Chapter Twelve - I Most Certainly Am Not a Blueberry

One moment, I was staring in horror at the man behind my sister, and the next, I was flying up the stairs to the parterre. Jacqueline called my name, but I paid her no mind, my eyes locked on the bastard threatening Renée’s safety. With each step, my vision blurred, and my head felt lighter, like my mind was detaching itself from my body.

I stumbled up the last step, shooting my hand out to the iron banister as my vision focused, unfocused, and focused again. I ran against the crowd, and swarms of frantic men and ladies jabbed me in the side and stomped on my toes. I pushed my way past them, dodging panniers and curled wigs and diamonds sharp as daggers hanging from bone-thin wrists.

I was drowning in screams. In fear. In waves of expensive perfume.

“Renée!” I yelled into the mass of people.

The only answer I received was chaos.

“Renée! Renée, say something!”

I nearly toppled over in relief when, from somewhere in the throngs of people, Renée called out, “Olivier! Over here!”

I rushed in the direction of my sister’s scream, reaching out blindly for her hand in the crowd. There was a flash of black curls, and a moment later she had hold of my arm. Without waiting to catch my breath, I yanked her behind me, back down the marble stairs and in the direction of the front entrance. I didn’t know if the man was close, but I also didn’t care. I needed to get myself and my sister to safety.

Though, as we shoved past the still screaming crowd, seconds away from sweet, sweet freedom, Renée stopped. “Olivier, wait.”

“We can’t wait,” I protested, giving her arm another yank. She didn’t budge. “Or do you wish to be shot by some madman with a pistol?”

“Jacqueline isn’t here.”

“Of course she is. She was next to me when we spotted you. She should be right—” I glanced over my shoulder, half expecting to see Jacqueline behind us with a smug grin on her face, but all I saw was the same mass of courtiers. I cursed. “Well, it’s no matter. She’ll catch up with us.”

I tried to get moving again, but Renée pulled me back with so much force, my shoulder was almost ripped from its socket. “We can’t leave without her.”

“Why not?”

“Olivier.”

The groan I let out reverberated all the way down to my bones. “Fine. But can we at least wait somewhere that’s not in the direct sight of a pistol-wielding bastard?”

Renée mercifully agreed, allowing me to lead her outside and behind a stout, white-painted ticket box near the small courtyard. It was only after we’d crouched behind the box, heads angled so we could still see what was happening inside, that Renée said, “There is more than one.”

“More than one pistol?”

“More than one bastard. Three, in fact.”

I nearly soiled myself. “Three?”

I must have screamed the word, for Renée pressed her palm against my mouth as she continued. “I’m not certain if there are more, but three men stood up as soon as intermission began, weapons held out in front of them. One shot someone in the orchestra before everyone panicked.”

I lowered my voice to a whisper. “That’s the same number of men Comte de Coligny had with him in the café.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Did Jacqueline not tell you?”

“Obviously not.”

I recounted the events of the past hour—from what I had overheard the comte say the first time I eavesdropped, to Mathieu telling me about Étienne’s hanging, to my second eavesdrop on the comte, and finally, Jacqueline’s odd clock proclamation.

When I finished, Renée’s face fell. “Étienne’s hanging has been moved to the end of this week?”

“Merde.” In my hysteria, I’d forgotten Renée didn’t know about the date of our brother’s hanging. “Renée, I’m so sorry, I—”

Before I could finish my sentence, Renée grabbed me by my cravat and yanked me toward her.

My hands flew to my throat. “Let go.”

“Get up,” Renée said. “It’s the man who shot the member of the orchestra. And he’s heading this way.”

I scrambled up, the lavender silk of my coat and breeches slipping on the dew-dampened grass, and leapt farther behind the wooden ticket box. The shaded space was slight, and Renée’s damn dress was nearly as wide as a carriage. But the night was shrouded by clouds, and I prayed the darkness would be enough to hide us from sight.

With the metallic tang of fear sharp on my tongue, I gripped the box’s edge and peered out onto Rue Saint-Honoré.

At first, I saw nothing but passing carriages and curious onlookers, heads turned toward the Palais-Royal to watch frightened aristocrats in their rush to leave. Then my gaze landed on a man heading against the crowd in our direction. He wasn’t walking so much as stumbling, dragging a single foot behind him like he’d been injured. My eyes traveled down to his foot, and I swallowed back a scream. A chunk of wood stuck through his shoe, its jagged edge slick with blood. But he continued on as if he felt no pain at all.

