I flee the Grand Service without a thought as to where I'm going, or who my body crashes into. Someone calls my name from behind me, but my feet don't stop. My breath comes in loud, shallow gasps as I rush through the royal chambers and into the long hallways with too many mirrors. In my panic, my brain seems to forget which way to return to my apartments, but I dare not turn back for fear of seeing whether Destan or Lord Gardet has followed me.

I whip around a corner, my shoes slipping on the polished marble, and crash bodily into a woman. She emits a laugh of surprise, as she grabs my arm to steady me. Her other hand keeps a claret of wine aloft, but some of the crimson liquid sloshes over the rim and down the front of her pink gown.

The splash of wine over her silken skirts is enough to break me from my panic. She is an elegant, full-figured woman with curls of bright orange hair piled atop her head. Her dimpled smile is decidedly crooked beneath her long, slender nose, and her green eyes are too far apart. She is remarkably pretty, but there's no comparing her to the queen's unnatural beauty.

"Are you all right, dearie?" she asks. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

I catch my breath with a hand on the wall to steady me. "I don't know what came over me," I say.

"Here," she thrusts the glass of wine into my hand. "Drink up. It will calm the nerves."

My hand shakes involuntarily as I bring the glass to my lips and drain the contents. I should know better than to take drinks from strangers, but it's too late now. I hope I won't regret my rash actions.

"You must be new to court," the woman says.

"I was hoping it did not show," I say. The wine settles some of my nerves, but I still feel on edge.

"We all start somewhere, do we not?" She wraps a comforting arm around my waist. "I am Lavernia."

"Florette," I reply.

"Where were you headed in such a hurry?"

"My apartments, I think."

"You think?"

"I was lost. You don't happen to know where the painter's studio is?"

She nods and her lips curve up on one side of her face. "I know the way to the studio well." She speaks like she shares a tawdry secret with me and it makes my heart race all over again. Jealousy surges hot and sickening through my chest to think this stranger knew Morel in a way I did not. I knew he had many lovers, but I'd never met one face to face.

"I apologize," she says when she senses my displeasure. "Were you intimate with Monsieur Morel as well?"

I silently curse my face for betraying my thoughts to her as I remember Destan's warning. "Never," I say. It's the truth, but I try to pass off my jealousy as indignation. "I am his apprentice – his replacement," I correct.

"Really? Did you study at the Royal Academy?" she asks with sincere curiosity.

This softens me towards her more than I want it to. Perhaps she is interested in art as much as she was interested in a romance with Morel. "I was trained there thanks to Morel's sponsorship," I say, as I must blindly follow where Lavernia leads me through the palace. "I currently hold only one of the four positions reserved for women and even now they're considering closing the academy to them."

She laughs, throaty and full. "I, fortunately, never ran into that problem in my profession."

"And what was that?

"The world's oldest profession."

"Ah," I say. I smile beside myself as the tension releases from between my shoulders and I know I can relax around Lavernia. Women like us share unspoken bond; we are working women in a society that increasingly believes a woman's only role is maternal.

"Are you from Paris?" Lavernia asks when she sees my smile.

"Faubourg Saint Antoine. And you?"

"Île de la Cité."

"I'm sorry," I reply.

"It is a sorry place."

With only the poor streaming into Paris, every time revolution brews, the city falls further into disrepair as the king's absolute power takes its toll on the people. Some neighborhoods are better than others. Where I'm from, artists, students, and revolutionaries swarm the taverns and public houses, but others, like Lavernia's, are filled with nothing but empty stomachs.

"You'll get used to it here," Lavernia consoles me as we pass through halls that jog my memory. We are somewhere near the studio.

"So the feeling of being out of place goes away?"

Lavernia pats my hand. "In time. But there is food here, and warm beds you can sleep the night in without fear of your throat being slit for your coin."

I didn't fear such things when I had Morel's support to keep me in decent lodgings, but I never forgot my life before him. When he discovered me I was a skin and bones, sketching people on the street when I should have been selling flowers to support my keep at the orphanage. He may have saved me from desperate circumstances, but I still sleep with a knife under my pillow.

