After the opera, Hadrian never sends me an invitation to tour the gardens. Even Lavernia seems more distant and I only have Destan to thank for that. I don't know what the two of them did to upset him, but I do know he wants me to stay safe — to keep my head down so the Fae don't discover that I can see through their glamour, but I'm not sure I can sit idly by while they slowly destroy France like an untreated wound.

My deep unsettling quickly begins to affect my work and it gets harder and harder to sit down and paint. When I know Destan and the majority of court is out on a hunt in the Grand Park, I do what I always do to clear my mind and get my brush moving, I find masterpieces of artwork to inspire me.

As I suspected, the King's State Apartments are nearly empty as no one has any desire to be there when they know the king won't make an appearance. I meander around each room, pausing to admire the paintings that catch my eye, but I only make it through three of the salons before I feel positively gorged on beauty.

Still, I wander into the Diana Salon and crane my neck to look up at a painting of the famed huntress that spans the center of the ceiling. Before I get lost in it, a shrill laugh echoes through the cavernous chamber.

My head snaps down and I look over my shoulder to see a pair of women glide across the floor. To my mortification, I seem to have caught their attention.

"You can always tell a commoner," the darker-haired woman says to her companion. In opulent silk gowns and with white feathers tucked into their curls, they look like they're dressed for the post-hunt banquet.

A wicked grin passes over her friend's lips. "And how is that?"

I think I recognize them as two of Queen Henriette's ladies in waiting. When they pass through a column of light from the windows, I recognize the telltale shimmer of a glamour on their faces.

"They're always staring up at the ceiling."

The other cackles. "There's nothing worth looking at up there," she says to me.

I fix my eyes determinedly to the floor, though I know just how withering of a glare and a harsh word I could throw their way.

"Mademoiselle Florette!" A man's voice draws my gaze away from my feet.

Lafayette strides through the chamber, his eagle-headed cane in hand. A warm smile deepens the lines around his eyes. "It's a pleasure to see you about. I hope your days haven't been quite so exciting."

I breathe a sigh and my anger fades. "No. Things have returned to normal it seems."

His brows push together. Lafayette takes my arm and we head back towards the Hall of Mirrors while the courtiers head in the direction of the king's private apartments. "And yet you do not seem thrilled with the prospect of normalcy?"

I check to make sure we are out of earshot of the two ladies. "I'm not sure. Life at Versailles has never been my normal."

"No? And where does your heart belong?"

The phrasing of his question takes me by surprise and it makes me think. "I thought it belonged here. I wanted Morel to bring me to Versailles for so long, to be surrounded by all this beauty, but from the moment I arrived I have felt out of place — like I've stepped into someone else's shoes. Paris was my home for as long as I can remember, but after the attack, it feels like a stranger to me."

"A stranger?"

"I've lost the pulse of the city. The pains and hopes of its people were far from my mind when the Children of Marat attacked Versailles. I was so preoccupied with trying to make my place here that I forgot how the rest of France lives. Now I can't stop thinking about them." We take a seat on a bench in front of the windows in the Salon of Peace. "I can't go to parties and banquets without thinking of those starving on the other side of the palace gates. When I sit down to paint I can't even pick up a brush. My heart just isn't in it anymore."

Lafayette chuckles. "Are you sure you're Morel's protégé?"

"What do you mean?"

He holds up a hand. "I didn't mean any offense. I just mean that I never saw Morel take an interest in anything outside his art. You don't share that fault."

"Oh." He intends it as a compliment, but I still bristle against it. It feels wrong to speak ill of Morel when he is no longer here to defend himself.

"There is more to life than making beautiful things."

Something stirs deep in my gut. "Yes," I say. "But what can I do when all I am trained to do is create lovely, lifeless paintings? They can't feed the poor and they certainly can't stop radicals like the Children of Marat from tearing France apart."

"Those are grand problems, indeed. Problems no person can solve on their own."

"I can't just sit and wait and hope to be spared when the next attack comes." As if to remind me of the price of my complacency, the stitches in my side ache. I place a hand over the wound and hope Lafayette doesn't notice.

"There may be a way for you to do more." Even though there is little threat we will be interrupted, he lowers his voice. The walls are thick and the windows deep within them; heavy curtains hang between us and the rest of the room. "There is a group that shares the same vision I have for a constitutional monarchy. We want change, but we don't want to throw out centuries of tradition. We hope to plot a middle course through this growing conflict and convince the king to reinstate the National Assembly. With power split between the crown and a legislative body we could stop the unbridled spending of the king's court and give the people a voice."

What he's talking about sounds familiar. He's tried this once before and I don't think it went well. As soon as they lost control of Robespierre, the nobles and clergy aligned to dismiss the entire assembly and put Louis XVII on the throne.

Lafayette senses my hesitancy. "Our goals are not without great risks."

