I don't know what Destan hears over the orchestra, but the look on his face makes my blood run cold.

Lafayette appears at my side. "Did you hear that?"

I glance between them and strain to hear something, but I only hear the sounds of the ball and the crash of water on the tiered fountain in the grotto. Then there's a whistle and a gold firework explodes overhead.

Destan and Lafayette both flinch at the resounding boom.

"Fireworks?" I ask, hoping that's the answer.

Lafayette shakes his head. The crowd gasps and applauds as more fireworks light up the night sky in red and blue. Destan moves us away from the dancers and draws the ceremonial sword at his waist.

"Are you armed?" he asks Lafayette.

Lafayette lifts the handle of his eagle-headed walking stick and reveals a cane sword concealed inside it. "I left my pistol at home tonight."

A young nobleman, stinking of sweet spirits, stumbles into us. He stops at the sight of drawn weapons. "Are you dueling?" He raises his voice. "Philippe! There's going to be a duel!"

I don't know who Philippe or this young man are, but I shove the glassy-eyed youth away. "What's going on?" I cry.

"Sounds like a disturbance—" Lafayette pauses. "On the Paris side of the palace."

My stomach lurches. How can he hear something that far away when I can't hear anything at all?

Destan places a reassuring hand on my elbow. "We'll know soon. Palace guards will be here shortly."

"If something is the matter, we are far too exposed out here," Lafayette says. "We need to get everyone someplace safe."

As if on cue, the Cent Suisse, the king's personal guard of Swiss mercenaries, flood into the grotto. Wearing bright red coats with blue facings and armed with gold halberds, they swarm the king and queen and send the entire ball into chaos.

Their captain finds Destan in the crowd and makes his way to us. "The Garde du Corps are assisting the Gardes Suisse at the south gate," he says. "Rioters swarmed the guards and a few have entered the palace."

"We need to move the king and queen to a more defensible location," Lafayette says.

"The Orangerie is close," Destan suggests.

The captain nods then passes the orders to the guards. They begin to usher people out of the ballroom grove and direct them down to the Orangerie, which was built beneath the south parterre. Lavernia finds us in the chaos. "What is happening?"

"Rioters in the palace," Destan says as he grabs my arm to lead us through the crowd. His eyes never stop moving, like he's trying to discern where an attack will come from.

"Go," Lafayette says to Destan when we emerge from the grove. "See to your men. I'll make sure everyone is secured in the Orangerie."

Destan looks at me with real fear in his eyes. He pulls a long knife from a sheath hidden in his jacket and hands it to me. "Can you—"

"I can take care of myself," I say, sounding more confident than I feel.

"Fine." He looks down at the knife. His hands are gentle as he adjusts my grip on it so the blade faces down towards the ground. "But that's how you hold a dagger."

My brows furrow in confusion and he holds up his arm as if he's trying to protect himself.

I mimic the gesture and now the blade sticks out towards my attacker. "I see — now go."

It looks like it takes every last ounce of his free will for him to leave us, but he eventually peels away and jogs toward the palace. We rejoin the flow of courtiers down the long, wide steps to the Orangerie. At the bottom of the stairs, guards direct us through a formal garden lined with hundreds of fruit trees planted in boxes. I recognize them as part of the gardens that I can see from the window of my apartments. A glance up at the south wing of the palace above us does little to slow my pounding heart. Nothing looks amiss, but the windows are dark. Whatever is happening inside, I cannot catch a glimpse of it.

Lavernia holds tight to me as we enter the empty Orangerie. I almost forget that the palace is under attack at the sight of the empty gallery. The space is massive with clean lines carved into white stone and vaulted ceilings that soar high above our heads. It's surprisingly warm and I'm taken with the idea of sketching it when it will be filled with the fruit trees from out on the parterre to keep them alive through the winter.

We find a place along the back wall and watch silently as the final courtiers are rounded up inside. The Cent Suisse close and bolt the paned glass doors and station themselves in front of each of the arched glass windows.

No one speaks for what feels like years, but somewhere I can hear muffled crying.

Long minutes pass, perhaps even an hour, before anyone speaks, but no one dares to lift their voice above a whisper.

"Does this happen often?" I ask Lavernia.

She shakes her head and her red curls quiver. "Not since I've been here."