I waited for anyone to notice us lingering behind and come to our rescue, but the few leftover stragglers were running toward their coachmen and valets, and no one glanced back at the opera house.

“Renée, look at his foot,” I said. “He was normal enough when I saw him with the comte, but now he doesn’t even seem to notice his injury. Who wouldn’t notice a chunk of wood sticking through their foot?”

“I don’t know,” she responded.

“What are we to do? We aren’t in sight, are we? What if we are? I can’t run fast, and your dress is the size of a baby elephant. What if—”

“You can stop talking for one.”

“I truly don’t believe I can.”

The man was now only a stone’s throw away, so close, I could see the muted moonlight glint off the silver buttons on his coat. I wanted to leap out from behind the ticket box and make a mad dash to our family carriage, but fear kept me rooted in place.

That was when Jacqueline shot out from the opera hall.

Her hair had come loose from its updo since I’d last seen her, and it flew freely down her back in waves of cascading black. A dagger was clutched in her hand, and she slashed out at the back of the man’s knees, darting away from his own attacks like oil thrown on a hot stove. I hadn’t the slightest idea where she had been keeping that dagger hidden while we were inside the Palais-Royal, but at the moment, I’d never seen a more beautiful weapon in my entire life. Though I was still vexed at her for calling me a blueberry.

The two of them were an odd sight. The ample amounts of teal velvet hanging from the man’s sleeves fluttered as he struck out at Jacqueline again and again. Whenever he moved, his satin coat flew open, revealing the ivory pistol tucked tight into his breeches.

Other than the wood sticking through his foot, the man’s clothes were pressed and immaculate, a white ribbon the width of my wrist tied at the back of his pomaded wig. It was like watching my own father clumsily try his luck at a boxing match minutes before he was due for a dinner party at Versailles.

And Jacqueline. . . Well, I didn’t think I’d ever seen a woman even holding a dagger, let alone using it to stab someone whilst wearing an orange gown and jeweled shoes.

I was so transfixed by the oddity of the scuffle itself, I didn’t stop to think about why Jacqueline was attacking the man in the first place. At least, not until the man struck out with his hand, knocking her back and causing her to stumble over the stone curb. She fell hard, her dagger skidding into a patch of dew-dampened grass.

“What are you doing?” I yelled. “Run away!”

Renée elbowed me in the side.

“What?” I asked, but then the man twisted around, fixing his gaze on where my head had popped up above the ticket box counter. “Oh. Oops.”

Jacqueline scrambled to her feet, retrieved her dagger, and slashed at the man’s calf. The silk of his breeches split in two, blood seeping from the wound and staining the cream silk crimson. “You two must leave!” she yelled.

Renée grabbed me by the tail of my coat and yanked me down, though it was too late, and we both knew it. I had the vague awareness that my outburst had put us in danger, but I couldn’t quit staring at Jacqueline, flinching at each dive she made with her dagger.

Though the longer I watched, the more off the man seemed. He wasn’t trying to dodge her attacks, nor was he showing any signs of pain. He simply continued his pursuit, as if he couldn’t see or feel or think about anything else.

Jacqueline grabbed at the man’s sleeve to turn his attention away from Renée and me, simultaneously slashing out at his face. She missed, and the man stumbled into her, hand clasped around the pistol tucked into his breeches. If I sat back and did nothing, she’d no longer be a murderer—she’d be murdered.

Before I could stop myself, I jumped out from behind the ticket box and ran for Jacqueline. Renée screamed my name, but I ignored her, forced entirely on keeping Jacqueline from being shot.

“He has a pistol!” I yelled and slammed myself into the man.

He whipped said pistol out from his breeches and aimed it straight at me. I had a brief moment to think dear God, I’m going to be shot for trying to save someone I don’t even like, and then Jacqueline stabbed her dagger into his uninjured foot. The pistol went off, a bullet whizzing past my ear and slamming into a nearby yew tree. A second later, the man’s jeweled ring knocked against my brow. I fell backwards, collided with Jacqueline, and sent us both crashing to the ground.

“Get off,” she said, kneeing me in the back.

I rolled away. My brow throbbed something awful, and when I pressed a hand to my head, my fingers came away wet and sticky with blood. “Sorry. I thought—I wanted to—sorry.”

Still sprawled out in a tangle of limbs, Jacqueline and I glanced over at the man. He, too, had fallen, but it didn’t stop him from trying to reach us. With both his feet rendered useless, he’d taken to dragging himself across the ground in the direction of his pistol. As he went, his body slapped wetly against the cobblestones.

