And then, because my night wasn’t already horrendous enough, it started to rain. The drops poured from the sky, fat and heavy and laced with the heat of early summer. I let out a string of curses that society has led us to believe should never be uttered in front of delicate company and placed my hands above my head as if they could somehow give a reprieve to the downpour. 

“It’s only rain; you aren’t going to die,” Renée said. 

I eyed Étienne’s sister. “I might. We have a murderer in our presence, after all.” 

The murderer in question was unaffected by the rain, merely crossing her arms over her chest as the water collected in her hair and streamed down her face in feather-fine rivulets. 

Renée sighed, shoving a handful of damp locks behind her ears. “We haven’t heard the entire story yet. It’s best not to draw conclusions.”

“She’s the reason Étienne has been sentenced to death!” I burst out, motioning to her with a wild wave of my arm. “But fine, if you wish to speak with her, I won’t stop you. However, I will be getting out of this rain before she pulls a knife on us again.” 

With that, I stalked away, my feet landing in puddles of rainwater—only to be pulled back by my coat seconds later. 

“We have to take her inside with us,” Renée whispered into my ear. 

I shot her a look that only halfway encompassed my horror. “We can’t bring a murderer into our house!” 

“We can’t leave her out here in the rain, either.” 

“Sure we can.”

This time, I made it a single step before Renée pulled me back. “She’s Étienne’s sister.” 

“You’re Étienne’s sister.” 

“Olivier, be reasonable for once. You wished to know what happened the night the coachman was killed, correct? She can tell us. How else are we to find out? Or are you going to allow our brother to die because you can’t see past your own childish anger?” 

I started to pull away, but her grip was like iron. Try as I might, I couldn’t deny that what she said made a resounding amount of sense. 

I hated when my sister was logical. 

“If anyone catches us,” I said, “Mother, Father, Henri, the servants, anyone at all, this was your idea. Understood?” 

“Fine,” she agreed, releasing my coat at last. 

I practically sprinted to the door and threw it open, tumbling into the hallway without pausing to check if Renée and the murderer were following—and almost collided with Henri. He stood adjacent to the garden doors, de-wigged, his embroidered banyan open to reveal a night shirt hanging down to his ankles. His head was devoid of a cap, and a mess of wiry gray hairs sprang out from his scalp at odd angles. When he saw me, he startled, the book tucked under his arm falling to the ground and springing open.

“Monsieur!” he exclaimed. “What business do you have out in the rain after ten at night?” 

I glanced down at the small pond of rainwater forming around my feet. “Is it raining? I hadn’t noticed.”

Behind me, the door to the gardens cracked open, and I shoved it closed with my back. Renée banged on the door and yelled out a string of un-sisterly profanities she most certainly would never have said to Étienne. I flashed a smile at Henri as if nothing was amiss. 

“Is that. . . Mademoiselle d’Aumont?” he asked. 

I looked around. “What? Where?” 

“That banging.” 

“I don’t hear any banging. Are you certain your mind hasn’t been compromised by all those erotic novels?” I motioned to the book on the ground. “Ah, L’Écoles des Filles. A classic—not that I’ve read it myself. God frowns on that sort of literature, you know.” 

Henri flushed the color of a cherry—quite the scene on an elderly man in a nightshirt and slippers—and coughed under his breath. He then plucked the book off the floor and tucked it under his arm. “Perhaps I ought to check outside to make certain—”

“I’ll check! I’m sure you’re awfully tired after all that invigorating reading.” 

 He hesitated. “If you insist.” 

“I do.”

“Then, have a pleasant evening, monsieur.” Henri shuffled away, his neck a brilliant shade of red. 

“Enjoy your carnal desires, Henri!” I called out, watching until he was out of sight before I turned to the door and opened it. Renée and the murderer stared at me over the threshold, soaked to their stockings and wearing uniform glares. 

“In case you weren’t already aware,” Renée said, “I loathe you.” 

The next few minutes consisted of the three of us sneaking through the corridors, jumping at every footfall we heard—at times, even our own—and pressing our backs against the walls like a group of common criminals. It was, at best, a feeble attempt at discretion, considering we left a trail of rain-soaked footprints in our wake, but no servants spotted us on our way. 

Once in the library, Renée locked the doors, though we both knew we wouldn’t be bothered here. Mother claimed all the books made her nervous, and Father wouldn’t be home from the gambling dens for at least another three hours.

Renée sat herself at Father’s desk and began rummaging through the mahogany drawers for his tobacco chest. The murderer walked the expanse of the room, head tipped up at the fresco of barely clothed cherubs on the ceiling. The servants hadn’t yet snuffed out all the candles in the overhanging chandeliers, but a few were already burnt to the nub, casting the room in equal parts light and shadows. The space was warm with summer air, smelling of roses and rain-dampened silk. 

