Chapter Thirteen - Thus Continues the Worst Day Ever

I fell asleep on the way home. I didn’t mean to—there were a million questions I needed answered, a million possible scenarios I could have thought up before we visited the king the next day. But everything from the night caught up with me all at once, and I passed out in our rented carriage the second we began to move.

Though it was but a ten-minute ride from the Palais-Royal to my home in Le Marais, my sleep was deep and dreamless, exhaustion pulling me under like boulders thrown into the sea. When Jacqueline woke me with a kick to the shin, my head was saturated with slumber, and it took a moment for me to crawl my way to consciousness. But the second I opened my eyes, the panic returned.

The king had invited us to visit him at Versailles the next day. I’d narrowly avoided death by a group of pistol-wielding bastards. Tomorrow would be the last chance I had to keep my brother from dying.

When we arrived home and crossed under the stone entryway into the cour d’honneur, the windows were dark as night. Which meant Mother and Father had already returned and gone to sleep without caring if Renée and I were safe. Not that I expected anything less of my parents.

“Well,” I said after the coachman helped Jacqueline, Renée, and me out of the carriage, “I suppose I should try to get in a few hours of sleep before the king ruins my life further. Good night.” I started for the front door, but only made it a few steps before Jacqueline flicked the back of my neck.

“Are you not going to tell them?” she asked.

I turned to face her, vaguely noting the smudges of sleeplessness under her eyes. “Tell who what?”

“Your parents. Are you not going to tell them Étienne’s hanging has been moved to the end of this week?”

Hearing my brother’s fate discussed aloud sent a fresh wave of panic coursing through my veins, but all I did was scrub a hand across my cheek. Bits of dried blood flaked off on my palm. “I don’t really think they would care.”

I resumed walking, but Jacqueline was right beside me, skirts hiked up past her ankles so she wouldn’t trip over the ripped pieces of her hemline. Renée followed close behind, covering a yawn with her gloved hand.

“Of course they would care,” Jacqueline said. “They’re your parents.”

Renée laughed. “You’ve never met our parents.”

Though Jacqueline peered at my sister as if she wished to say something more, she remained silent as we approached the front door. I didn’t know why she was still here, let alone why she was trailing Renée and me like she lived here as well. I ought to have told her to return to her own home—wherever that may be—and stay there for the rest of eternity. But I didn’t. Perhaps because I felt sorry for what I had said to her at the opera. Perhaps because she still hadn’t explained anything about the clocks. Perhaps because of the way she carried herself, like her past mistakes were a crushing weight on her back.

So, I didn’t tell her to go, and she didn’t leave, and together the three of us made our way into the house.

Straight into the hysterical arms of my father. Who, in a cloud of tobacco and spiced perfume, wrapped his hands around mine and Renée’s wrists and dragged us into the grand salon. Mother was already there, collapsed in a heap on the striped chaise. The red velvet drapes were pulled tight over the windows, and save for two flickering candelabras on the mantle, the salon was dark, all the paintings and furniture strewn about the room blanketed in black.

“Where have you two been?” Father asked. “Your mother and I looked everywhere for you at the opera, and when we couldn’t find you, we returned home thinking you might have left before we did, but you weren’t here, either.”

Renée and I took a step back, exchanging a glance. It wasn’t like Father to scold us for our actions, nor worry when we returned home late or disappeared into the crowd during a social gathering. We’d never been in the company of pistol-wielding bastards before, of course, but I hardly saw how that would change anything.

Father banged a fist on the marble hearth. “Answer me!”

Mother blew her nose into a monogrammed kerchief. Her eyes were rimmed with red, and her rouge was a mess, mixing in with the white powder in a smear that looked more like salmon pâté than makeup. Three crystal glasses were set on the gueridon table at her side, two empty and one filled halfway with cognac.

“I got lost in the crowd, monsieur,” Jacqueline said. “Renée and Olivier both stayed behind to find me.”

