The Consequences of Champagne and Murder

Chapter Ten - The Only Thing Worse Than the Opera is Imminent Death

My body moved before my mind, shoving past Mathieu and barreling down the corridor in the direction of the private boxes. Mathieu called after me, but I was too focused on my destination to answer. 

I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think. All I felt was panic, sharp and hot and shooting through my veins like white arsenic. Before, Étienne’s death seemed like a distant dream, like trying to grasp onto a fog-soaked sky. Now, it felt as if I was crashing straight through a wall of jagged glass. 

If I did nothing, come this time next week Étienne—my older brother, my protector, the one person I trusted more than anyone else in this world—would be gone. 

Forever. 

I pushed my way through the crowd, ignoring the scoffs and protests and snide comments about my lack of decorum. The opera had yet to start, but the sound of the orchestra warming up reverberated through the cramped opera house, and everyone was making their way to their seats. Their bodies were hot and their voices were loud and their perfume clung to the inside of my throat like sickly-sweet honey. I wanted to break free of the crowd and go where no one could see the fear in my eyes or hear my labored breathing. But I couldn’t.

Because my brother was going to die.

I darted to the right of the amphitheater, scanning the mass of powdered wigs and dyed ostrich feathers. I had to find the king now, but where was he? The confusing layout of the boxes ensnared me in a maze, much like the incessant images haunting me of my brother swinging from a noose. Memories washed over me.

Étienne’s voice as he read aloud to Renée and me in the library. 

I collided with an older man in my haste and tripped over his heeled shoe, stumbling sideways. My shoulder connected hard with the wall, but the pain barely registered. My plan had been to wait to speak with the king once I had a better idea of what to say, but I couldn’t wait. Not anymore.

Étienne, pointing out the different birds in our aviary whenever I was feeling panicked. “This one is a canary,” he would say. “Did you know only male canaries sing?”

At the end of the hall, I spotted an entrance to a private box, flanked by two members of the royal guard. I sprinted to it, my lungs burning and my heart thundering in my chest. Everything in me screamed to stop, stop, stop. But I didn’t. 

Étienne, slipping into my room during thunderstorms when we were children, pillow stuffed under his arm and saying, “I think it won’t be as scary if we’re together.” 

“He didn’t do it!” I screamed, running up to the box. “You can’t let him die! He’s innocent!” 

The guards retaliated, grasping me by my upper arms and hauling me away. I struggled against their grip, but I was too tired from panic and fear and my dash through the opera halls to break their hold. “You have to let me see the king,” I pleaded. “I must speak with him. I have to tell him my brother is innocent. Please.” 

“Monsieur,” said one of the guards, “you must return to your seat.” 

I tried to wiggle my way out of their grasp, but they slammed me up against the wall. Breath left my lungs in a shaky gasp. “You don’t understand. My brother has been sentenced to death for a crime he didn’t commit. He’s going to die if the king doesn’t stop it!” 

The guards exchanged a look. “This is hardly the place to speak with the king about such matters, monsieur,” one said. “If you—” 

“But I have to speak with him now! My brother was framed, and if the king does nothing, he’s going to hang by the end of this week.” I opened my mouth, using my last bits of strength to yell out, “Your Majesty! Your Majesty, I must speak with you!”