Chapter 4

I'm still on edge when Destan arrives at my studio just after my breakfast. He opens the door hesitantly like he isn't sure what he'll find.

"Good morning, Florette," he says with a tug on the sleeve of his uniform.

"Good morning." My greeting comes out high and clipped. Does he still think I'm sick? He seems more reserved than last night — like there's less sparkle in his eyes. My face heats when I remember how I had spied on him and Lavernia. I don't know what to make of either of them anymore. They were both nothing but kind, but there's clearly something hidden between them. My stomach clenches when I remind myself to keep my guard up. And then there's Lord Gardet, who makes my skin crawl. Destan hadn't looked comfortable around his father, which makes me want to ask about their relationship since Destan doesn't use the surname Gardet. I think better of it. The unexplainable fear I felt around Lord Gardet still lingers, an unsettling tremble lodged deep in my bones. I listen to my gut and don't risk my tongue getting me in trouble with a dangerous man.

"Are you in better health this morning?" Destan asks. His tone is even and measured, but I catch the flicker of another emotion on his face.

"I am well, thank you." I flash him what I hope is an encouraging smile. "I believe it was my dinner last night that made me ill. The food here is quite rich and I believe I am not used to such delicacies yet."

"That is not uncommon," he replies and a smile cracks on his lips. He almost looks relieved.

He's believed my lie.

"I'm afraid it will be painfully obvious to everyone that I'm a stranger to the extravagance of court life." I gesture for Destan to take his place at the column, and he obliges. He strikes the same pose and to my surprise, he hits each mark with ease.

"It feels like customs change almost daily at Versailles, but some things never do," he says. "I may have been gone a few years, but I first came to court when I was a child of eight. I can answer more of your questions if you have them."

Eight? He's spent most of his life here.

"Thank you." I meet Destan's gaze so he knows how much it means to me but I know so little of Versailles that I don't know where to start. Something inside me begs to ask Destan things about himself so I can form a more solid opinion of him, but every question that comes to mind seems too familiar when we are, in reality, still strangers.

Instead, I go back to the one thing I know: painting. After making sure I like the things I blocked in yesterday, I begin work on Destan's face. Morel never spoke to me when he worked, so I'm not bothered by silence, but there's no one to scold me now for letting my lips run away. I finally let my curiosity get the best of me and ask, "Why did you come to Versailles so young?"

Destan's face softens. An impulse in me wants to capture some of that softness in my painting, but it doesn't quite fit the military portrait beneath my brush. "My mother took a position as one of the queen mother Marie Antoinette's ladies maids. She brought me with her to keep me close — I suppose that was my father's wish as well. "

"Lord Gardet."

Something about the way I say his name makes Destan chuckle. "Yes. My father and I..."

"Are very different," I blurt out.

"Her Royal Majesty, Marie Antoinette says I only take after my mother." This brings a wide, genuine smile to Destan's lips.

"I'd like to meet your mother," I say.

A shadow passes over Destan's brow. "She died during the Revolution of 1789."

"I'm sorry—I didn't suspect—" Everyone seems to have lost someone to the guillotine's blade in Marat's demand for blood.

"There's no cause for apology." His sad eyes find me though I try to hide my mortified face behind my easel.

"But before that," I say, turning our conversation to happier things. "What did your mother do with you while she worked?"

"Marie Antoinette took a special liking to my mother. I was watched by the nurses who watched over Marie's own children and when I was old enough to get an education I secured a role as a palace page."

"Was that part of your father's plans?"

Destan's mouth quirks up to the side. "My father has many plans for my life."

I like his smirk. It mirrors something in his eyes. An intelligent defiance. "And you imagine a different life for yourself," I say.

He looks at the door as if Lord Gardet may walk through it at any moment. "Yes. All the time."

"And what would your life look like if you could have your way?"

He shakes his head and smiles. "I want to have a house in the country, far enough away that I'll forget the horrid smell of city streets and battlefields, and the only sounds for miles are the sounds of the birds and the wind in the trees. And goats. I have always wanted goats."