My stomach feels uneasy. I've been away from Paris long enough that I don't have any clue what is happening there. I used to know what plagued the people of Paris, whether it was the shortage of grain or the price of cloth. Now all I know is painting by day and parties and entertainment by night. The Revolution of 1789 happened when I was just a child, but the memory of those horrors has never faded away. My fist tightens around the blade at my side.

Lafayette stands between us and the nearest window. He must remember the last time rioters got past the gates of Versailles. The women's march on Versailles might have ended with regicide if he hadn't calmed the crowd. Several guards were killed that night — their heads placed on spikes. I wonder if he thinks of them now.

As if he senses my thoughts, he turns to me. "Be glad you weren't in the palace tonight," he says. "Hunger is a powerful thing. It can make people into monsters."

I strain to hear the sounds of a fight over the rustle of skirts on the stone floors as courtiers shift about uneasily.

There's movement outside the windows and several gasps rise up from the crowd. Bodies pour into the garden and I almost scream, but my breath gets strangled in my throat. In seconds, my panic turns to relief as I recognize the Gardes du Corps. Destan strides ahead of them with a sword in one hand and a pistol in the other. The Gardes Suisse open the doors of the Orangerie for him.

Destan enters the gallery with a cool night breeze. His gaze finds the king safe and sound, and then his eyes fall on me. "The palace has been cleared. It's safe for everyone to return to their apartments."

"Were the rioters caught?" King Louis asks with an audible tremble in his voice.

"A few were apprehended," Destan says. "The others fled when they were confronted by our soldiers."

Queen Henriette places a pale, delicate hand on the king's shoulder. "They should be executed," she cries. "This was a personal attack on my party."

Destan doesn't appear to react to the queen's pronouncement. "Justice will prevail, Your Majesty," he says and gestures for them to follow the Gardes Suisse and the Garde du Corps to the palace.

Courtiers file out of the gallery and head somberly out onto the parterre. The guards are given orders to make sure everyone is safely returned to their rooms.

When Lafayette, Lavernia and I reach the doors, Destan falls in line with us. "I'm escorting you back to your apartment," he says to me. He sheathes his sword, but he keeps the pistol in hand.

There is something commanding in his voice that warns me not to test him.

When we enter the palace, Lafayette takes Lavernia in the direction of her rooms and Destan takes me in the direction of mine. He doesn't speak as we move through the darkened halls and I don't dare break the silence. I can't. My pulse flutters every time my eyes catch movement or fall a shadowed corner too dark to see into.

I tell myself to trust Destan — trust that he and his men found every last intruder. When that doesn't work, I sneak a glance at him. His every movement is graceful and unhurried. He stares ahead of us, but his expression is unreadable.

He notices me watching and glances my way. "What is it?"

"Nothing," I say.

We turn down the hallway towards the studio and he looks away. My fingers start to cramp up as I realize I'm still holding his dagger. I haven't dared to shift my grip since Destan adjusted it in my hands.

"Do you want this back?" I hold up the dagger when we stop in front of my door.

Destan pushes my wrist down so the blade isn't pointed at his chest. He tests the door to my apartments and finds it unlocked. "Not yet. Hold onto it while I clear your chambers."

I start to follow him into the darkened room but he stops me.

"Stay there." Another command, but it somehow sounds like a reprimand.

He disappears into my studio and I hear the guttering of flames as he lights the candles. I glance through the doorway and spot him checking behind the ornate draperies for intruders in the soft glow. He moves from the draperies to a large wardrobe where I keep my painting supplies.

My limbs feel heavier by the minute and a dull throbbing starts in my head. "There aren't many places to hide in these rooms," I say when all I can think of is the soft bed in my bedchamber.

He shoots me a glare. "What did I say about staying in the hall?"

I look down to confirm that my feet haven't crossed the threshold to the room. "I am in the hall."

"Then don't block the door," he scolds.

Something about his tone makes my blood boil — like I'm a willful child who is misbehaving. "Then why didn't you say so in the first place?"

He doesn't answer me and continues his futile search of my room. It stokes my mild annoyance into anger that burns hot in my chest. When he insists on checking inside a cabinet that could only fit a small child, I finally hit my limit and storm into the room.

Destan rounds on me as I cross the room to start opening drawers full of pastels and brushes. "No one is in here," I proclaim loudly.

Anger flashes on Destan's face. "What is wrong with you? I'm trying to keep you from getting killed."