A tremble in my stomach begs me to use caution. "And what if I can see myself aligning with your goals?"

A smile spreads across Lafayette's face. "Then you'll need to muster up all your courage, Mademoiselle."

"What do you need me to do?" It feels like a courageous thing to say.

Lafayette pats my hand where it clenches at my skirts. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves. There's one person whose approval you need before we can proceed."

Somehow, I know the answer before I ask, "Who?"

"General Bordelon."

Is this why he shooed Lavernia and Hadrian away from me during the opera? Are they involved too? "What do I need to do to get General Bordelon's approval?" Somehow, I know this won't be easy. He doesn't seem to have the highest confidence in me.

"Leave that up to me. We have a problem currently, and you may be able to assist me with my solution." Lafayette looks pleased with himself and it only makes me more curious.

"Did you try and recruit Morel to help you before me?" My throat thickens at the thought of him.

"I did." Lafayette's face turns somber. "He shared my interest in preserving tradition and French culture, but... he was much distracted in his last days."

"So..." Something hot and terrible roils in my stomach, making it hard to catch my breath. "You believe he's dead?"

Lafayette's mouth forms a thin line. "I do. What I said at the Queen's ball... I didn't mean to give you false hope. I only meant that the circumstances of his death were suspicious."

"Why is that?" The air in the room feels suddenly heavier.

Lafayette's knuckles whiten as he clenches a fist around his cane. "His nighttime excursions were odd enough, but his paintings became something strange."

"What do you think happened?"

He pauses. "I think he was searching for secrets he should have left alone."

A shiver passes over my skin. This doesn't sound like the cautious and sensible Morel I know, but then I remember the unnatural beauty behind Destan's mask. Morel worshiped beautiful things. If he had been able to see through the glamour like me, would he have had the sense to stay away? When I look back at Lafayette, my heart jumps at what I see. The light shimmies around his edges.

He's one of the Fae — albeit a well-glamoured one.

"You're—" I whisper.

"Only partially," he confirms with a playful smirk. "Destan told me about your little talent. I was wondering when you'd work it out."

My mouth falls open. "You and Destan wear your glamours much better than everyone else I've seen. Did Morel know?"

Something clouds Lafayette's brow. "That is a good question, indeed. I'm afraid I don't know. When I heard of his death, I managed to hide away the last of his paintings, but they haven't proved to be of any use."

"Can I see them?" My hands tremble as I try to rub out the wrinkles my fists have left in my skirts.

Lafayette's face turns to surprise, and perhaps he is a little curious. "Of course, but I will warn you, they look very much unfinished and quite the work of a mad man, but you may see something in them I can't. I'm but a humble soldier and you, the master artist."

***

My heart flutters as Lafayette leads me up the narrow wooden staircase to the attics of Versailles. The thought of seeing new paintings by Morel makes a nervous knot form deep in my gut. Excitement is there too. Anytime Morel had revealed a new piece to me, his mastery of oils always flooded me with awe. I thought I'd never feel that sense again, that moment of pride when I felt honored to learn from him — to be the first person he wanted to see his work.

Getting to see new works of his, even if they are unfinished, fills an ache inside me I didn't know I was carrying. And in these brief moments, it feels like Morel is still alive.

We travel through cramped servants quarters with sloped ceilings and stop in front of a plain wooden door. Lafayette pulls out a brass key and turns it in the lock. Once inside, he lights a candle in what appears to be a storage room filled with mismatched chairs in need of re-caning, a faded rug, and a vast number of wooden crates. The air is thick with dust.

Lafayette sets the candle on a small table and disappears behind the stack of crates. He returns with a large, unframed canvas, but his brows are knit together with concern as he turns it around.

My stomach sinks.

The painting is all dark at the edges, fading to a sickly green at the center. It looks a bit like a light at the end of a tunnel, but that's all that comes to mind.

I stare at it a long time before I can form words. "It's not his."

Lafayette frowns and I swear regret flashes across his face. And pity. "It was in his studio."

"I can see brush strokes. And canvas. He never would have painted something like this." My voice shakes and I have to turn my back to the painting.

"I don't know what to tell you. I removed the painting from his chambers myself."

I look over my shoulder at the hideous green circle on the canvas.

Lafayette's eyes are full of sympathy. "I warned you there wasn't much to see."

I nod, but I still don't know why Morel would have left something so hideous in his rooms. "It doesn't make sense," I say.

"I know." Lafayette looks at the painting and scowls. "Do you want to see the others?"

I turn away and shake my head. "Can you have them taken to my apartments? I — I want to examine them further...but I've seen enough for today."

"As you wish," Lafayette replies.

I step back into the hall so he can lock up and the aching well of my grief comes roaring back to my stomach. Wider and hungrier and emptier this time.

It's as if I've lost Morel all over again.

***

Thank you so much for reading!