I resolve to avoid Destan if at all possible, but it's easier than I expect. He seems to be the busiest man in Versailles and I am met with an influx of curious visitors after my tumble into the canal. Most seem to be looking for gossip about Destan and me. Rumors have flown through the halls of Versailles ever since he pulled me from the water.

The queen's inner circle seems largely disinterested, my usefulness and novelty already exhausted. Few of her cadre send notes of sympathy and even fewer follow up on their requests for my commissions. To my surprise, Charlotte is the first and only courtier of her set to pay me a visit.

She enters my studio with a demure smile on her face. Her eyes dart around the room curiously and she blushes like she has stumbled on an intimate memory.

"Good morning, Mademoiselle." I greet her with a deep curtsey. "What brings you to my chambers?"

She pauses dreamily in front of a sketch of a landscape on my easel. "I wanted to express my sympathies about what happened at my sister's party."

"Thank you," is all I dare to say in reply.

"I know my sister's friends can be... rather pushy," she says, dancing around their abilities, though she throws me a meaningful smirk.

"I was told I would need to keep my wits about me at Versailles," I say with a breathless laugh.

Charlotte's face lights up. "Did Morel tell you that?" Again, she doesn't hide her eagerness to hear about Morel.

"Morel and other members of court," I reply.

Charlotte smiles. "Yes, Morel was very... perceptive." She pics up a palette knife and examines it with a wrinkled brow. "He could see things most people can't," she adds with a weighted glance at me.

"Ah." I understand her meaning and my curiosity is piqued. She is on the verge of confirming what I have long wondered: could Morel see through the glamours of the Fae? "Artists have a well-trained eye. There are very few details that escape our notice." What would the queen would think if she heard this conversation?

Charlotte's cheeks blush rose-petal pink as her confession calls up a memory. "He was discreet, of course, but he was so desperate to paint me without a glamour after I let him see my true form."

The look on her face makes my heart ache. There is something intimate in seeing behind a faerie's glamour, and Charlotte had shared that intimacy with Morel.

"I refused to let him, of course," Charlotte says and sweeps a dangling, blonde curl off of her shoulder. "He knew my friends and I had to maintain a certain level of secrecy, but he was desperate." She sinks into an armchair with a wistful sigh and presses a hand to her cheek as if to cool the heat there.

"You would make a lovely subject for a portrait." It's true; Charlotte's face has all the softness and symmetry to set hearts fluttering, but the words sound forced to my ears. The memory of longing blossoms in my breast as I remember my desire to be Morel's muse. To be painted by him again. To have his clear blue eyes press against me as he rendered me with brush and canvas and oils. The thought of being pursued for a portrait so makes my lungs forget how to draw air.

"Oh!" Charlotte stands abruptly. "I see you have a visitor." She presses her lips together to hide a smile.

Destan stands in the open door to my apartment with a large package in his hands.

"I will get out of your way," Charlotte says as she moves to leave in a shush of satin. She throws a pointed glance my way and saunters past Destan.

"The door was open. I didn't mean to interrupt." He places the box on the chair Charlotte had vacated. To my surprise, he is dressed in peasant clothes, or at least a very expensive costumer's impression of them. No matter how simple, I'd never seen farmers wear blue satin breeches and silk velvet fracs when they went to market. He wears the ensemble remarkably well; the warm brown of the coat offsets the blue in his eyes. Someone chose the color palette well for him.

"What are you wearing?" I ask in amusement. "Is that an opera costume?"

"No. I've been sent to collect you for lunch. Marie has invited us to her hamlet for a picnic." He gestures to the box. "There's a dress code. We've been specifically instructed to leave the trappings of court life behind."

"That is easier said than done. You're the most remarkably well-dressed peasant I've ever seen." I cross the room to pick up the box and let my eyes rove conspicuously over his figure from head to toe. He blushes magnificently. I know I shouldn't torment him, but it thrills me to make him uncomfortable after the sting of his rejection is so fresh.