I cringed at the sound of her voice. She wasn’t supposed to be here, and my parents surely wouldn’t approve of my sister and I allowing a strange woman into our home. I took an unconscious step back, preparing for an onslaught of questions and scoldings, but all Father did was say, “Ah, Jacqueline. Apologies. My wife and I were so worried about our children, we didn’t notice you come in. Please, sit.”

My mouth fell open. “You know who she is?”

I searched Jacqueline’s face for some sort of explanation, but she was studiously ignoring me, her gaze locked on a potted fern in the corner.

“Mon petit chou!” Mother screamed from the chaise, fresh tears springing up in her gray eyes. “You’re bleeding!”

“It’s nothing, Maman.”

“It isn’t nothing. If it’s not cleaned properly, it will leave a scar.” She leapt up, ran to me, and used her kerchief to wipe at the dried blood on my cheek. “Your handsome face will be ruined and”—she sniffed wetly—“it will be all my fault because I let you run off at the opera.”

“Maman.” I sighed, though an unfamiliar warmth spread through me at her tenderness. I couldn’t remember the last time Mother had given me any special attention. “Stop. You’re making it worse.”

She frowned but let her hands fall to her sides. “Why didn’t you or Renée try to come find us?”

Renée bit down on her bottom lip. Patches of furious red stained her cheeks, fingers shaking where she clutched at fistfuls of her pink skirts. “Why would we have done that?”

Mother looked over at her, blinking once, twice. “What do you mean, chérie?”

“Why would we have come to find you,” she said, low and careful, “when you’ve never cared about what happened to us before?”

“Renée!” Father scolded.

She ignored him. “Olivier found out Étienne was framed for murder. That’s why we stayed behind at the opera, not because of Jacqueline.”

“Olivier?” Mother gaped at me, hand flying to her chest. A blue butterfly broke free from her bodice, fluttering to the ground and disappearing into the shadows. “What is Renée talking about? What did you hear about Étienne?”

Silence fell around us like crumbling bricks. I stumbled back, suddenly too exhausted to stand, and fell onto the silk divan. I didn’t want to tell my parents about my conversation with the king, nor how even though he’d arranged a meeting tomorrow, I didn’t believe I was brave enough—would ever be brave enough—to save my brother.

“Olivier!” Father shouted, and I flinched. “Answer your mother.”

“I tried to help but I couldn’t, and he’s. . .” I dug my fingers into my thighs, swallowing back frantic breaths. I couldn’t say the words going to die aloud. I couldn’t admit it was my fault. So instead, I shot up and sprinted into the hallway, half expecting Mother or Father to call out in worry. But neither of them said a word.

***

I wasn’t certain how I ended up in Étienne’s room. At first, I’d been determined to shut myself up in my own room and worry myself sick. But somewhere along the way, I passed my room entirely and entered my brother’s.

The window had been left open in the days since his arrest, and a light breeze blew back the cream curtains, bringing with it the scent of roses from the garden. The grand four poster bed was made, the mint duvet tucked tight around the corners and the embroidered throw pillows arranged neatly along the mahogany headboard. As always, the room was impeccable, not a single stray piece of clothing or bit of dust to be found. But it wasn’t the bed I was interested in, nor was it the cleanliness.

It was the pictures.

Pinned up across the gilded damask walls were sketches of birds. They were in all sorts of positions—some mid-flight across the sky or perched atop twisting tree branches, some backed by pure white, delicate pencil strokes depicting feathers ruffled by the wind.

I walked past the sketches, brushing my fingers across the soft parchment. Then my eyes landed on a drawing of us, tucked in-between a cluster of swans and canaries. It was hard to make out in the darkness, and I detached it from the wall to look at under the dim light of the moon.

The sketch was of Étienne, Renée, and I, all gathered together in the library. Étienne sat at Father’s desk with a pencil in one hand and a sheet of paper in the other. On his right, Renée lounged in a chair, bare feet propped up on the armrest and unruly skirts spilling onto the floor.

And then there was me in the chair across from Étienne, my elbow resting on Father’s desk with my palm pillowed against my cheek. I wore the impatient frown I always directed at Étienne when I became bored of watching him sketch. It was such an accurate portrayal of my expression, I laughed. But after a moment, the laugh transformed into a choked whimper. And when I wiped a hand across my eyes, it came back wet with tears.

