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

Chapter Thirty-Five - 14. March. 1789

Lizabeth

The first time Lizabeth hears her name, she thinks she's dreaming. She stares up at the sky, watching moon-soaked clouds pass over pinpricks of sparkling stars. She doesn't know how long she's been in the gardens, nor how long she'll stay. For now, she basks in how out here, time seems to stop all together.

She has no mother who hates her, nor a sister who wishes she didn't exist. She isn't desperate to keep a hold on the life she's created for herself since she arrived in Versailles.

She doesn't have to come to terms with what she knows she must do.

"Lizabeth?"

Her name comes again, drifting past her ears in the night breeze. Lizabeth smiles. It sounds almost like-

She leaps to her feet, brandishing her dagger out in front of her. He can't be here. She can't face him. She isn't ready.

"Are you there?"

Lizabeth darts up the grass covered amphitheater and takes cover between the top tier and a row of boxwood hedges, the spray from the fountains cold against her skin. There, she peeks around the stone corner and watches as Gabriel comes into view.

He looks like he's gone through hell. His previously groomed waves have come free of his queue, strands of his hair hanging in his face and shoved behind his ears. Despite the early March chill, both his frock coat and waistcoat are off, and he stands before her in only his breeches and shirtsleeves. His cravat is missing, the top buttons of his shirt undone. A rusted tinge of dried blood is speckled along his cuff.

Lizabeth's heart thunders against her ribcage, and she presses a palm to her chest, as if in hopes to stifle its beat.

It doesn't.

"I don't know if you're there, or if you can hear me," Gabriel says into the night. "But please allow me the chance to explain."

Lizabeth's hand tightens around the hilt of her dagger. She doesn't want to hear his voice or see him or think about the last time they were together, only this afternoon, in their own little world shrouded by a grove of trees and sweet smelling grass. But despite everything in her screaming to run away and never look back, she keeps still, her body as motionless as the stones she hides behind.

"After Henriette disappeared, I almost lost my mind with grief," he says, ripping off the browned leaf of a hedge. "I was fourteen and still too young to process what happened. Everyone told me to forget Henriette-that she left for a reason. But the night she disappeared, I found a note she left for me, telling me she was in Paris, needed help, and I was the only one she could trust. She was depending on me to save her, and I felt like I had to any way I could. It was my responsibility. My task. She was counting on me. And then there was Anne . . . " He is silent for a few moments, staring ahead at the fountains at the front of the grove, watching water splash against the steps.

Behind the stone, Lizabeth sinks to her knees.

"Anne was ten when Henriette left. She couldn't understand why her sister disappeared one day and never returned. She was so good and so innocent. I couldn't bear the thought of her suffering the same fate. So, when I stumbled into Paris alone, searching for any answer I could find, I met a man who told me he had connections across the city. He promised to help me find Henriette if I killed members of the nobility, and I agreed to it. It was a terrible decision, but at the time, I was young, grieving, and being approached by someone who told me I could achieve the one thing I wanted most in the world. What else was I to think?"

He falls silent again, the moonlight shining on the sharp planes of his face. Something pulls at Lizabeth's heart, making her move from behind the amphitheater and into view. Gabriel lifts his eyes to meet hers, but neither of them say a word, letting their silent gazes speak for them both.