“I can hardly believe Étienne grew up here,” the murderer said, eyes fixed on the towering bookshelves, their sides covered in a filigree of twisted vines and pastel rose buds. “Are those. . . baby goats?” 

“What?” I asked, moving my gaze to where her palm rested against a mural of baby goats frolicking in a field of cherry blossoms. “Oh. Yes. Mother likes goats.” 

“More than she likes us, I’d suppose,” added Renée. 

The murderer frowned. “And is that table held up by chains?” 

I didn’t have to look over to know she was referring to the table of carved cherry wood in the middle of the room, legless and swinging from golden chains attached to the raised ceilings. “Yes, it is.” 

“I think that clock is—”

“Have we come here to talk, or are you going to continue asking questions about our furnishings?” I snapped. “Would you like to see the aviary as well?” 

“No.” Étienne’s sister shot me a glare. “I mean, I believe that clock was made by my father. He must have given it to your parents when they agreed to take Étienne in as their ward.” 

“What?” I followed her gaze to an ormolu clock sitting atop the marble hearth. It had been there for as long as I could remember, and as such, I’d never really given its existence much notice. Porcelain wildflowers dotted the base, gilded vines and leaves jutting out from the flowers and wrapping themselves around the mint clock face. “Your father makes clocks?” 

“Yes,” she said, starting for the clock. “Well, he used to.” She turned back to face me. “Did Étienne never tell you?” 

He didn’t, but I was still trying to process the fact that he’d never told me he had a goddamn sister, so I couldn’t quite give this new revelation much thought.

In lieu of answering, I focused on my sister’s progress with the tobacco. Having found the carved mahogany case, she cracked it open, procured two pipes, and lit one for herself while handing the second to me. I sat in the wingback chair across from the desk and leaned over to light mine against the match held between Renée’s fingertips. Once the pipe caught flame, I took in a deep breath of smoke, blowing it toward the crystal chandelier. “All right, murderer, let us hear what you have to say.” 

“My name is Jacqueline Chaffee,” she said, hands still encircling the clock. She lifted it into the air, read something along the bottom, cracked a smile, and put it down.

I stared at her blankly. “And?”

“And I didn’t kill the man on purpose.” 

“Spoken like a true criminal.” 

“Olivier.” Renée snatched the still smoldering pipe from my hand, ignoring my whine of protest as she placed it alongside hers in Father’s ivory ashtray. “Come with me.” 

I shot another glance at the murderer—Jacqueline—and hesitated. 

“Now,” Renée snapped. 

Without waiting for my response, she dragged me to the corner of the library, behind a white marble elephant. “We will make no progress if you insist on throwing a tantrum. Did it ever occur to you that Étienne wouldn’t be trying to protect her if she had killed the coachman with harmful intent? Do you believe our brother to be an imbecile?”

“Of course not. But—"

“She killed that man for a reason, and we might be able to use that reason to have Étienne released. But we won’t learn anything new if you anger her with all your asinine comments.” 

“Or we could tell the prison governor she really killed the coachman, and she will be the one who is arrested and sentenced to death.” 

I could tell Renée was holding back a massive eye roll. “Yes, I’m sure Étienne will be forgiving when his blood-related sister is hanged in his stead.”

She had a point, but I’d have rather peeled off my own fingernails than admit it, so all I responded with was, “I know you’re only saying this because you find her attractive.”

Renée's mouth fell open. “I do not!”

“Your expression hints otherwise.” I winked. “As someone who also enjoys the company of attractive women, I noticed your wandering eyes straight away.”

“So you admit you find her attractive as well?”

I looked over to where Jacqueline sat on the cream chaise, frowning down at her lap. Now that she was out of the darkness of the gardens, the curves on her body and the delicate set of her features were glaringly evident, and I felt a right fool for mistaking her for a man. Though in my defense, she had been remarkably strong. “I suppose it’s possible one might think so if they saw her in the appropriate lighting.”

Renée scoffed. 

“But,” I continued, “I am much more in control of my emotions than you, dear sister, and I wouldn’t dare allow attraction to cloud my judgment. Especially given this is a woman I have barely spoken to and is responsible for our brother’s arrest. I would urge you to do the same.”

“My, that’s quite the statement coming from someone who starts sprouting off bird facts at the mere thought of having to converse with a woman.”

I inclined my ear at her. “Hm? What was that? Sorry, I couldn’t quite hear you over all my gentlemanly restraint and tact.” Turning on my heel, I gave a dignified saunter back to the main part of the library. Or at least, it would have been dignified if Renée hadn’t stuck her foot out, causing me to trip over her slipper and nearly pitch into the marble elephant’s backside. 

