Chapter Eleven - God, I Wish I Had the Plague

I woke with a heaving gasp like I’d broken straight through the surface of the sea. Something cool tickled  my hairline and neck, and I shivered, forcing my eyes open. I was underneath a series of yew trees in the courtyard, thick branches twisting overhead. Between the branches, pinpricks of stars twinkled like fireflies against the blackening sky. I let out a shaking breath and pressed my hand against my heart. Its beat was faint—but steady—beneath my fingertips.

I tried to sit up, but I was so goddamn tired. It didn’t matter that I wasn’t sure where anyone was. I didn’t care that I was splayed on my back somewhere outside and not safely tucked in my bed. All I wanted was sleep.

I was just closing my eyes, ready to succumb to slumber, when something poked me in my side. I cracked my eyes open to see Jacqueline hovering over me, her loose hair tickling my cheek.

“Oh, God,” I croaked. “I truly have died and woken up in Hell.”

Jacqueline, for once, looked worried. “You fainted.”

“Yes. I have the plague.”

The worry in her face dissipated, and she blew out an annoyed breath, dark strands of hair fluttering around her face. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“Let me alone, Hell demon.” I rolled over. “I wish to sleep.”

Jacqueline grabbed me by the shoulder and yanked me back to face her. “I know it’s difficult, but you must wake up! We have more important matters at hand."

I started to groan, then stopped, lifting my head to better assess my surroundings. The Palais-Royal stood in front of us, the candles in each window lit and dancing behind orange-tinted glass. Save for a few carriages rolling by in the distance, there wasn’t another soul in sight. “Where is Renée?”

“I brought you to this clearing because I thought it would benefit you to be somewhere cooler, and she went to fetch help.”

Though it felt as if someone had replaced all the bones in my body with boulders, I managed to raise myself to a standing position. The world spun around me, and for a moment, I feared I would faint a second time. I stumbled, and Jacqueline latched a hand around my wrist to steady me.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” she asked. “We can wait a few more moments until—”

I snatched my wrist from her grasp and turned away “Don’t act as if you understand any of this.” I pressed a hand against my chest, taking small, controlled breaths like Étienne had taught me to whenever I felt panicked. In and out, in and out. Like you’re a bird, preparing for its morning song. But thinking about Étienne only made my chest ache, and knowing Jacqueline was witnessing the whole ordeal made me want to melt into the dew-soaked grass, never to be seen again.

And then I wasn’t embarrassed anymore—I was angry. None of us would even be in this predicament if Jacqueline hadn’t shown up at our home months ago looking for Étienne. My brother would have never been arrested and thrown into the Bastille.

He would never have been sentenced to death.

The desire to punch something overwhelmed me. To fling out my foot and kick it against the yew tree, over and over and over, until the brown bark chipped. But I was panicked, and my nerves were weak, and all an outburst like that would do was make everything worse.

I turned to face Jacqueline, hand resting over my chest. My heart slammed against my palm. “You ruined everything.”

Something flashed across her face. Worry, perhaps. Or shame. But before I was able to discern its meaning, she narrowed her eyes. “I was trying to help. I know what you’re going through right now.”

I looked away, glaring at the moonlight as it filtered in through the olive-tinted leaves. “No, you don’t. And how could you even help? All you’ve done is ruin our lives.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you. Have you already forgotten you killed the coachman and that is the reason my brother is in the Bastille?”

Jacqueline glowered. “My brother is in the Bastille because he insisted on taking the blame for my actions. Have you ever done something similar for Renée?”

“That’s not—I haven’t—” I sputtered, trying to come up with a way to defend myself. But all I could think of was the king and the pity in his eyes as he’d turned away from me.

I curled my hand into my palm, wishing desperately to be alone. Or better yet, wishing I could dash down the street and out of sight. “Well, at least I’ve never stolen anything!”

Jacqueline’s mouth fell open. “I beg your pardon?”

“You took my sister’s dress! Don’t act as if I wouldn't notice.”

“I didn’t steal her dress. Renée let me borrow it for tonight. She thought I might need it to enter the opera house.”

There was no clever retort for that. Instead, I said, “Well, you look stupid.”

“And you look like a blueberry.”

I gasped. “I do not!”

“The abundance of lilac silk you’re wearing says otherwise.”

“This is lavender.”