"That sounds like a nice life. But would you not become lonely with all that space to yourself?"

"Spoken like a true Parisienne."

I laugh.

Destan runs a hand over his stubbled jaw and his gaze falls to the floor. "I always imagined I would have a wife."

When he looks back at me, my stomach clenches in a way that catches me off guard. "I suppose the goats would make some sort of company," I say.

"Yes, but they aren't as nice to look at." He pauses, his gaze pointed to the floor. "What about you?"

I don't know what makes me continue, but something about the way he has opened so much of himself to me already puts me at ease. "When I was in the orphanage, we used to take trips to the Tuileries to watch the painters on the river. On our way, we'd pass a Chapellerie with a window full of the most beautiful hats I'd ever seen. The other children thought they were so silly, but I saw the ostrich plumes and I was smitten. And these women in their stylish dresses would wander so aimlessly about the shop, floating between hats like butterflies float between flowers as if they have nowhere to be. I've never done anything so leisurely in my life, but I wanted to be one of those women." With a laugh I say, "I've never told this to anyone before."

"Perhaps you can still be one of them," Destan says.

I paint Destan until my stomach rumbles in demand for dinner. He converses with an unaffected ease and he doesn't seem to mind my endless stream of questions and court procedures and decorum. I almost hate to see the sun sink low in the sky, but our time comes to an end too quickly.

"Why?" I blurt out.

A line forms between Destan's brows. "Why what?"

"Why are you helping me?" He must know how vulnerable I am. In my tenuous position, I have nothing to offer in return for such a favor.

His shoulders tense and I worry I've offended him. He takes his time to answer. "When I first left court to join the military, I thought my world had been turned upside-down. I quickly learned that the rest of the world was right side up and Versailles is... well, it's Versailles. I can't imagine trying to navigate it for the first time on my own."

"Did Lord Gardet put you up to this?" Just his name sends an unpleasant shiver over my skin.

"No," Destan says. A smile fights at the corner of his lips. "Finding you here upon my return to the palace has been my blessing, in fact. One can get lost in the illusion of Versailles, but in a world where everyone is walking on the ceiling, your feet are firmly on the ground."

"Oh," I say.

"I'm sorry." Destan crosses to me as his eyes widen with panic. "I didn't mean to offend you. I just mean that I wish there were more people here like you, you'll find a few, but I don't want you to get swept away in the madness of court."

"So is my different good or bad? Yesterday you said my emotions make me vulnerable and I should hide behind a mask like everyone else."

"Yes, but—"

"Which is it?" I ask, firmer this time.

A gentleness slides over Destan's features. "Yes. I want to help you ease your way into court life, to help you protect yourself against those who would take advantage of you. But I don't want you to think you have to wear a mask around me."

His words make my pulse race. "And how do I know you aren't wearing your mask?"

The look on Destan's face is so earnest, I can't draw breath. "You don't. You'll just have to trust your eyes."

With burning cheeks, I tear my eyes from him and focus all my attention on my day's work, I think even Master Morel wouldn't have been able to tell it wasn't completed by his hand. It's a flawless work of art. General Bordelon's head and torso fit perfectly into the scene, but something about it feels...wrong. Technical perfection was always my goal under Morel. I think perhaps I misinterpreted what he had intended to do with the figure, but the proportions are exactly to the Master's liking. I don't want what to hate it. But I do.

"What's wrong?" Destan asks from where he leans against the Grecian column. "You look like you are about to do something you will regret to that canvas."

"I cannot figure what is wrong," I growl at the painting and question the serene vacancy of Destan's long gaze. It is a perfectly subtle portrait, but I think I've missed something integral to my subject's character. Perhaps his eyes are not defiant enough.

"Are you tired of looking at my face?" he teases.

"Yes," I say flatly, but a smile tugs at the corner of my lips.

Destan moves to stand beside me and considers the painting for a moment. I sneak a glance at him and there is a certain intensity with which he regards my representation of him. Then he turns around. The movement is angry. "You are a very skilled painter," he says.

