The Consequences of Champagne and Murder

Chapter Twelve - I Most Certainly Am Not a Blueberry

One moment, I was staring in horror at the man behind my sister, and the next, I was flying up the stairs to the parterre. Jacqueline called my name, but I paid her no mind, my eyes locked on the bastard threatening Renée’s safety. With each step, my vision blurred, and my head felt lighter, like my mind was detaching itself from my body. 

I stumbled up the last step, shooting my hand out to the iron banister as my vision focused, unfocused, and focused again. I ran against the crowd, and swarms of frantic men and ladies jabbed me in the side and stomped on my toes. I pushed my way past them, dodging panniers and curled wigs and diamonds sharp as daggers hanging from bone-thin wrists. 

I was drowning in screams. In fear. In waves of expensive perfume.

“Renée!” I yelled into the mass of people.

The only answer I received was chaos. 

“Renée! Renée, say something!” 

I nearly toppled over in relief when, from somewhere in the throngs of people, Renée called out, “Olivier! Over here!” 

I rushed in the direction of my sister’s scream, reaching out blindly for her hand in the crowd. There was a flash of black curls, and a moment later she had hold of my arm. Without waiting to catch my breath, I yanked her behind me, back down the marble stairs and in the direction of the front entrance. I didn’t know if the man was close, but I also didn’t care. I needed to get myself and my sister to safety. 

Though, as we shoved past the still screaming crowd, seconds away from sweet, sweet freedom, Renée stopped. “Olivier, wait.” 

“We can’t wait,” I protested, giving her arm another yank. She didn’t budge. “Or do you wish to be shot by some madman with a pistol?” 

“Jacqueline isn’t here.” 

“Of course she is. She was next to me when we spotted you. She should be right—” I glanced over my shoulder, half expecting to see Jacqueline behind us with a smug grin on her face, but all I saw was the same mass of courtiers. I cursed. “Well, it’s no matter. She’ll catch up with us.” 

I tried to get moving again, but Renée pulled me back with so much force, my shoulder was almost ripped from its socket. “We can’t leave without her.” 

“Why not?” 

“Olivier.” 

The groan I let out reverberated all the way down to my bones. “Fine. But can we at least wait somewhere that’s not in the direct sight of a pistol-wielding bastard?” 

Renée mercifully agreed, allowing me to lead her outside and behind a stout, white-painted ticket box near the small courtyard. It was only after we’d crouched behind the box, heads angled so we could still see what was happening inside, that Renée said, “There is more than one.” 

“More than one pistol?” 

“More than one bastard. Three, in fact.” 

I nearly soiled myself. “Three?” 

I must have screamed the word, for Renée pressed her palm against my mouth as she continued. “I’m not certain if there are more, but three men stood up as soon as intermission began, weapons held out in front of them. One shot someone in the orchestra before everyone panicked.” 

I lowered my voice to a whisper. “That’s the same number of men Comte de Coligny had with him in the café.” 

“What are you talking about?” 

“Did Jacqueline not tell you?”

“Obviously not.” 

I recounted the events of the past hour—from what I had overheard the comte say the first time I eavesdropped, to Mathieu telling me about Étienne’s hanging, to my second eavesdrop on the comte, and finally, Jacqueline’s odd clock proclamation.