The Consequences of Champagne and Murder

Chapter Seventeen - My Life Has Been Ruined Enough for the Time Being, Thank You

Two hours later, we reached our home in Le Marais. The windows were dark, the only light in the courtyard coming from the moon as it glinted off the trimmed ivy creeping up the stone walls. Without speaking, the four of us walked to the front entrance, and despite my relief over being with Étienne again, I was bone deep exhausted. Home had always been my anchor, and now that I’d returned, it was doing all it could to drag me under into the depths of sleep. 

Once we were inside, I started for the marble staircase, ready to fall into the sweet oblivion of slumber. But instead, Étienne cleared his throat, stopping in the middle of the foyer. “Thank you,” he said. “All of you. I didn’t wish to spend another night in the Bastille, and it’s nice to be home. I apologize for causing you trouble—” 

Before he could finish his sentence, Jacqueline leaned against the wrought iron banister and buried her head in the crook of her elbow. She made no sound, but the slight shaking of her shoulders and the hitching of her breaths was startlingly familiar. I stood, frozen, as she slid to the floor, her shuttered breaths growing louder and louder, echoing off the marble floors. At first, it couldn’t fathom what I was seeing. I knew those gasps of air, knew a lump of fear in her chest was making it difficult for her to breathe. I’d had the same experience too many times to count. But what I couldn’t understand was that it was happening to someone else and not to me. And worse, I had no idea what to do.

I was so used to being the one overcome with fits of panic, the one my siblings had to help, that it never occurred to me that other people could experience panic as well.

As always, Étienne was the first one to react. He opened his mouth, then closed it, taking a single step forward before stopping again.

“Jacqueline?” he whispered. The softness of his whisper grated something inside of me, like the word was poking at a flesh wound. “Are you all right? Did I. . . Are you upset because of me?” 

She didn’t answer, and Renée gave Étienne a worried glance. She reached out and rubbed Jacqueline’s shoulder, softly at first, and then with more determination when Jacqueline didn’t flinch or shy away. For a moment, none of us spoke. Étienne kept his gaze fixed on the black and white tiled floor, hands curled into fists. And Renée continued rubbing Jacqueline’s back, pink dress pooled around her like the beginnings of sunset.

Then Jacqueline raised her head. I held my breath, waiting for her panic to increase, or for her to faint as I sometimes did when the fear and heat and lack of air was too much. But she simply wiped at the wetness under her eyes. “I’m fine.” 

What?

How was she able to stave off the panic so easily? How was I not? 

The words she’d spoken at the opera house came back to me then, soft and irritatingly understanding: “I was trying to help.”

I loathed to admit it, but perhaps this whole time she truly had been trying to help, and I had been too proud to accept it.

“Jacqueline—” Étienne began.

“I said I’m fine.” She started up the stairs. “Good evening. I will see everyone in the morning.” She reached the second floor and turned down the hallway, disappearing without another word. 

“I should go see if she’s all right,” Renée said, following her. 

I was preparing to retreat to the second floor as well, determined to find out if my suspicions about Jacqueline were correct, when Étienne grasped a hand around my wrist and motioned for me to come with him into the grand salon. I took a fleeting look to where Renée was already halfway up the stairs, then sighed and trailed after my brother.