When I reached Father’s desk, I reclaimed my seat and picked up my pipe. I then declared to both my sister and the murderer that they were permitted to discuss whatever they wished, but I refused to partake in the conversation and would be otherwise occupied with moodily staring out the window. 

“I learned of Étienne’s whereabouts three months ago,” Jacqueline started. “My father was a well-known clockmaker, and as a child, I was always infatuated with his work and designs. When he had to flee, he left me in the care of a close friend from his guild who had a workshop of his own.” 

“Flee?” Renée asked. “Flee from what?” 

Jacqueline was quiet for a moment, nothing filling the silence but her stilted breaths. Then she said, “He and my mother did something bad—bad enough to force them into hiding, but I was too young at the time to understand what that something was. And I never found out.”

My sister and I had wondered, of course, why Étienne was left at our house all those years ago. The only explanation we were given was that he needed a place to stay. Though after time passed and he became family, the reason didn’t matter anymore. Not until now, at least.

“Oh,” Renée said. Then added quickly, as if in a hurry to change the topic, “Why would you be placed in the workshop when Étienne was sent here?”

“I don’t know the answer to that, either. ” Jacqueline responded. “He never told me where he had taken Étienne or why he separated us. All he said was Étienne was fragile and needed to be somewhere that wasn’t a clock shop. My father promised he would come back and reunite us within the month. But months passed, then years”—she drew her arms close to her body, gripping her wrists with her hands—“and he never came.”   

“Fragile?” I sat up. “Étienne isn’t fragile. Why would your father think he was fragile?”

“I thought you weren’t listening,” Renée said. 

“I’m not. But I can’t stop my ears from working, now can I?” I turned back to Jacqueline, asking, “What about Étienne made your father think he was fragile?”

Renée frowned. “This is hardly the time for that conversation.” 

“Why? Don’t you wish to know?” 

“Can we please focus on trying to find out what happened the night the coachman died?” Renée asked through her teeth. “You can talk to Jacqueline about this later.”

I grumbled under my breath, sliding back down onto the chaise. “Fine. Go on then, murderer.”

Jacqueline grumbled something unintelligible under her breath but continued. “I became an apprentice for the clockmaker my father left me with, and three months ago, I was working on a clock design when I overheard two customers discussing Étienne. They came in for some repairs and began chatting about a young man of mixed blood living in a nobleman’s home as his ward. 

“I’d been trying to search for Etienne for years, but it was. . . difficult. Everyone I asked either turned me away, made a rude comment, or pretended as if I wasn’t there at all. After a while, I couldn’t—I couldn’t do it anymore.” The hesitation in Jaqueline’s voice caught me by surprise, and I looked up. Her head was bent, arms crossed tightly over her chest. It was so similar to the way I acted whenever I wished to retreat into myself that, for a moment, my heart clenched in an unexpected show of solidarity. 

Then, as quickly as the moment came, Jacqueline composed herself, and her stern expression became impossible to read. “When I finally was able to overhear a bit of information, I wasn’t certain whether the men were truly talking about my brother, but I knew I at least had to try. I was even able to learn the whereabouts of your hôtel particulier. It really is astounding how well the story of your family is known around Paris. It’s a wonder I’d never heard of them before.”

“You can thank Mother, Father, and their monthly balls of lechery for that,” I said. “They don’t care about societal rules anymore, but they did decide throwing wild parties was a marvelous way to both have a laugh at all the people who drool after their invitations and open their children up for potential marriage prospects, lest we wish to re-enter society when we’re older. Which we do not because society is awful and everyone smells like old fruit.” 

Renée kicked my shin from underneath the desk. 

“After I found Étienne, I visited him frequently,” Jacqueline went on, “and I thought the night of the coachman’s death would be another routine visit. But once we arrived near the Seine, we were attacked by a man who tried to kill Étienne. I carry a knife with me when I venture out into the city alone, so I retaliated and stabbed the man before he harmed us. Étienne then urged me to escape and promised he would get away as well.” She paused. “But clearly, he didn’t.”

Silence blanketed the room, the smoke in the air making Jacqueline’s face appear blurred and distant, like gossamer draped over an oil painting. Then Renée asked, “The coachman tried to kill my brother? But we were told the two got into a fight.”

“The man didn’t seem as if he was in his right mind,” Jacqueline said. “I’m not certain he knew what he was doing.”

“What do you mean?”

