Chapter Fifteen - Clocks and Kings and Murdering Fiends

For a moment, my brother didn’t notice any of us. His eyes were fixed on the king as he made a move to bow, but before he could lower his head, Renée let out a tiny gasp, and Étienne’s gaze slipped to the chaise. Then he froze.

“Renée, Olivier, Jacqueline,” he said. “I didn’t think—how—?”

Renée leapt from the chaise, ready to run to our brother, but I grasped my hand around a fistful of her pink skirts. “You can’t go flinging yourself at him,” I whisper-hissed. “The king is here.”

“But it’s our brother,” Renée whispered back.

“Yes, thank you. I do, in fact, have eyes.”

She shot me an annoyed glare but settled back down onto the velvet pillows.

The king was either oblivious to the emotions hanging in the air or knew better than to acknowledge them, for he ordered the guards to leave and motioned for Étienne to sit. Without looking at any of us, my brother complied. He wore an outfit I’d never seen before: powder blue breeches and a matching frock coat, decorated with a silver embroidery of cornflowers along the hem and sleeves. As usual, his dark hair was groomed into an impeccable queue, tied at the back of his neck with a silver ribbon. He looked both like he’d never left, and like someone I was meeting for the first time.

Since the day he’d been arrested, I’d wanted Étienne back more than anything. And now that he was here, close enough to touch, that want escalated into a blistering need. I’d do whatever it took to ensure he didn’t leave me again, even if it meant endangering my own safety. But strong as that need was, everything I’d kept locked inside since visiting him at the Bastille came rushing back in a torrential flood. He’d kept quiet about Jacqueline’s existence for fifteen years—he was willing to die so he could save her.

Where was the calm and collected brother who never made trouble? The brother I could talk to for hours while he sat back and listened? The brother who taught me it was wrong to tell a lie?

Despite knowing Étienne almost my entire life, I wasn’t certain I knew him at all.

“Now that we have all arrived,” the king said, “it’s time for you to divulge what you know about this strange sickness plaguing the city.”

“Sickness, Your Majesty?” Renée asked. I could tell she was trying to keep her attention locked on the king, but her gaze kept flicking to Étienne.

Jacqueline, on the other hand, had her head directed to the ground. She hadn’t made a peep when Étienne entered, and she remained close-lipped and still, silent as a queen in prayer. In her lap, she twisted her folded hands over and over, skin turning an agitated red.

“The attack at the opera.” The king frowned. “I had multiple attendees from that night questioned, and they all said the same thing: the men who started the attack never once had any violent tendencies. It was only after they spoke with Comte de Coligny that they began to act not in their right minds. Olivier d’Aumont said something similar about the coachman Étienne d’Aumont supposedly killed. I brushed it off as rambling brought on by hysteria at first, but after I saw the comte in the cafe, and then the men’s attacks, I’m not certain it was hysteria. What I wish to know is, how did you find out what was happening, and why does it all seem to have started with your family?”

No one responded. Music and laughter from the gardens wafted in through the open windows. Renée shifted on the chaise, and her shoe knocked against the table leg.

Then I said, “You can’t think this has anything to do with us. I never leave the house because Paris society is awful—which is in no way intended to be an insult toward your kingly greatness, Your Majesty—Renée only cares about dresses and illicit activities, Étienne is boring, and no one even knew Jacqueline existed until a week ago. Of course, our parents are rather wild, but that still hasn’t a thing to do with us.”

“If you say the attacks have nothing to do with your family,” the king said, “then why did they start with Étienne d’Aumont?”

“He was framed! I told you—”

The king held up a hand, and I fell silent. “I would like to hear from the elder Monsieur d’Aumont. He was brought here for questioning, after all.”

We all turned to Étienne. He didn’t meet any of our gazes, instead fixing his eyes on the gilded wall behind our heads. Why was he being so silent? I wanted to leap up and shake him—to remind him he didn’t do anything wrong and needed to tell the truth. He took in a deep breath, lips pressed into a thin line. His fingers curled into fists atop his thighs.

“I was attacked, yes,” he said finally. His words were quiet and careful.

“And?” the king prompted. “How did the man act while he was attacking you?”

“He seemed crazed. As if under a spell. I was walking along the Seine when he attacked me unprovoked and wouldn’t listen when I pleaded for him to stop. He didn’t say anything at all, simply continued to try to kill me like it was a compulsion.”