I ached to be back in the library with my brother so badly, it hurt all the way to my bones.

Clutching the parchment to my chest, I walked to Étienne’s bed, pulled back the covers, and slipped underneath the sheets. I was still in my clothes from the opera, but I couldn’t find the strength in me to undress. I rolled over and drew my knees to my stomach, watching the breeze move the sketches along the wall. The sheets smelled of my brother—soap and spice and a bit of earth—and it calmed me enough for my lids to grow heavy. The last thing I saw before I fell asleep was the drawing of my siblings, resting atop the pillow next to my head.

Sometime later, a knock on the door jolted me awake. I sprang up, wiping at the trail of drool along my chin, and glanced at the door. A few moments of silence passed, and I lowered myself back down, thinking it was a mere trick of the ear. Then the knock came again, followed by an unmistakably vexing voice. “Olivier, are you in there?”

“No!” I called out.

“You shouldn’t have answered, then."

The door was closed, but I glared at it anyway. “The answer is still no!”

Satisfied, I returned to the pillows, only for my progress to be halted when Jacqueline opened the door.

“I said I’m not here!” I yelled, leaping up to close the door. But Jacqueline was quicker than I was, and the door slammed into my chest. I stumbled back, tumbling onto the floor.

She peered around the doorframe. “You’re rather weak for a man.”

I cursed.

“Not very polite, either.”

“I’m under a great deal of emotional distress!” I snapped. “Haven’t my parents sent you on your way yet?”

Stepping over my legs, she walked to Étienne’s bed and sat atop the embroidered coverlet. A cloth and pitcher of water were clasped in her hands, and she placed them both on my brother’s mahogany nightstand. “They permitted me to stay as long as I need to.”

“How benevolent of them.”

“I know you may not believe so, but they’re kind people.”

I snorted.

“That wasn’t a jest,” Jacqueline said. “They caught me the first day I came to your house searching for Étienne, you know. I was so worried they would throw me onto the street, but they simply smiled, told me it was nice to see me again, and led me straight to Étienne.”

“Again?” I quirked an eyebrow. “They’d met you before?”

“I asked as much and they told me they met me as an infant.”

“How is that even possible?”

“They didn’t elaborate, and I was worried they wouldn’t allow me to see Étienne if I continued to pester them, so I let it alone.” She shrugged. “Anyway, I have information neither you nor Renée have about this situation, and thus will be joining you tomorrow when you speak with the king.”

I stood, not bothering to adjust the white stocking that had fallen around my ankle, and plopped myself down on the overstuffed chair across from Étienne’s bed. “Information about the clocks?”

She nodded. “I know Comte de Coligny used a clock on those men.”

“My God, you’re mad.”

“You don’t have to believe me if you don’t wish to, but I will be telling the king everything I know about the clocks and about what the comte might want with them.” Jacqueline turned her head away, fingers digging into her knees. Dim light washed over the planes of her face, bringing out the slope of her nose, the soft curve of her jaw, and the single, moonlit tear trailing down her cheek. “I’m determined to do whatever it takes to have him released.”

I hesitated, heart stuttering in my chest. How was I supposed to respond with her crying like that?

Though before I could say a word, Jacqueline wiped the tear from her cheek, looked at me, and said, “You really ought to clean that wound.”

“What?” Having forgotten all about the blow I’d received at the opera, I reached up to my brow and let out a hiss when my fingers grazed the torn flesh. The cut wasn’t bleeding anymore, but a crusting of dried blood ran down the entire left side of my face, speckling my lavender sleeves and waistcoat with pinpricks of rust.

“Your mother is right, it will scar if you leave it be. Shall I help you? I promise I’ll be gentle.”

At the thought of Jacqueline’s touch against my skin, my breath caught in my throat like a fingernail snagged on silk. “Come near me with those murder fingers,” I said, “and I’ll spit in your eye.”

“So, you’d rather sleep with bits of dirt festering in it?”