Jacqueline pulled her legs up to her chest. I directed my attention back to the window so my traitorous eyes wouldn’t travel to the curve of her thighs. “He seemed to be in a daze. Étienne and I were having a normal discussion when the coachman started attacking him. It was completely unprovoked. Étienne tried to reason with him, but it was like he couldn’t hear us or even see us.

“I didn’t wish for him to die.” Her voice was a near whisper. “All I wanted was to give Étienne and me the chance to run away, but I was frightened and stabbed him harder than intended. There was so much blood.” She swallowed. “And the force of it caused him to stumble backwards and fall into the river. We tried to pull him out, but he sank to the bottom before we could grab hold of him.”

“That’s it!” I exclaimed. The pipe dropped to my lap, and I yelped, knocking it off my leg before it had a chance to burn a hole in my breeches. It skidded across the room, leaving behind a trail of tobacco on the parquet floors. “It was an accident! The coachman tried to attack you and my brother, and the only reason he was stabbed is because you wished to get away. You didn’t stab him with the intent of killing him. It’s hardly your fault he had awful balance. I’m certain if we tell someone that, they will have to release Étienne. It’s the perfect solution.” 

I beamed, resisting the urge to congratulate myself for my brilliant idea. I knew Étienne wouldn’t hurt anyone, and now, with an actual story we could use with an actual witness, I was almost certain we could prove my brother’s innocence and have him released within the week. 

Don’t forget he lied to you, that damnable inner voice of mine whispered. He kept his sister a secret for fifteen years. He was willing to die and leave you and Renée alone to save Jacqueline. He acted odd and skittish in the Bastille, and he refused to tell you the truth. He may not be the person you thought he was after all. 

I swatted these thoughts away. Even if Étienne lied to me, even if he was turning into someone I wasn’t sure I knew, I still wanted him back. I could deal with everything else later. First, I needed to save my brother’s life. 

“And who do you suppose we tell?” Renée asked. “The prison governor hates us both. I doubt he’ll believe anything we say.” 

“No, not the prison governor,” I agreed. “No one who wears their breeches that high can be trusted. We must tell someone with the power to have Étienne released, someone who can convince everyone else to believe our story, someone—” 

“Someone like the king,” Renée interrupted.

“Yes, someone like the king.” I nodded. Then paused. “Wait, the king? As in King Louis XV? The King of France? That king?” 

She lifted her eyes to the cherub-covered ceilings. “Yes, Olivier. That king.” 

“But he’s scary.” 

Jacqueline made a noise that sounded suspiciously similar to a snort. I ignored it. 

“He’s the same age we are,” Renée said. “I’d hardly call that scary.” 

“Yes, but neither of us have the power to have someone killed with a snap of our fingers.” 

“Neither of us have the power to have anyone released from the Bastille, either.” She took in a long drag of her pipe, waited a few seconds, and blew it out. The gray smoke swirled around her head like a storm cloud. “But the king had him arrested, so the king can pardon him as well.” 

“Right. Let’s waltz up to the king in the middle of the Versailles salons and demand the release of our brother. I’m sure that will go just swimmingly.” 

“Does the king not make appearances at the opera?” Jacqueline asked. 

I shot her a glare. “I don’t believe we asked for your opinion, murderer.” 

Jacqueline returned my glare with one of her own. I was preparing to retaliate with an inappropriate hand gesture when Renée said, “The opera! Of course.” 

“What do you mean of course?” I asked. 

“Mother and Father frequent the opera, do they not? There is one in two days’ time. We can go with them and try to speak with the king then. Mother has been wishing for us to join her at the opera ever since we stopped going because of your. . . condition.” 

“Condition?” Jacqueline asked, looking from Renée to me. “What condition?”

“Syphilis,” I said.

Her eyes widened. “What—” 

“Olivier, please stop telling people you have syphilis.” Renée massaged her temples. “Jacqueline, if we go through this, will you help us?”

“I will,” Jacqueline said. “I found my brother again after being away from him for fifteen years. I can’t lose him now.” 

Satisfied, Renée turned her attention to me. “I know you don’t like the opera, but we need you as well.” 

For a moment, I didn’t respond. How could Renée expect me to convince the King of France that Étienne was innocent when I couldn’t even be in the presence of the person my sister fancied without making a complete ass of myself? 

I was too much of a coward to do this. I belonged at home with my siblings, where nothing could threaten my life. Where I wouldn’t lose myself to panic.

Greater than my fear of crowds and dangerous places and people I didn’t know, however, was fear for my brother’s life. I couldn’t be at home with my siblings—safe and happy and loved—if Étienne wasn’t there.

I nodded, thrusting my hands into my pockets so neither Renée nor Jacqueline could see them shake. “All right. We go to the opera.” 

Renée smiled, lifting her pipe into the air. “To the opera!”