"And then there's all the luxury you've ever dreamed of and more," Lavernia continues. "There are more gardens than you could ever paint in a lifetime, parties with pink champagne, and a menagerie. Did they tell you about the menagerie?"

"No." I'm not sure how I feel about the royals being able to keep and feed a menagerie of wild animals while I had starved as a child. It certainly doesn't make me feel any better about my new position at court, but there's no way to go back to the way things were.

We round a corner and the gilded double doors of the studio stand at the end of the hall.

"There you are," Lavernia says, gesturing to my chambers. "If you need anything else, a friend even, send a message with a page. I will keep my eyes open for you."

"If you see me making a fool of myself, will you let me know?"

"Of course. Goodnight, dearie." Lavernia squeezes my shoulder and saunters off down the dim hallway.

I enter the studio and close the door behind me. Darkness fills the room, but a sliver of warm, flickering light glows through the door to my bedchamber. Alone in the shadows, I remember the fear I felt in the presence of Lord Gardet. I start to lock the door, but I pause when I hear the muffled sound of voices in the corridor.

"Where are you off to, General?" Lavernia's musical voice carries through the door.

I push the door open a sliver to better hear them.

"I hope you weren't chasing down the poor new court painter," Lavernia says."You have seen her? Is she ill?"

I recognize Destan's voice.

"She seemed shaken, but court can be overwhelming. Was that my dress she was wearing?"

I press an eye to the crack between the doors and spot them standing in the center of the hall. There's barely a breath between them. If someone stumbled across them they'd think they discovered a pair of lovers. To my surprise, a little bit of jealousy flares to life again. Does this woman have every man in Versailles wrapped around her finger?

"She left the Grand Service in a hurry. I was going to make sure she was fine," Destan says.

Lavernia tilts her head to the side. "Why? Are you trying to recruit her to the cause?"

"A little discretion," Destan says, his voice lowered so I have to strain to hear him. "We can't talk like that here."

"Shall we go to your room or mine?" Lavernia teases. She hooks a finger into the high collar of his coat and tugs a button loose.

"Lavernia, please. What if someone sees and word gets back to the king, or worse, your husband?"

Lavernia juts her chin towards my door. "Or the painter you're so concerned about."

Destan stiffens. "Discretion would be prudent."

She refastens the button of his collar. "Then be a gentleman and walk me to my door."

"We shall walk together as far as the south wing," he counters.

Her lips pull into a grin and she pinches his chin between her thumb and forefinger. "Deal." She slips her milky white arm into the crook of his elbow.

They continue to speak but I can no longer hear what they say. I let out a sigh to release my tension but when I do, Destan's head swings back to look over his shoulder. He stops at the far end of the passageway and his eyes seem to find mine.

The hair at the back of my neck stands on end. I duck away from the opening and press my back to the door. Had he heard me? From all the way at the end of the hall? It seems impossible but I cover my mouth and nose with my hands.

I wait for what feels like an age before I slowly pull the door closed and turn the key; I even go so far as to remove it from the lock.

The prickle in the palms of my hands sends me scurrying for the light of my bedchamber and the false sense of safety it offers. A fire warms my towering room and chases away the shadows, but my fear has taken over once more.

In a hurry, I pick off the layers of my gown, unbuttoning skirts, shedding the panniers and loosening the stays until I'm only in my chemise. After piling the vestiges of my dress onto a chair, only then do I tread lightly to the little bed on the far wall. I nestle deep into the down blankets which smell of the last familiarity I have of my old life.

With a deep breath of Morel's cologne, I try to calm myself enough to sleep, but my heart still throbs in my chest — loud enough to drown out the crackle of the fire.

I'm in shock. It is the only logical explanation for the icy fear that surges through my veins unprovoked. But my instincts have never betrayed me before, so a part of me wonders, why now?

The hand beneath my pillow fondles the cold hilt of the knife which lays in wait there to steady my nerves.

Sleep finally tugs at my eyes once the fire has died to glowing embers, and my eyes can no longer jump open at every sound. I'm too tired to think anymore – too tired to pay my faulty senses any more heed. My eyes blink heavily at the ornately papered ceiling until sleep pulls me under. 

***

Thanks so much for reading! What do you guys think of Lord Gardet's strange appearance? Or the queen's?