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

Chapter Thirty - 14. March. 1789

Lizabeth

The only thing giving Lizabeth any comfort tonight is the feel of her dagger secured firmly beneath her skirts. She’s on edge, jumping at every sound and unknown face in the crowd. Not even Gabriel’s touch can pacify the desperation crawling out of her skin. He tried earlier in the gardens, with soft whispers and dizzying kisses she felt all the way to her pounding heart, but nothing helped. She remained rigid, tense, and silent, her thoughts straying to everything that could go wrong. The second Gabriel left to dress for the Grand Couvert, she was dashing through the gardens as fast as manners would allow and bursting through Versailles’ grand doors to the marble staircase where she stands now, tucked in a corner and out of sight.

She leans back onto a column of marble, relishing in the feel of the cool stone against her burning skin. L’Ange de la Mort is in the palace. Now. And she’s going to find out who he is. Tonight. 

Lizabeth closes her eyes and takes in a series of deep breaths, forcing herself to regain control. After a few minutes, her head stops spinning, and she straightens up. But her momentary calm is ruined when her eyes fall on Marguerite.

She rests against the wall, arms crossed over her chest and one well-groomed eyebrow upturned in distaste. “Have you discovered the identity of L’Ange de la Mort yet?” 

Lizabeth shoots Marguerite a glare, less annoyed by her presence and more embarrassed she’s been caught in such a vulnerable state. “No, I have not.”

“Of course you haven’t! You’re too busy sniveling in the corner like a coward.”

Lizabeth opens her mouth to protest, but there is nothing to say. Because Marguerite is right. L’Ange de la Mort and the other assassins are most likely running around the palace at this very moment, readying themselves for their next kill. Lizabeth is the only person in Versailles who knows this, and yet she’s been wasting her time trying to catch her breath underneath a stairwell.

“You killed that boy near the Swiss Lake, did you not?” Marguerite continues. “How is this any different?”

Lizabeth clenches her jaw and turns away. She doesn’t want to think about the boy. She doesn’t want to think about his face when he realized the roll was poisoned, or the sounds he made as he was choking to death on his own blood. And, most of all, she doesn’t want to think about how she felt in the moment—like something in her soul ripped and split and shattered, and she’d never be the same again.  

“It’s quite different,” Lizabeth answers. “What if I can’t do it?” 

“You can, and I’ll help you. Like we’re in one of those adventure novels! The hero always requires help.”

Lizabeth’s head falls back against the wall. “Not this again. I don’t need your help. It’s too dangerous.”

“You also said you didn't need my help at the inn.” Marguerite sticks out her bottom lip. “You seem to forget you were lost and almost missed the meeting all together. Who helped you then?”

For a few seconds, Lizabeth doesn’t answer. She glares at Marguerite, but her friend holds her stare, not even blinking as her lips curl into a triumphant smile. Lizabeth sighs. “You did.”

“Exactement.” Marguerite latches onto Lizabeth’s wrist and pulls her out from behind the stairwell. “Now, let’s bring a stop to these peasants before they ruin all our fun.”

***

Lizabeth has never seen the hallways of Versailles more crowded than they are tonight. Though she has been present at every Grand Couvert the king has hosted since she arrived in France, they were all scarcely attended. The Grand Couvert is open for anyone as long as they sport the proper attire—swords and hats for the men, which can be rented at the palace gates, and proper gowns for the women—but the only people who made an appearance before were courtiers and a handful of commoners who live in the town of Versailles itself. Tonight, however, the corridors are stuffed with both nobles and commoners alike, all relishing in the spring warmth that still lingers in the air even in the wake of the setting sun.