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

Chapter Thirty-Eight - 19. March. 1789

Lizabeth

In the course of a single night, everything has changed. 

Lizabeth sits in the chapel alongside Marguerite, letting her eyes wander in search of a moment’s distraction. Her gaze travels from the pipe organ above the altar and the gilded angels decorating the powder blue surface, to the grand fresco of the Holy Trinity along the vaulted ceilings. Nothing works. No matter where her eyes land—the murals carved into the walls, the free-standing pilasters, the multicolored light streaming in from stained glass windows—she can’t keep her attention from flitting to the nave’s parterre. In particular, to the exact spot Gabriel has stood with Jean every day since Lizabeth arrived at Versailles. 

Only today, Gabriel isn’t there. 

Today, Jean stands with his brother and Nicolas de Villeneuve. All three young men are restless and fidgety, shifting from foot to foot. But they aren’t the only ones having difficulty focusing on the sermon. Tensions are high, everyone more interested in listening to the whispered gossip of killers than the word of God. 

Though some courtiers have the decency to keep their curiosity discreet, the vast majority cast intermittent glances at Jean, Charles, and the spot vacated by Gabriel. For, as far as the court is concerned, all three are the newest victims of L’Ange de la Mort. 

“Continuing to stare won’t bring him back,” Marguerite whispers, facing straight ahead at the altar. 

Lizabeth rips her attention away from the chapel’s ground floor. “I know. But Monsieur de Coligny looks so upset. He lost both his father and his best friend in one night. You ought to have seen his face when he saw Gabriel was gone.” 

She swallows, trying to shove down her memories from three nights ago. But the memories resurface regardless, haunting and horrid in the deepest corners of her mind. Memories of the empty patch of grass, stained scarlet with Gabriel’s blood, and the feeling in her gut, like someone had reached inside her body and yanked out her soul. But she’s certain it was nothing compared to what Jean felt. He fell silent when he realized Gabriel was gone, lowering himself to the ground and burying his head in his hands. 

Lizabeth tried to console him, but he wouldn’t speak, wouldn’t stir, wouldn’t move. Eventually, she returned to the palace, but Jean stayed where he was, inches from his best friend’s blood. It wasn’t until the day after that she learned he’d remained in the gardens all night. 

He looks more composed now, but his normally groomed curls are disheveled, and his black mourning attire is rumpled around the sleeves and coat hem, like he’s slept in the same outfit for days.  

“Do you not care?” Lizabeth asks when Marguerite doesn’t answer. 

Marguerite shifts next to her. The white ostrich feather tucked in her updo flutters. “Of course I care, but there is nothing I could do about it. Monsieur de Coligny has made it quite obvious that he dislikes my company.” 

“Don’t be silly”—Lizabeth lays her hand atop Marguerite’s—“you know that isn’t true.” 

Marguerite yanks her hand away. “Honestly, Liza, I wish you wouldn’t lie to me. It’s incredibly vexing.” 

Lizabeth opens her mouth to respond, but a scream comes from the nave’s parterre. There, Jean is backing away from Charles, hands curled into fists.