. Marguerite. Sophie. Gabriel. 

Herself. 

The needle in Lizabeth’s hand slips, embedding itself in the tip of her finger. “Dammit!” she curses in English as a bead of blood falls from her finger and onto her embroidery. It spreads across the white muslin like a knife wound.