“I don’t care! I didn’t mean to kill anyone, but I did, and now Étienne is taking the blame for it. And—” Jacqueline stopped, gulping a breath, and wrapped her arms around her chest. Her fingers flexed, nails biting into her tanned skin. It was the same reaction she’d given in my family’s library when speaking about trying to find Étienne. I’d paused then, and I paused now too, eyes fixed on the red marks blossoming along her arms. I know what you’re going through right now, she’d said.

Did she?

“Never mind, It doesn’t matter.” She threw up her arms, vulnerability dissipating like morning fog. “I’m not going to sit around and argue with his immature younger brother when something terrible could be happening at this very moment.”

She didn’t wait for my response before she started in the direction of the palace, the orange silk of her dress flapping behind her like sunlight caught in a storm.

“Wait,” I called out, but she didn’t stop. “Murderer, wait!”

She spun around. “My name is Jacqueline.”

“What do you mean something terrible could be happening?”

Jacqueline stopped halfway between a copse of trees. The overhanging moonlight shone against her face, bringing out the gold tones in her dark eyes and the heart-shaped beauty mark on her cheek. “What I said about the clock wasn’t a lie.”

My first instinct was to yell at her again, something clever and grating that was sure to hurt. But then I remembered the conversation I’d overheard earlier. “When I first eavesdropped on the comte,” I said, “he mentioned Étienne was arrested on purpose because the comte wants your father to make him some clocks. I’m not certain what any of that means, but if it has something to do with the clock he had in the café—”

“My father?”

I waved a hand. “Yes. The comte said something like he will make the clocks for us now. I believe he in this case is a reference to your father, who is, in fact, alive, and has been informed of Étienne’s arrest. Though I’m not sure why he hasn’t done anything about it. My parents haven’t done anything because they’re cowards who only care about goats, but I would have thought—”

“My father,” Jacqueline repeated. The words were quiet, as if they were meant for her ears alone. “He’s alive. After all these years without contact. . . I wasn’t certain. . .” She paused.

“Yes, your father is alive. I’ve already said it once, would you like for me to say it again?”

“Then I was correct. The comte has one of my father’s clocks.”

I shot her an incredulous look. “What does any of that mean?”

Before she had the chance to answer, a woman’s scream rang out in the night. I whipped my head around and peered across the courtyard, searching for its origin. But the entrance to the opera house was empty, silent save for the music drifting through the walls. I turned back to Jacqueline to continue our conversation when a gunshot pierced through the symphony of stringed instruments.

A moment later, the music stopped.

“What was that?” I asked. “What’s happening?”

But Jacqueline was already sprinting across the courtyard. I ran after her, my fingers digging into the skin above my heart, as if that could somehow slow its panic.

When I reached the palace, Jacqueline had already thrown open the mahogany doors and entered the opera’s front hall. I tumbled in behind her, following her gaze. The doors to the amphitheater were flung wide, and courtiers spilled out of them in a blur of wigs and silk. In the commotion, a porcelain vase of roses crashed to the ground, and people trampled over the red petals, smearing them against the white marble floors like streaks of blood.

Jacqueline’s attention was fixed entirely on the frantic crowd. Her knuckles were white where she had them latched around her skirts.

“Where is Renée?” I asked. The screams of distressed aristos soared through the hall, devouring my words in their path. “Where is Renée?” I repeated, louder this time.

“What?” Jacqueline asked. She, too, was shouting.

“Renée! You said she went to fetch help earlier. Where did she go?”

Jacqueline snapped her head back to the crowd. But this time, she wasn’t simply looking at the opera attendees with a sense of shocked curiosity. Her brown eyes were moving in rapid motions from one person to the next. As if searching for Renée.

I shoved my way in next to her, my shoes skidding against the polished floors. My heart was beating so hard, I could taste it in my throat. “Where is my sister?”

“She went into the amphitheater to find someone to help you. She’s—” Jacqueline’s words cut off with a gasp. “She’s over there.”

With a shaking finger, Jacqueline pointed to the parterre. There, among the mass of courtiers, Renée ran with swaths of pink satin clutched in her fists. My eyes flicked back to the crowd, to where a single man stood, watching. It was the same man I’d seen in the opera café—the one with a scar running up his arm.

Only now, he held a pistol.

And it was aimed at the crowd