“No.”

“Then allow me to clean it. The men I work with at the clock shop get hurt more frequently than you’d expect, and I’ve become a bit of an expert at cleaning wounds.”

“I’m so pleased for you,” I mumbled under my breath.

Jacqueline turned to the nightstand, where she’d left the pitcher of water and a damp cloth. When she approached me with the outstretched cloth, I shrank back from her touch so quickly, I smacked my head against the wall.

“Stay still,” she scolded. “And don’t protest.”

“But—”

“Don’t protest!”

I stayed still, squeezing my eyes shut as she pressed the cloth to my eyebrow. It stung something awful, but I was determined not to falter and remained silent while she worked, imagining anything but the feel of her dabbing at my still tender wound over and over again.

“Relax,” she said. “I’m almost finished.”

“I am relaxed.”

“The way you’re gripping the chair says otherwise. Shall we talk about something to distract you from the pain?”

I tore my hands away from the chair to show her I was—in fact—relaxed, and was not—in fact—in pain. “Before, in the library,” I started, eyes still closed, “you said Étienne was fragile. What did you mean by that?”

Jacqueline paused, cloth lifting from my face. For a moment, I feared she wouldn’t answer me. But then she resumed cleaning my wound and said, “I don’t remember much about when he was younger, but I do remember he had awful night terrors, and—don’t furrow your brow like that.”

“I wasn’t furrowing anything!”

Jacqueline sighed. “And my parents worried about him constantly—worried something might have been wrong with him. I heard them talking about it when they thought I was asleep.”

My eyes flew open. I wanted to tell Jacqueline she must not remember correctly, because there was nothing wrong with Étienne, and he was never scared of anything. But I found myself looking at her instead. Her mouth was turned down in concentration, her eyes squinting to see better in the darkness. As I watched, she brought her hand to my forehead and brushed away the curls stuck to the blood along my temple. Her touch was warm and soft; without warning, my heart rate increased.

Jacqueline’s gaze snapped to meet mine. My first instinct was to avert my gaze to the chair or the bed or anything that wasn’t her, but I was so goddamn nervous over being this close to a woman who wasn’t related to me, that instead I blurted, “Did you know cardinals are known to cover themselves in ants? Sometimes mealworms and beetles, but mostly ants.”

Her hand slipped, a nail slicing straight across my open wound.

“Merde.” My hand flew to my eyebrow. “You said you would be gentle!”

“Well, I wasn’t expecting you to start talking about birds!” The bloodied rag fell on my lap, and she bent down to retrieve it, freezing when she realized where it had landed. Her hand flew to her hair instead, and she shoved a loose wave behind her ear. “Sorry.”

“Yes, I’m strange, I know.” I gripped the cloth, damp against my thigh. “Everyone says so.”

“That isn’t what I meant.” Jacqueline shuffled her hands a bit before finally deciding to sit on them. The silence between us was an enormous, hulking thing. “Does it help?”

I peered at her. “Does what help?”

“Talking about birds. I know—”

“Surprisingly, this isn’t something I wish to discuss at the moment,” I said, my face heated to near sweltering. “Or ever, actually.”

I’d had the same conversation hundreds of times before, always with the same outcomes: People unable to understand. People not even trying to understand. People acting as if the things I did and ways I comforted myself were all one huge jest to be laughed at.

“Yes, but—”

“Especially not with the woman responsible for my brother’s imprisonment. So, unless you have some other reason you’ve come here to bother me, you may take your leave.”

My words came out a bit harsher than intended, but I didn’t care. All I wanted was to be left alone to fester in my own self-disappointment. I already knew I was strange and weak and helpless. I saw no need to talk about it with anyone.

Jacqueline, to her credit, didn’t flinch at the bite in my tone. She simply stood, smoothing out the wrinkles in her orange skirts. The small kindness we had shared mere minutes before seemed as if it had never happened at all. “If you don’t want to talk, fine. I didn’t come here for that anyway. I came because I know how we can get Étienne released from the Bastille. And, as much as it pains me to admit, I can’t do it without you.”