I take the box into my bedchamber to change quickly. The dress is another robe a la reine, but this one is made of cotton muslin. The billowy dress is easily donned without the help of a maid. I slip it over my underpinnings and cinch it tight around my waist with the green satin ribbon. It's fitted relatively well through the shoulders and sleeves, but the neckline dips a little too low for my liking. For my hair, I choose a flat-brimmed straw hat from my own wardrobe and knot it's pale blue bow under my chin. To complete the costume, I take out the worn leather shoes I wore to Versailles, the one article of clothing they didn't take from me. It's been months since I've pulled them on, but once laced, they are still formed to my foot like a glove.

I return to the studio where Destan paces back and forth. He stops at the sight of me. His throat bobs and he averts his gaze, eager to look anywhere but towards me. "Let's go," he strides towards the door without waiting for me. "We're already running late."

#

Destan rudely walks a step and a half ahead of me so I'm out of his sight line and conversation is impossible. Marie's Hamelet sits in a remote corner of the palace grounds and the walk goes on longer than I expect. I have to jog to keep up with him as he turns a corner, but I finally catch a glimpse of the look on Destan's face. He seems displeased; his lips press into a line and a muscle twitches in his jaw. The hamlet comes into view and my breath catches in my throat. Thatched-roof cottages like humble castles are mirrored in a sprawling pond. Roses climb over anything they can find. The hamlet is like something out of a fairytale. An idyllic picture of peasant life, to be sure, but I can't be certain whether it's an inaccurate representation; I'd never left the city limits of Paris until I was brought to Versailles. My footsteps stumble, but Destan doesn't pause to wait up for me.

Sheep in their pens bleat an anxious welcome as we pass by. The awaiting group lounges on a wide rug spread across a lawn that rolls down to the pond. Hadrian and Lafayette flank Marie, a feast laid at their feet. Lavernia lounges on her back, her head in Hadrian's lap.

"You two make a provincial pair," Hadrian says with a laugh.

Destan doesn't deign to reply and instead drops to sit stiffly beside Lafayette.

Marie is quick to pass me a glass of wine when I sit at Lavernia's feet. "I'm glad you could join us," Marie says. "We have much to discuss and very little time left before we must act."

The picnic and the magnificent spread of food is just a pretext for our meeting, but that doesn't stop me from helping myself to a chunk of baguette topped with a dollop of creamy Brie and apricot jam.

Marie gazes into the swirl of the dark red liquid in her glass, but her thoughts are somewhere else. "We must change our tack. Paris is a tinder box and Lord Gardet is determined to ferret out anyone disloyal to the crown. I haven't forgot what you said, Florette, that we should find a way to convince the Fae that it's in their best interest to call the National Assembly together."

"How are you faring with the Queen's inner circle, Destan?" Hadrian asks.

"My work with the Order is at its end," Destan replies icily.

Lavernia's head pops off Hadrian's lap and she pushes herself onto an elbow "What do you mean?" she says, her brows furrowed in concern.

"My father is throwing me at Mademoiselle Louise de Cloutier. And the Order needs me to stay in his good graces if we want to know who he suspects of disloyalty."

"She has very dangerous friends," I say, ignoring the pang of jealousy that burns in my chest.

"Exactly." Destan still doesn't look at me when he replies. Instead he glares at the rug. "I perhaps flew too close to the sun. Now, I must pull back from the workings of the Order lest one of Louise's friends order me to tell them what we've been trying to accomplish." His voice trembles with simmering anger.

"There must be something you can do—" I say, but he meets my gaze and the fire behind his eyes makes my throat sieze up. I swallow as I look into the face of a cornered beast.

"I have discussed our options with the Protectorate, and we have come to a decision. We need a full-blooded Fae to lead the National Guard."

All eyes turn to Lafayette for his reaction.

"It was my idea. We need an ally to take charge of the Guard who can make the Fae of court believe he is on their side. The Protectorate will offer his leadership to the Children of Marat to help them mount a riot large enough shake the crown's confidence in the French Guard."

"Do you have an ally in mind to take over the Guard?" Hadrian asks.