"And I would like to go to bed."

Destan strides across the room to me. "Saints, I've never met anyone so impatient. I haven't even been in here for more than five minutes."

I straighten to my full height. "And that's three minutes too many."

"Forgive me," Destan says. "I didn't realize you were a trained soldier."

"I'm not — which is why I don't appreciate being ordered around like one of yours."

I move to jab him in the chest with one of my fingers, but his reflexes are shockingly fast. He catches my hand and doesn't let go. I don't dare look away from his eyes as I match his glare with one of my own.

My breath comes fast and his does too.

Destan's nostrils flare. "I'm trying to help you," he growls.

Maybe it's the exhaustion, but my glare falls first as I start to realize I'm probably being unreasonable. Morel always knew well enough to send me away when I was tired like this. I withdraw my hand from his and take a step back towards the door. "I'm sorry—" I start to say when the door to my bedchamber flies open.

Two men rush out from the darkness within. The first charges Destan with an axe raised over his head, but Destan raises his sword with inhuman speed. He blocks the fall of the axe, but his attacker is undeterred and wrestles Destan to the ground.

The second man, the smaller of the two, rushes me with a short blade. "Vive la Revolution! Vive Marat!" he cries.

Everything seems to move slower and I remember the dagger in my hand with just enough time to lift it up before the man crashes into me. We tumble to the floor and my head hits the wood with a loud thud. Stars burst in front of my eyes. The man's form weighs heavily on me and his arm presses hard on my neck and threatens to cut off my airway.

"Guards!" Destan shouts. "Guards!"

I struggle against the man on top of me until I feel something warm and slick on my hand. A strangled cry escapes my lips.

A shot rings out and it makes my blood run cold. "Destan!" I croak out.

I hear the heavy footsteps and the weight of my attacker is lifted off me. I gasp when I see Destan standing over me. He looks different from the Destan I know; his face has changed ever so slightly. The glow of the candles lights up his profile. His nose is straighter, his chin more defined, his ears pointed, and his eyes have more sparkle. They scan me and stop at my waist. He drops to his knees at my side and runs his hands over my stomach. I try to sit up, but he holds my shoulder down.

"Don't move," he says. "Where are you hurt?"

I try to see what he's doing, but my head aches from where I hit the floor. "I just hit my head—" My breath catches when I see the dark stain in the middle of my gown.

I glance at the man Destan pulled off of me where he lays sprawled at my feet, unmoving, my blade buried in his chest. The blood on the front of the dress isn't mine.

"Don't look at him. Look at me," Destan says gently. He turns my head to face him. A trickle of red runs from his hairline down to his temple.

"You're hurt, but your face..." I say, but Destan's features have returned to normal.

"I'm fine."

I reach up to brush the red tear from his cheek, but the movement makes a sharp pain throb under my ribs like I have a stitch in my side. I suck in a breath through clenched teeth.

Where did that come from?

Destan's eyes seem to find the exact spot and his face falls. "Please listen to me and lie still," he says, his voice terrifyingly calm and pleading. His fingers find the tender spot on my side and he presses down hard.

I scream out as a fresh, white-hot pain sears through my side.
Destan uses his other hand to hold me down. "Breathe. You need to breathe through this. Help is coming."

My eyes can't focus through the pain so I roll my head and look at the man who attacked me. The man I killed. Only now I can see he isn't really a man. He's a boy no older than sixteen years. He and the other intruder both have white kerchiefs tied around their heads.

My breath comes in shallow gasps. "Who are they?" I ask.

"The Children of Marat," he says. "Have you heard of them?"

"I know who Marat is. I've never heard of his children before — I didn't think he had any."

"He didn't—"

Destan is interrupted by the sound of feet in the hall. To my relief, guards enter the studio. They pause at the sight of us, but Destan is quick to issue orders. "You, go get a physician," he barks. "I need help carrying her. We need to get her to her bedchamber. The rest of you can get these two men out of here and find me the names of the guards who cleared this wing."

When hands lift me off the floor, the pain in my side surges like fire. White spots flicker inside my vision.

"Stay with me, Florette. Keep talking if you can."

I'm trying.

The words on my tongue come out in a guttural groan. I hear Destan curse before everything goes black.

***

Thank you so so much for reading! Your support for this story has been such an encouragement! I can't wait for you guys to find out what happens to Florette!