I blow out a puff of air that pushes some errant blonde strands of hair away from my face. He hates it. "You hate it."

"Yes." He is blunt.

"I hate it too."

"It has no soul," he says as he ducks his head to rub away an unseen pain from his brow.

He's right. The painting is all style. It's Master Morel's style; the style approved by the Royal Academy. If I were a prouder woman, his comment would sting, but I am more impressed with his eye for art.

"I'm sorry," he says when I don't reply.

"Your apology is unnecessary. You are absolutely right." I glare at the painting as I search for some way to infuse life into this beautiful disaster. Surrounded by the splendor and majesty of Versailles it is a remarkably unremarkable painting. "It needs something lively," I muse.

"Perhaps some goats?" Destan starts to laugh, but the sound of the opening studio door causes him to stop. I'm caught with a wide grin on my face when Lord Gardet enters the room. He gives me a strange look that sends a chill deep under my skin. When I remember Destan's advice to keep my true feelings from showing, I fix my face into an empty gaze. I'm about to dip into a curtsey when another figure enters the room.

The Queen. Her Royal Majesty, Henriette d'Amboise.

I curtsey as low as I can and tell myself not to stare. In fact, I decide that it would be best for me to say nothing at all until I'm more practiced at courtly conversation, so I move to the edge of the room.

"General Bordelon," the queen says in a sing-song way that sets my teeth on edge. "Lord Gardet said we would find you here."

She moves lithely across the room to examine my progress on the painting. The skirts of her elaborately ruffled and layered pink silk dress swish playfully with each step. "Oh, General!" She claps a hand to her bosom. Gemstones as large and plump as ripe berries perch on each delicate finger. "You look absolutely dashing. I've never seen a portrait so stunning."

Destan bows again, a smooth gesture that seems to please Lord Gardet. "Your Royal Majesty, you flatter me," he says with cloyingly sweet words and a grin that reminds me too much of Lord Gardet's fox smile.

The queen turns to Lord Gardet. "You know, I think this portrait would make a marvelous addition to my salon."

"The painting is yours, if you wish it," Lord Gardet says with a smile as sweet as Destan's tone. "When it is finished, of course."

Destan crosses the studio and takes the queen's hand to place a kiss on one of her many glittering rings. "There can be no greater honor," he says with twinkling eyes.

I'm not sure what to think now that I'm seeing this side of him — he's become someone I don't know. I try to blend into the wall as I watch these peacocks preen and dance around each other. They each wear such elegantly crafted masks. I wear enough paint to cover another canvas, but it's not enough to hide me for long. The queen's gaze finds me and she looks at me with a benevolent smile.

"You were Edmond Morel's apprentice," she says.

I dip my head in a nod and try to keep my eyes on her without staring at her ethereal features. As much as I have tried to account for their perfection, I'm still not ready when she turns the full force of her beauty on me. When our eyes meet, my pulse races with fear and awe.

The queen tilts her head as she examines me; her wide straw hat tips at a precarious angle with her. "He has taught you well," she says. If she has noticed the flush in my cheeks, she doesn't remark on it. "And so young — I daresay you shall have a long career here. Perhaps you will even surpass Morel."

"Thank you, Your Majesty," I say with another curtsy.

She invites Destan and Lord Gardet to dinner in the king's chambers and they both agree to the plan with obsequious thanks and far too many gracious bows. They leave and Destan follows without a look back at me. I am left alone in the studio again and my face burns like a hand has struck me across the cheek. Only Destan's lifeless face stares back at me. Despite the Queen's glowing reception, the thought of hanging it on a wall feels wrong. The more I look at it, the more I lose my appetite. I work through dinner, painting the rest of Destan's uniform from memory and by dusk, it is finished.

I clean up, light a candle, and head to my bedroom, but not without a final look at the painting. Good enough, but it's not me. It's my mentor's, my last connection to Morel.

And I want in out of my studio as soon as possible.

***

Thank you all so much for reading! I want to know your thoughts! Do we stan Destan? Or does he still have too many secrets?