"I do," Lafayette replies. "He was a familiar of Robespierre, perhaps not so much a radical, but he is, strangely enough, a full-blooded Fae prince with republican sympathies."

"Who?" Lavernia asks.

"I know him as Prince Oberon, but he took a different name in the mortal world."

Destan makes a disgusted sound in the back of his throat. "Insufferable man," he says under his breath.

"Yes." Lafayette rubs his neck wearily. "I am not exactly thrilled either with the prospect of handing my position over to Oberon, but he may very well be the only means to our end."

"Would I know his mortal name?" Hadrian asks.

Lafayette shakes his head. "He disappeared at the height of the revolution."

"Does anyone know where he is?" Lavernia asks.

"Alsaecia," Destan says.

The name means nothing to me. "Where is that?"

"The realm of the Fae," Marie says with a heaviness I don't understand. "Reaching him will be... difficult. The gateways to Alsaecia are a heavily guarded secret, known only to the Queen of Alsaecia's 'blessed.' Without her favor, Fae are not allowed to move through these gates," she clarifies for my benefit.

"The Fae of Versailles were cast out of Alsaecia a century and a half ago after a failed coup and the gate sealed. Rumor has it that there's a secret gate at Versailles so the Queen of Alsaecia can send spies to keep an eye on her traitorous younger sister, Queen Henriette," Hadrian says.

"Rumor has it," Destan growls. "We don't have time to chase shadows. We need more than rumors."

"I believe Morel was looking for the gate, before he died," Lafayette said with a pointed look at me.

My heart skips a beat at the mention of Morel. I glance at Destan to see if this is news to him too, but he fixes his eyes towards the lake and the dark clouds that swell on the horizon.

"In fact," Lafayette pauses. "I think he found it."

Morel found a gate to another realm? Does that mean — I suck in a breath and it sounds like a gasp. "Is he — did he? Do you think he's alive then? That he went to Alsaecia through one of those gates?" Could the notes showing up in my studio really be from Morel?

A muscle twitches in Destan's jaw.

Lafayette breathes a heavy sigh. "I'm sorry. That's not what I meant. I mean, I think his discovery got him killed."

My stomach sinks. For all the times I have hoped of finding Morel alive, it doesn't get any easier when those hopes are dashed. "Why was he looking for the gate?" My question is met with pitying frowns.

"We were hoping you could tell us," Marie says.

A icy wind rips across the lake and tugs at my straw hat. The glass-like water ripples with the wind and snags my gaze. The churning waves remind me of something I can't recall. "I-I don't know. He never said anything to me."

Then I remember my conversation with Charlotte. Morel was "desperate" to paint her without her glamour. His obsession with beauty — with perfection — I know it like I know the feeling of a paintbrush in my hand. "I think he wanted to paint the Fae," I say.

"That's a good start," Lavernia says with a kind smile. "I can lead the search of the palace."

"I'll put my gardeners in charge of searching the grounds," Hadrian says.

Destan finally turns his face to Marie. "What can I do?"

Marie's chin drops to her chest. "Keep your head down. Stay close to your father. Court Mademoiselle Louise de Cloutier. I'm afraid we must keep the location of the gate secret from you." Her voice shakes as she looks up into Destan's eyes.

"Mademoiselle Louise will be pleased with that." Hadrian smirks at Destan over the rim of his wineglass. "She's had her eye on you since you arrived, but if you'd like my advice, try to avoid looking like the son of a peasant. She's a bit of a snob."

Destan stands abruptly, his brow dark.

"Destan," Lafayette warns.

Lavernia punches Hadrian in the muscle of his thigh. Hard. "Hadrian!"

He curses. "Dieu! I was just trying to have a little fun."

Destan's jaw clenches and he turns his back to us. My lungs burn as I hold in a breath. His shoulders rise and fall, his fists unclench, but when I think he will return to his place on the rug, he turns and heads away from the hamlet.

We sit in pained stillness before Lafayette breaks the silence. "We should call an end to our meeting. I fear rain is on its way."