The king regarded my brother in silence, hand rubbing at his chin. “And what of the jewels found in your pockets? Did you steal those because you wished to leave the d’Aumonts?”

“No!” Étienne shouted, eyes blazing. “I don’t want to leave my family. I love Renée and Olivier. I would never—could never—leave them. I don’t know how the jewels ended up in my pocket.”

“Obviously because someone put them there!” I interrupted. “Someone at the party must have slipped them into his pocket to make it look like he was trying to steal them.”

The king glared at me. “I don’t believe I was speaking to you.”

I shrank back onto the chaise.

“Why did you leave the party in the first place?” the king asked.

Étienne’s fists curled tighter. “For fresh air, Your Majesty,” he said. “I frequently go for long walks at night.”

The king looked unconvinced. “Did you stab the de Colignys’ coachman?”

Étienne flinched. It was a tiny reaction, barely detectable under the flickering light of the chandeliers, but I saw. And I assumed the king did as well.

“Yes,” Étienne whispered, lowering his eyes to the floor.

Renée reached out her hand, threading her fingers through my own. I tried to give it a reassuring squeeze, but my grip was limp as goose feathers. I hadn’t the slightest idea what my brother was doing. Why wasn’t he telling the truth? Or if he was so goddamned set on keeping Jacqueline safe, why wasn’t he thinking of a story that didn’t involve him stabbing the coachman? Despite my efforts not to, I glanced at Jacqueline, waiting for her to speak up and admit it was her fault. Surely she wasn’t all right with Étienne taking the blame? But she remained silent and calm, motionless save for the slight shaking of her fingers.

“And did you push the man into the Seine?” the king asked.

Don’t say yes, I silently screamed at my brother. Don’t say yes. For the love of God, don’t say yes.

But Étienne dug his nails into his palms, opened his mouth, and said, “Yes.”

“It was self-defense!” Jacqueline yelled. “Because of Comte de Coligny’s clocks!”

The king glanced her way. Her head was held high, brown eyes swimming with determination.

“Jacqueline, what are you doing?” Étienne asked.

“Telling the king the truth about the clocks as he wished for me to.”

“You’re Étienne d’Aumont’s sister, are you not?” the king asked. “I remember you from the opera.”

“Yes. I’m also a clock making apprentice to Lazare Duvaux.”

“A female clock making apprentice,” the king said, as if musing to himself. “You mentioned clocks before. Why do you think this is happening because of clocks?”

“Because of my father, Your Majesty. Gaspard Chaffee.”

Étienne’s head snapped up at the mention of his birth father. “What?”

“I was aged but four years when my father fled the city,” Jacqueline continued, gaze flicking between the king and Étienne, “and he left his journals behind, so I could learn from his designs. In those journals, he was studying a way to build a clock that could control the wills and minds of others. I believe he succeeded, and his discovery was found out. That is why he fled and abandoned Étienne and me.” She sat up straighter on her stool. “The man who attacked my brother was under the influence of my father’s stolen clock formula, and Étienne was simply trying to save himself. We would all do the same in his situation. You can’t possibly have him hanged for that.”

The king cocked an eyebrow. The story sounded preposterous at best. Clocks. Controlling, deadly, godforsaken clocks. But the king said nothing about the oddity of it all, only continued to regard Jacqueline with an almost amused sort of curiosity as he said, “But your father left Paris many years ago. Why would his discovery resurface now? And how could the comte have found out about it?”

“I don’t know, Your Majesty,” she said. “I’ve kept the journals hidden all these years. No one else could have seen them. I wasn’t certain the clocks were responsible, but after I heard what happened to my brother, and after the opera, I know my father’s clock formula was the reason the coachman attacked Étienne, the reason behind the sickness. Wait.” Jacqueline jumped up from her seat and ran over to the mantle clock she’d been eyeing when we first entered the room.

“What in God’s name are you doing?” I asked. “You can’t steal the cardinal’s clock.”

“I’m not stealing it,” Jacqueline said. “I’m simply taking a look at it. I’ll put it back once I’m finished.”

“And why do you need my chief adviser’s clock?” the king asked.

“I’m almost certain this clock was made by my father, Your Majesty.” Jacqueline placed the clock on a gueridon table in the corner. “And I believe it’s our proof.”