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

Chapter Twenty-Five - 5. March. 1789

Lizabeth

Cowering in a dark corner is no practice for a killer. But Lizabeth does it anyway, knees pulled up to her chest and face buried in her cerulean skirts. The day had been warm enough, but the heat disappeared with the last glimmers of sunset, and now an all too familiar winter draft nips and tears at her skin. She draws herself into a ball, thirsting for any warmth her body has left. But she doesn't move. She doesn't return to the salons. She doesn't retreat to her room and the promise of a blazing fire.

Because in this corner, tucked in the stone archway between Versailles' black and white marble courtyard, Lizabeth can allow herself to make peace with who she truly is: Imposter. Killer. Cursed. Scared.

God, she's so scared.

Not of killing itself, but of how easy it had been. Of how one moment, the boy was thrashing about in an attempt to escape, and the next, he was gone. Of how Lizabeth seems to have been put on this world for destruction, for pain-for death.

Why else would the boy have died so easily? Why else would she be responsible for the despair that ruined her family, and the despair now sweeping across Versailles? She never meant to be the cause of her brother's death, but she was. She never meant to poison the boy, but she did.

Perhaps the reason her mother never loved her was because she always knew. Always knew Lizabeth was destined to carry out death. Always knew one day Lizabeth would learn about the cool kiss of weapons in her palm. The rich warmth of blood on her skin. The seductive rush of control in her veins.

And she would never be able to stop.

A whoop of laughter crashes through Lizabeth's thoughts. She lifts her head, wiping a hand across her eyes. Her tears dried hours ago, but her skin is still sticky with salt. The laughter comes again, and she looks to the other side of the stone archway, where a group of girls walk, arms linked and fans fluttering, jewel-toned gowns flashing in the firelight. They pass by without so much as a glance to Lizabeth, too caught up in their own world to pay heed to the killer hidden in the shadows.

At least she thinks she's hidden, until a few moments after the girls have disappeared, a voice calls out, "Lizabeth?"

A voice belonging to someone whose lips she felt against hers days before. A voice belonging to someone she both yearns to see with every fiber of her being-and someone she never wishes to see again.

But she can't run now, for Gabriel de la Marche is standing across the archway. And he's staring straight at her.

"Monsieur de la Marche!" Lizabeth shoots up, smoothing out the creases in her gown and shoving loose strands of hair behind her ears. She's been in the same position for hours, back bent at an odd angle, head smashed against her knees, cheeks soaked with tears. She doesn't want to imagine what she looks like now. Especially not when Gabriel is so . . .

She glances at him again, heart catching in her throat. Lizabeth thought Gabriel was beautiful the first time she saw him, but he's even more beautiful now. He stands underneath a hanging lantern, firelight bringing out the gold in his caramel hair, the rosy undertones in his skin, and the contrast in his two-toned eye. Unlike Lizabeth, his clothes are pressed and tidy: a cream frock coat trimmed in gold thread and a matching waistcoat, lavender larkspurs embroidered around jeweled buttons. He looks tired, but his gaze is bright, his lips quirked up in the whisper of a smile.