I stand to bid my goodbyes, but Marie pulls me aside. Sadness draws down the finely wrinkled corners of her mouth. "Will you go see to Destan for me? He has been in a dour mood for days and nothing I say can seem to break him out of it."

"You want me to check on him?"

She nods with a hopeful smile. "Who else would I ask?" she says as if I'm somehow the obvious choice.

Does she know something? Has she guessed at our mating bond? She can't know. If she did, she would know I could never be bonded to Destan in the way he could be bound to me. Would Destan have told her neither of us want to be fully mated? If he did, she would probably be pained to know that Destan wouldn't bond with anyone again until I die. I know how much Destan means to her. He's like a second son, so I can't tell her that Destan and I go together like oil and water.

I glance in the direction he went, but he has disappeared over the hill.

"Check the Belvedere." Marie points out a path toward the Petit Trianon. "He usually goes there to brood." A knowing smile spreads over her mouth and her too intelligent eyes make my face heat.

Before I reveal something I don't want to, I turn and head down the path in search of Destan.

I'm not sure what "the Belvedere" is, but I continue in the direction of the Petit Trianon. My steps hasten as dark clouds pursue me across the sprawling lawns of the English gardens. Ancient trees along the path groan and hiss a warning to hurry along before the rain. As the path splits in several places I choose what I hope is the most direct path to the Petit Trianon, but a part of me hopes I don't find Destan.

A curve in the path reveals a small, enclosed pavilion in a design reminiscent of the Petit Trianon. Rectangular windows reveal a dark shadow pacing within. This must be the Belvedere.

I fight every urge to turn and leave, but my feet carry me onward and up the steps to the pavilion's terrace. The figure with stills. The door was left ajar so I slip inside without a sound.

The Belvedere is an octagonal music room with chairs scattered throughout, ready and waiting for a performance. Destan stands motionless with his back to the door.

"Destan," I say even though I don't need to announce my presence. I'm wearing my favorite perfume; he knows it's me without a glance. "I was sent to check on you. I know I have no right to ask, but is everything all right?"

When Destan doesn't reply, my stupid mouth rushes to fill the silence. "Look. I'm sorry. I'm sorry for all the mess I've made."

"No you're not," Destan says, his back to me.

Anger flares like fire through me veins. "Fine then. I'm sorry you were mated to someone so insufferable, so repulsive," I bark.

"Repulsive?" Destan spins to face me. "What would make you think—no. Versailles must have warped the way you see yourself."

"Then what is wrong?" I cry, frustrated with his mercurial temper.

He closes the space between us. "You remind me of everything I'm fighting for. You don't belong here." His lips pull up like a snarl and my blood runs cold. "You are a grain of sand in the gears of a pocket watch. No matter how much we can teach you to act like a courtier, you are still touched with this... this vibrancy of the Paris streets. You don't fit in and with every breath you remind me of what I am — a product of this cage." He tears off his velvet coat and throws it angrily at the ground. "I can put on this costume to try to feel like I'm not caged, but it is just a costume. You–" He places his hands on my waist and I feel the heat of them burn through the fabric and warm my skin. His hands slide down over my hips and he grabs two fistfuls of my white skirts. "This is you. When I look at you, I see something I've always wanted."

The first drops of rain tap tap tap against the windows.

I can barely breathe enough to form the words. "What is that?"

"Freedom."

The words snaps something in me. "I've never been free in my life!" Anger replaces whatever feeling was stirred by the sensation of having his hands on my waist. "Whatever you see in me, I'm not some ideal. That's not fair to me. I am flesh and blood–"

"And don't I know it," he groans, my skirts still fisted in his dangerous hands. The skies open and the drum of rain crescendos to a numbing roar.

I suck in a breath of air and we are close enough that my chest presses against his. I flinch away, but Destan stills and his gaze drops to my mouth. I think for a second he might kiss me. I find the pale scar on his bottom lip in shock, and to my surprise, I want him to. I want to kiss him, but I won't. I won't deepen our mating bond. Not without his consent. Instead of lowering his lips to mine, Destan ducks his head and drops my skirts. Wordlessly, he picks up his coat and heads into the downpour.