Chapter 1

I capture the city before anyone is awake. The sun rises at my back, a warm kiss on the bare skin of my neck, and I document this Parisian morning with oils and canvas. I hurry to catch the dramatic shadows and swaths of gold that sprawl across the rooftops of the Île-de-France before the sun gets too high or the master painter returns. I have already finished the sketches Edmond Morel left for me and he hasn't returned from the palace in weeks.

He doesn't like it when I paint these jagged, ugly rooftops, but they're not as hideous as he claims. Still, I miss his presence in the studio when he goes away. Energetic and overwhelming and enchanting at once, I worry my art suffers when he isn't here to place his hand over mine and change the stroke of my brush. There isn't the same pressure when he is at the palace, but I imagine the heat of the orpiment yellow sun is Morel when his chest hovers inches from my back as he leans in close to watch over my shoulder.

The cool morning air is disturbed by the distinct rattle of wheels and the rhythmic clop of horses as a carriage pulls to a stop below, on the cobblestone street of Rue du Faubourg Saint Antoine. I put my palette aside and lean over the railing to see who has arrived. I freeze at the sight of a carriage with the fleur de lis.

A royal carriage.

It's not fine enough to be carrying around a person of consequence, but it could only have come from the palace.

Heart racing, I expect to see Morel alight from the coach, but men, soldiers in royal blue coats dotted with shiny brass buttons, descend from the carriage. Morel isn't with them.

They enter the building and the sound of their boots echoes on the stairs, rhythmic like drum tattoo. What does this mean? Are they here for me? Madame Poulin's terrier starts up a horrible racket that will wake the entire neighborhood.

I don't have time to think. I close the floor-length windows to the balcony and wipe my dirty hands on my apron. It takes only seconds to swap it for a clean one and knot a sheer, white fichu over my shoulders.

The officers who knock on my door tell me not to bother with my belongings; I'm needed at Versailles.

My invitation to court has finally arrived.

I have wanted this for so long that I don't even pause to say goodbye to the four dingy walls of the garret before they escort me down to the carriage to whisk me away.

My heart thunders in my ears as excitement turns my stomach into knots. Morel is always at the palace to work on his commissions, but he has never taken me along with him. He says the court of Louis XVI is fickle and dangerous — but so is Paris. He doesn't tell me that my art isn't ready, he says my tongue will get me killed. But why has he decided to bring me to court now?

When he is away at court, he always seems so far away, but the journey to Versailles is shorter than I expect. The village outside the château is quiet compared to the overcrowded streets of Paris. I admire the charming uniformity of the buildings until a great palace of creamy white stone, red bricks, and blue-tiled roofs rises above the road.

Château de Versailles.

I have passed the Louvre and Tuileries palaces in Paris many times, but nothing can compare to the scale of Versailles. We pull through gilded gates, and the coach comes to a stop. No one is allowed into Versailles without the proper uniform, and my stained skirts and Caraco jacket certainly won't do.

I am whisked away to a room in the Grand Stables where I'm bathed in freezing water. The maid puts me into an elaborate chemise with dangerously ruffled sleeves that extend to my elbows, but that's only the start. She laces me into new stays and ties a simple set of modest panniers around my waist. The maid's eyes, pewter in color, linger on my indigo stained fingers. They can take the rags I called a dress when I arrived at the palace, but it will take a vigorous scrubbing and turpentine to remove the Vermillion that has burrowed into my skin and made a home in the beds of my nails.

"I will get these dirty," I say to the grey woman, pointing to the gypsum white ruffles that dangle dangerously close to my hands.

"Then we will replace them." The matter is settled and she throws a white, quilted petticoat over my head.

If I'm to join Morel at court I will wear what they tell me and do as they say. I won't let him down. I resist every urge to protest, even though it seems a waste of a fine chemise.

My outfit is finished with yet another skirt — this one with pale blue and cream ticking, a matching stomacher, and a gown that laces in the front.

The stiff silks of my dress rustle around me as I follow a pair of footmen in the blue livery. We leave the stables and join the throngs of people who stream through the gates of Versailles. My heart races as we make our way through the grand courtyards and into the palace hallways full of marble and gilded mirrors, chandeliers and paned windows overlooking gardens that might stretch on for miles in every direction. The decadence is like nothing I've seen in my life. In the symmetry of every window, the patterns in the foil papered walls, the lines and rich colors that flow between each hallway and room, my painter's eyes see beauty. The palace has been designed and decorated by the most skilled craftsmen in France. I can't take in every detail at our hurried pace, but every fiber of my being wants to.

The guards stop at a set of double doors and move aside for me to enter. I hope Morel is waiting for me beyond so he can explain why he brought me here — and why now. The tightening knot in my gut ignites my singular hope. Deep down it's always the same: I hope he's brought me here because, finally, he thinks my art is ready.

"Enter," an unfamiliar voice calls from within and I step through the doors.

A man looks up from his desk. He has pale green eyes and skin so white it bleeds into the greys of his powdered wig. He wears outdated cosmetics but they accentuate the elegant features of his aging face to enchanting effect. "Mademoiselle Florette, welcome. My name is Lord Gardet." He dips into a graceful bow.

For a man so comically painted, I sense something strange about him. His voice is cold and hollow, belying his toothy smile.

"Where is Morel?" My voice comes out sharper than I intend it to, but I blame it on the man's cold gaze.