I scuttled back, reaching out to Jacqueline again and again, until I was able to grasp onto her satin sleeve and yank her up with me as I rose to my feet. “This is weird, and I think we should go.”

“I was right. . . about the clock,” she said between gasped breaths.

The man continued his pursuit, grasping at loose stones in the street and using them to propel his body forward. It was slow going, but he never faltered. Nor did he speak or blink or breathe. A soundless scream built in the base of my throat.

“I’m so glad for you,” I said. “But perhaps we ought to—”

“He’s acting like the man who attacked Étienne.”

I stopped. “What did you say?”

“Olivier, look out!”

At the sound of Renée’s scream, I glanced up. The man was still dragging himself toward us, fingernails bloody where they'd torn off. But he wasn’t alone anymore. Behind him, two other men had emerged from the trees. I wasn’t surprised to see they were the same strangers from the café—one with the horn-like wig, and one with the goat dropping coat.

Both held pistols. Both were headed in our direction.

I grabbed Jacqueline’s wrist. “We really ought to go now.”

There was nowhere to go, however. On our left was the opera house, and on our right, the ticket box. Behind us was nothing more than the stone walls of the palace, and if we wished to run forward, we’d have to pass the men.

Jacqueline shoved her dagger at me. “Here, take this. I’ll find something else to use.”

“Ah!” I jumped away from the outstretched weapon. “No, thank you.”

“Then what are you planning to do? Stand there and get shot?”

“No, I—” I glanced around, spotted a large stick on the ground, and snatched it up. “I shall use this to scare them away.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You’re going to scare them away with a stick?” Then under her breath she mumbled, “Ridiculous.”

“And a gowned woman swinging a blade while in heels isn’t at all ridiculous?”

Jacqueline didn’t bother to respond. She held out the dagger, fingers clutched around its silver hilt. I wasn’t certain how she planned to fight against three grown men with nothing more than a dagger and determination, but something in me felt compelled to stand by her side and try my luck as well.

A fire festered within me, urging me to lunge for the men with all the strength I could muster and slash at them again and again until I was sure they wouldn’t be able to hurt me or my sister or Jacqueline. But I was weak and I was scared and I could do nothing but stare at them like a cornered mouse, a mere spectator to my own demise.

I glanced at Jacqueline, silently begging her to throw the dagger or distract them or something.

Then the two men let out a horrifying, unified scream—and turned the pistols on themselves.

“What in God’s name is happening?” I asked. “Are they going to kill themselves? Should we stop them?”

A handful of guards darted out from the opera house, rapiers drawn. They ran for the men, ripping the pistols from their hands and shoving them onto the ground. They were so focused on their mission, they didn’t seem to see Jacqueline and I standing near the ticket box.

“Merde,” Jacqueline whispered. “I was right. I didn’t wish to believe it, but I was right.”

My eyes flicked from the guards to Jacqueline and back again. “What aren’t you telling me?”

She swiped a hand across her face, leaving behind a streak of scarlet on her tawny skin. “The comte used the clock to influence their minds.”

“He did what?”

She didn’t get the chance to answer. For at that moment, the king rounded the outside of the Palais-Royal, flanked on either side by more members of the Swiss guard.

“Take these men back to the palace, where they’ll be questioned,” he told the guards. Though his words were commanding, his voice shook, gaze moving between each man in a hysterical frenzy. From where I stood, I could just make out his mumble of, “This shouldn’t be happening.”

The prisoners weren’t struggling or attempting to get away. Instead, they were still, eyes open and bodies motionless as the cobblestones beneath their bodies. I shuddered.

Then the king’s attention snapped to us.

I expected him to yell, to accuse us of doing something to the men, but all he did was lower the hood on his billowing robe and say, “These are the three men the comte spoke to earlier.”

Jacqueline nodded.

“They were fine in the café and now. . .” He swallowed, eyes darting everywhere but the three men. He looked small suddenly, like all the swaths of velvet and silk he wore were threatening to swallow him whole. “Earlier, you seemed to know something wasn’t right.”

“I do believe I know what happened, Your Majesty,” Jacqueline confirmed. “And I can explain it to you, if you’d like.”

“If that’s the case”—the king straightened his coat, hands trembling—“I request you and the d’Aumont children meet me tomorrow at Versailles. We can continue our discussion there.”