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

Chapter Thirty-Nine - 21. March. 1789

Gabriel

Gabriel wakes with a gasp, like breaking through the surface of the sea. His head feels stuffed with silk, and his vision is blurry, focusing, unfocusing, and focusing again as his irises adjust to the firelight. He tries to grasp onto his surroundings, but everything in his mind is a muddled mess.

Vague flashes of memory flit through his brain: Being dragged into the forest despite his protests and thundering over the rough terrain on horseback, each clop of the horse's hooves like a gunshot to the chest. Leaning on Maxime's shoulder as he was carried through the entrance to a room and deposited on the bed, Marie shouting for Maxime to fetch the doctor because there is so much blood, oh God why is there so much blood. The days that followed-a mix between confusion, utter blackness, and the knowledge that he has made a terrible, terrible mistake.

Now, however, there is no chaos or blood-soaked sheets or harried shouts. Only silence and the warm hint of fire on his skin. Gabriel attempts to lift himself into a sitting position, gritting his teeth against the pain. It isn't excruciating or incapacitating anymore, but it's still very much present, a constant, throbbing ache underneath his linen shirt. Even so, Gabriel must push through the pain and find a way to get himself out of here and back to Versailles. Wherever here is.

His gaze flits around the room, taking in the threadbare tapestries along the walls and the damask wallpaper, faded into the dull pink of a healing wound. The white plaster ceiling is marred by an intersecting spider web of cracks, and a pair of velvet drapes are drawn tight across the windows, allowing only a sliver of moonlight to spill across the dusty floorboards. But the room is large and well furnished, decorated with enough pallid luxury to hint the home doesn't belong to a pauper.

Taking in a breath to calm his throbbing injury, Gabriel turns over on his side. And stops. There, curled against the brick hearth, is Marie. She's asleep, lank strands of blonde hair escaped from their plait and hanging in her face. Her arms are crossed, and her cheek rests atop her folded knees. A frown tugs down the corners of her lips.

Gabriel looks at her curiously. How long has she been there, keeping watch? And, more importantly, why?

"Marie," he says, so soft, he isn't sure if she will hear.

But she does. Her eyes fly open, and she jumps to her feet, elbow banging against the hearth. Resting atop the mantle, a bronze vase falls, and Marie shoots out a hand to keep it from crashing to the floor.

"You're awake," Marie answers.

"And you were sleeping."

She clears her throat, mumbling, "My apologies."

She turns to the door, likely preparing to leave the room. But just as her hand slides across the brass doorknob, Gabriel asks, "Where are we?"

"Baptiste is close with a doctor in Saint-Cloud," Marie explains, head still turned toward the door. "This is his house."

A faint grip of panic seizes Gabriel's heart. If Baptiste knows he's here, then all of it-the promises he made to Anne and his mother, the reassurances he gave Jean, the plan he constructed with Lizabeth-will be for nothing. "Baptiste knows where I am?"

"No, I didn't tell him or François." Marie's voice is barely audible over the crackling fire. "François came to us that night in Versailles, saying he thought you were dead, but he had to check to make certain. I tried to convince François to let it alone, and Maxime left to bring you here because he was afraid you would expose us all otherwise. The doctor has promised secrecy. Maxime and I are the only ones who know where you are."