Surprise flickers on Lord Gardet's face. "I hate to bring you here under such unfortunate circumstances—"

"Unfortunate circumstances?" I cut him off and something darker replaces his surprise. When I remember myself, I sink my teeth into my lower lips so I won't make things any worse for myself.

Lord Gardet schools his features into a look of sympathy. Or at least the illusion of it. "Yes. All of us here at court consider Edmond Morel's death a great loss."

Morel? Dead? Shock claws at my lungs and makes it hard to breathe. I can't form words.

"My apologies, Mademoiselle Florette. I did not know I was breaking this news to you."

I clear my throat. "When?" It's the only word I can choke out.

"He's been gone a week's time, I thought you would have known."

Morel has been dead for a week and I've been left ignorant all this time? I want to yell at this callous, unfeeling man, but I doubt it wouldn't help me get the answer I seek. "How did he die?" Was he executed? My silent question hangs heavy in the air.

"An accident," Lord Gardet says. His posture shifts and his tone is more guarded. "He drowned in the canal when his boat overturned during one of the naval displays." I get the sense that he isn't telling me the full truth, but I don't know which part is the lie. That he drowned. Or that it was an accident. "I would have sent word sooner if I had known about your relationship to Morel."

"Morel—" His name catches in my throat and threatens to strangle me. "Morel never communicated with me much when he was at Versailles. He kept me largely separate from his life here."

"I see," Lord Gardet shuffles the papers on his desk. "And he kept us ignorant of you until his death. The lawyer for his estate made us aware of you. He had no family to inherit his wealth, so he has left everything to you. He also stipulated in his will that any incomplete works were to be finished by you."

I am finally too stunned for words. Morel wasn't sentimental, but he was notoriously protective of his work. I don't even know what to think as feelings rush into my throat. I'm honored that I am given this chance at all, but it also means he's truly gone. Morel would only hand off full control his work in death.

"I'll take you to the studio." Gardet heads out of the salon and I follow behind. There is no need for pleasantries between strangers and I certainly don't mind as I silently process the idea that I'll never see Morel again.

The studio sits in a corner of the garden side of the palace. Two walls of paned windows meet to point southeast, but it's not the view of the sprawling parterres of flowers that draws my eye. The nobleman steps to the side and I see a painting I never thought I would see again. My feet move on their own, carrying me forward as the painting hooks me in the ribs and refuses to release me.

On the canvas, a face — my face — and bare shoulders swim out of an inky shadow.

"It's a stunning painting," Gardet says. "I've never seen anything like it."

My heart jumps. I'd already forgotten his presence, but I recover. "It was his best work."

He joins me at my side. "You mean to say this was Monsieur Morel's work?"

I nod.

"We couldn't decide. It's nothing like anything he's done before. We thought perhaps it was something he purchased for himself."

"No," is all I can say before a lump in my throat swallows my words. It was the first and last painting Morel ever painted of me, but that isn't why I can't look away.

He painted it on a Saturday afternoon during the high heat of summer in a brief moment of peace during the revolution. I was at my own easel, coloring one of the master's sketches when I felt his eyes on me. I looked up from my canvas for only a moment.

"Don't move," he said with a flash of madness in his icy blue eyes.

My heart pounded in my ears. Even now I can remember the feeling of his gaze traveling over me. I loved to watch him work — to sneak glances at him when I should have been binding pigments — but he never really looked at me the way I looked at him. Until then.

I could have sat for hours, but he finished the painting in mere minutes before he lost the light of the golden hour. In a vain, childish fancy, I thought I'd become his muse. The brush strokes had a feverish movement I'd never seen before to complement an arresting, dark color palette — it was something entirely new.

He was so excited in the days that followed, but he soon found he could not recreate the spirit of the painting with any other subject — and it haunted him. It ruined him to think his best work was behind him.

I stood before the painting for hours, studying the hurried, almost violent strokes of the master's brush. He caught me looking at it too often so he took it away. Until this moment, I thought he had destroyed the masterpiece.

Lord Gardet breaks my reverie. "The portrait is over here." He gestures to a massive canvas on the other side of the room.

I recognize Morel's trademark style, the academy-approved style. It proclaims the glory of the monarchy in lavish detail and elysian imagery. The painting is nearly complete, though it lacks a subject.

"Who is the portrait for?" I ask as my mind begins to work a figure into the existing scene. My eyes and their instincts try to understand how Morel intended the figure to fill the empty space in the center of the canvas.

"One of our generals returns from the front lines. He is expected tomorrow. Should you need anything, ask for me by name," he says with a fox's smile.

I reply with an unbalanced curtsy.

He turns to leave but stops at the door. "If you are anywhere near as talented as your master, you could find great success here at court. I hope for my sake he's right. I still don't know what to think of a summons such as this. It wasn't the arrival at Versailles I had dreamed of, but I think perhaps Morel's will has saved my life. His name and the high prices paid for his work clothed and fed me. Without new commissions, I wouldn't have lasted on my own in the city before having to resort to stealing or eating canvases. In this way, I still need him. No one wants to buy the paintings of an unknown apprentice. If I can finish his work and prove to the court that I can carry on his legacy, I may live to eat another day.

***

THANK YOU FOR READING! I would truly appreciate it if you left your thoughts in the comments and remember to vote! What do you guys think of Florette's arrival at court?