The Consequences of Champagne and Murder

Chapter Eighteen - How Dare the Murderer Cause Me Distress

The next morning, I was woken by Henri at the dreadful hour of Before Noon. The light was bright where it flooded into my room from a gap in the periwinkle curtains, and I turned over, throwing an arm across my face to shield my eyes from the onslaught of sunbeams. Then I remembered my promise to accompany Jacqueline to her workshop, and I shot up, sleep forgotten entirely. 

I had the servants dress me in a coat and breeches of ivory satin, the lapels and cuffs decorated with tiny pearl buttons and an embroidery of lavender sprigs. As my hair was pomaded and tied at the back of my neck with an ivory ribbon, I told myself I was taking more care with my appearance because I didn’t know whether I would be expected to make a positive impression on anyone during my journey. 

I had not dressed this way for any other reason. 

Jacqueline was already in the grand salon when I arrived, seated on a velvet couch with a floral teacup clutched between her fingers. Renée and Étienne sat next to her, exchanging pleasantries over a spread of chestnut cakes, pears swimming in cream, and a raspberry jelly that glinted translucent scarlet in the mid-morning sun. As usual, neither Mother nor Father were present. After Mother’s spectacle the night before, she had retired to her room, claiming the shock of Étienne’s return gave her a migraine. None of us, it seemed, had the heart to tell her this was all temporary, that Étienne was still sentenced to death.

Jacqueline glanced up when I entered the room, and her fingers faltered. A drip of brown tea splashed onto her lap. “It’s about time you graced us with your presence,” she said. “Not everyone has the luxury of remaining abed as long as they wish, you know.” 

I plucked a chestnut cake from its silver serving tray. “Good morning to you as well, murderer. Tell me, do you have clothes of your own, or do you plan on wearing everything in my sister’s wardrobe instead?” 

Jacqueline stuck out her tongue, and I was returning the gesture when Étienne said, “Olivier struggles with getting enough sleep. And Renée doesn’t mind lending Jacqueline her dresses. Isn’t that correct, Renée?” 

Renée nodded, though she pretended to be preoccupied with re-positioning the sapphire pin in her hair. 

I shoved the entire chestnut cake in my mouth, not bothering to swallow it properly. “Shall we leave, then? The sooner we’ve finished, the sooner we can return, and the sooner I can go back to sleep.” 

Jacqueline set her teacup on its accompanying plate with far more force than necessary and glided to the entrance of the grand salon, shoving past me without a second glance. A whiff of floral perfume lingered in the air behind her.

We exited the house without speaking and started down Rue des Nonaindieres. Though the hour was early, the air was already hot and sticky, laced with the heat of early July. As Jacqueline and I made our way down the street toward the Seine, the cobblestones were warm under my feet, the windows in the homes and shopfronts reflecting the sun’s rays like flashes of summer lightning. I cupped a hand over my eyes, squinting with the force of five cognac-induced headaches. 

Jacqueline seemed unaffected by the sunlight. She had her head tipped back, letting the warmth wash over her black waves and tawny skin. Though there wasn’t quite a smile playing on her lips, it was close. 

My heart leapt. I ripped my gaze away. 

“So, you’re a clock making apprentice,” I said. “That sounds. . . fun.”

“I am, yes.” 

“What sort of things do clock making apprentices do?” 

“Do you care?”

I stopped in the middle of the street. People passed by, arms occupied with baskets full of bread, eggs, and cheese. Above us, articles of laundry were strung from the windows, flying lightly in the breeze like multicolored flags. “Would I have asked if I didn’t care? God, I’m trying to be nice.” 

She glanced at me. The sunlight turned her eyes the color of gilt-bronze. “I suppose you’ll find out when we arrive.” 

“That is a horrible answer.” 

She shrugged.

Continuing down the street, we made a sharp right when we reached the Seine. We walked past Hôtel de Ville; businessmen and members of the parliament crowded around the towering limestone facade, gold-tipped walking sticks clacking against the flagstones. Further down, Notre-Dame rose up above the trees on the Île de la Cité. The reds, blues, and greens from the cathedral’s massive stained-glass windows were visible even from where we stood across the water. 

By the time we arrived at Rue de la Monnaie and the workshop Jacqueline lived above, I was grumpy and winded and sweating in a number of places I would never mention in delicate company. It had been a mere twenty-minute walk from Le Marais, but combined with the heat and my lack of sleep, I was ready to collapse onto the street for an afternoon nap that would hopefully last until evening. 

Jacqueline noticed none of this. She marched into the shop without bothering to check if I was following and closed the door in my face. I grimaced. I didn’t wish to hurt Jacqueline, but I would have liked to repeatedly step on the back of her shoes as she walked. Still grimacing, I yanked the door open, and my gaze landed on the inside of the clock shop. 

The place was an utter disaster. 

Smashed clocks littered the floor, glass and metal and painted porcelain crunching underneath my boots. Buckets were overturned on the shelves and workbenches, and the powder spilling out of them gave the air a glittering, silver sheen. Parchment lay in crumpled heaps on the ground, adorned with smudged sketches of clock designs. And in the corner sat a man with pale pockmarked skin, head bent over the pile of loose cogs and wheels in his lap. 

“Monsieur Duvaux? What happened?” Jacqueline asked, eyes fixed on the ripped pieces of parchment on the floor. 

Duvaux glanced up, teeth bared. “You ungrateful little girl. How dare you show your face here now.” 

She flinched. “What?” 

“They were looking for you. The men who ruined my shop and stole all my clocks only wanted you, and you weren’t even here. You haven’t been here for days.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Jacqueline gave me a panicked glance, as if begging me to do something, though it was clear neither of us knew what. “Why would anyone be looking for me?” 

“Because of those damned journals of yours.” 

All the color drained from Jacqueline’s face. She sprinted out of a side door in the shop and into a narrow hallway leading to a set of stone stairs, running up them two at a time. 

I made a move to follow, but then Duvaux called out, “I knew I should have never taken you in, and I’m ruined because of you! I never want to see your face in my workshop again, cowardly whore!” 

I stopped, turning back to face him. There was a single untouched clock propped up on the shelf next to my elbow. Before Duvaux could stop me, I shoved my elbow into the shelf, and the clock crashed to the floor, glass and bits of gilt bronze filigree breaking off and scattering underneath the counters. 

I glanced down. “Oh no, that looked expensive. Was that expensive?" 

“You bastard!” Duvaux’s eyes widened with rage. “I should—”

“Jacqueline is not a cowardly whore,” I interrupted, inching my way to the door. “She may be the most bothersome person I’ve ever met, but she’s smart and brave and strong. And you're just a sad, little man with a pile of broken clocks and one eyebrow.”

Then I whirled on my heel, tugged the door open, and sprinted after Jacqueline.