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

Chapter Forty-Six - 2. April. 1789

Lizabeth

“It’s a wonder Charlotte doesn't drop dead this instant with how tight her stays are laced,” Marguerite says. “She’s not fooling anyone, we all know her waist isn’t that small.”

Sophie giggles demurely behind her silk glove and makes rather obvious glances toward the table of sweets, fruit, and wine at the back of Salon de Mars. There, Charlotte de Fontin stands near a plate of mille-feuille, licking a smear of chocolate off her pinkie. To Lizabeth, Charlotte looks the same as she always has, but she laughs along with her friends anyway, grateful for the distraction even if it means poking fun at someone who doesn’t necessarily deserve it.

“Did you hear?” Sophie asks. “Monsieur de Villeneuve managed to eat twenty-five eggs this morning.”

Marguerite makes a face. “Men will forever be a mystery, I swear.”

Lizabeth laughs. It’s strange how much she'd missed the afternoons of carefree gossip and banter. Lizabeth didn’t think she’d ever get used to living in Versailles, but here she is, sitting among friends and laughing with them as if she’s known them her whole life. 

Friends. 

She actually has friends.

She may still be a little out of place, but it’s getting better, bit by bit. Perhaps even one day, she won’t feel like an outsider anymore at all.

Though, as she pricks her finger for the fifth time on her embroidery needle, it’s made clear some things will never change.

“Sophie,” Marguerite speaks up, “be a dear and fetch us some macarons, will you? Those pink ones I like with the raspberry jam.” Though her words are kind enough, the bite in her gaze implies it’s not a request.

Sophie’s eyebrows upturn, but she complies nevertheless, giving the pair one last questioning look before she stands and makes her way to the pastry table. The moment she’s out of earshot, Marguerite turns back to Lizabeth, the carefree tone of her voice replaced with worry.

“How long do you suppose we have until your mother discovers you haven’t killed L’Ange de la Mort after all?” she asks. “And that we all saved him instead?”

Without warning, the memory of a week prior floods Lizabeth’s mind. Both Marguerite and the salon disappear, and all she can see is herself plunging her dagger into a man’s chest. All she can feel are her hands, driving the knife in deeper.

She’d killed him, and she’d been happy about it. 

My God, Liza. Marguerite had asked. Who are you?

Lizabeth isn’t sure she’ll ever know.

“Are you even listening to me?” Marguerite snaps.

“What?” Lizabeth asks, blinking away the image of hot, sticky blood coating her hands.

“I said, what are you going to do if your mother finds out what you did?”

“I don’t know,” Lizabeth all but whispers. “Mother cannot enter France or Versailles, so as long as I remain here, I’ll be safe. And I always have my aunt’s offer to fall back on.”