The Consequences of Champagne and Murder

Chapter Fifteen - Clocks and Kings and Murdering Fiends

For a moment, my brother didn’t notice any of us. His eyes were fixed on the king as he made a move to bow, but before he could lower his head, Renée let out a tiny gasp, and Étienne’s gaze slipped to the chaise. Then he froze. 

“Renée, Olivier, Jacqueline,” he said. “I didn’t think—how—?” 

Renée leapt from the chaise, ready to run to our brother, but I grasped my hand around a fistful of her pink skirts. “You can’t go flinging yourself at him,” I whisper-hissed. “The king is here.” 

“But it’s our brother,” Renée whispered back. 

“Yes, thank you. I do, in fact, have eyes.” 

She shot me an annoyed glare but settled back down onto the velvet pillows.

The king was either oblivious to the emotions hanging in the air or knew better than to acknowledge them, for he ordered the guards to leave and motioned for Étienne to sit. Without looking at any of us, my brother complied. He wore an outfit I’d never seen before: powder blue breeches and a matching frock coat, decorated with a silver embroidery of cornflowers along the hem and sleeves. As usual, his dark hair was groomed into an impeccable queue, tied at the back of his neck with a silver ribbon. He looked both like he’d never left, and like someone I was meeting for the first time. 

Since the day he’d been arrested, I’d wanted Étienne back more than anything. And now that he was here, close enough to touch, that want escalated into a blistering need. I’d do whatever it took to ensure he didn’t leave me again, even if it meant endangering my own safety. But strong as that need was, everything I’d kept locked inside since visiting him at the Bastille came rushing back in a torrential flood. He’d kept quiet about Jacqueline’s existence for fifteen years—he was willing to die so he could save her. 

Where was the calm and collected brother who never made trouble? The brother I could talk to for hours while he sat back and listened? The brother who taught me it was wrong to tell a lie? 

Despite knowing Étienne almost my entire life, I wasn’t certain I knew him at all. 

“Now that we have all arrived,” the king said, “it’s time for you to divulge what you know about this strange sickness plaguing the city.” 

“Sickness, Your Majesty?” Renée asked. I could tell she was trying to keep her attention locked on the king, but her gaze kept flicking to Étienne. 

Jacqueline, on the other hand, had her head directed to the ground. She hadn’t made a peep when Étienne entered, and she remained close-lipped and still, silent as a queen in prayer. In her lap, she twisted her folded hands over and over, skin turning an agitated red. 

“The attack at the opera.” The king frowned. “I had multiple attendees from that night questioned, and they all said the same thing: the men who started the attack never once had any violent tendencies. It was only after they spoke with Comte de Coligny that they began to act not in their right minds. Olivier d’Aumont said something similar about the coachman Étienne d’Aumont supposedly killed. I brushed it off as rambling brought on by hysteria at first, but after I saw the comte in the cafe, and then the men’s attacks, I’m not certain it was hysteria. What I wish to know is, how did you find out what was happening, and why does it all seem to have started with your family?” 

No one responded. Music and laughter from the gardens wafted in through the open windows. Renée shifted on the chaise, and her shoe knocked against the table leg. 

Then I said, “You can’t think this has anything to do with us. I never leave the house because Paris society is awful—which is in no way intended to be an insult toward your kingly greatness, Your Majesty—Renée only cares about dresses and illicit activities, Étienne is boring, and no one even knew Jacqueline existed until a week ago. Of course, our parents are rather wild, but that still hasn’t a thing to do with us.”