Chapter One - It's Far Too Early in the Morning for Such Nonsense

Paris. 1728.

One of Mother’s goats was eating my powdered wig.

I was never a fan of wigs on their best days—what with the itchy fastenings and the powder that made me sneeze—but I liked them even less when drenched in saliva belonging to a black, beady-eyed goat. And especially when said goat had no business gallivanting around the library in the first place, snatching things from my head while I sleepily tried to remember when and where I had disposed of my frock coat the night before. Perhaps the goats had gotten to that, too.

“Release my wig at once, you foul beast!” I demanded, yanking at the wig’s powdered curls.

The horned bastard did not relent.

I plucked a velvet pillow off the cream and gold striped divan and brandished it above my head. “Let go before I’m forced to pummel you.”

The goat chewed with renewed vigor.

“Are you mocking me?” I waved the pillow about in a menacing fashion. “Étienne! Mother’s damned goat is mocking me again. Why did you not return them to the pen like you were supposed to? I thought we had an agreement.” I turned to the other side of the room. “Étienne? Are you listening to me?”

I fell silent. My older brother was not in the library.

On the mornings after our parents’ monthly soirées of sin, there were three tasks my siblings and I assigned to ourselves: Renée was to alert the servants when the guests began to wake; I was to stay shut up in the library so I wouldn’t make an embarrassment of myself; and Étienne was to round up the goats Mother inevitably let into the house and return them to their pen in the garden. While Renée often abandoned her duties in favor of remaining with whichever man—or woman—caught her eye the night before, and while I often escaped the safety of the library in favor of flat champagne and stale profiteroles, Étienne never failed in his duties.

So why was there a goat standing before me now, my wig dangling from its jaws? And why was my brother nowhere to be found?

It was common for Étienne to wake early and do nonsense things such as watch the sunrise or listen to the birds or practice with his rapier, so his absence wasn’t surprising. I was surprised by the lack of evidence to indicate he had slept here at all.

There was no eiderdown comforter spread out atop the Savonnerie carpet, no pile of damask pillows in front of the marble hearth, no stack of folded clothes on the chaise. In the four years since our parents began throwing their parties, Étienne and I had made it a tradition to spend the night together in the library, laughing at the drunken revelry as it leaked through the mahogany doors.

Though I’d retired to the library earlier than normal last night, for my damnable nerves were acting up again, Étienne promised to join me once he was ready to sleep. But he was not here, and the goats were loose, and I couldn’t for the life of me figure out why.

Abandoning my pursuit of the wig, I stood, straightened out the creases in my waistcoat, and exited the library in search of my brother. The hall was littered with discarded stockings, panniers, and breeches, the gilded scrollwork along the mint and ivory walls glinting in the mid-morning sun. A canary from the abovestairs aviary had escaped and flew below the ceiling frescoes, wings flashing a butter yellow. As I watched, it swooped down to take a shit inside Baron de Louvois’ red-heeled shoes.

An early June breeze blew in from the open arched windows, bringing with it the hushed sounds of morning: water bubbling over the marble fountains in the courtyard, birds chirping in the manicured trees, horse hooves clacking over distant cobblestones. And mixed in with it all were two ladies in the nearby grand salon, whispering loud enough to be overheard.

“It was only a matter of time before he did something unspeakable,” one said. “I’m not surprised in the least.”

“But he was always so quiet and agreeable,” said her companion.

“It doesn’t matter how he acts. He doesn’t belong here. He isn’t even French. It only makes sense that he finally showed his true colors; anyone who looked like that would.. My parents told me they knew from the second the d’Aumonts took him in as their ward that he’d cause trouble for us all. And I agree.”

I sucked in a sharp breath. They were talking about Étienne.

Not even French? Doesn’t belong? My hands trembled, part of me ready to burst into the grand salon and insist they apologize for insinuating anything untoward about my straightlaced, kindhearted brother. And yet, a greater part of me was far too scared of being caught  to interrupt their conversation.

Rather than chastise them, I crept closer, so fixated on my mission to eavesdrop that I didn’t see the pile of broken champagne flutes on the ground until they crunched underneath my boot. The two ladies whipped their heads around, fixing me with narrow-eyed glares.

I recognized them at once. The Vicomte de Narbonne’s daughter, Madeleine de Froix, and her equally intimidating friend, Lucie du Luys. They were a few years older than my eight-and-ten years—closer to Étienne’s age—and wearing nothing but white petticoats and embroidered stays. Around them, a handful of guests still slumbered atop silk pillows strewn about the floors.

“Oh. Olivier d’Aumont,” Lucie said. Her carmine-painted lips were smeared in the corners. “Good morning.”

“Yes. Hello. Good morning.” She was the one who had said those atrocious things about Etienne, and though I wished to call her out on it, I couldn’t seem to get past the way both she and Mademoiselle de Froix were looking at me. Instead, my eyes darted everywhere but her knife-sharpened gaze. To the jeweled boot sticking out from a potted tree in the corner. To the half-eaten platter of chocolate cake on the floor. To the pile of tiny brown pellets next to the cake that looked suspiciously similar to goat droppings. “Did you know birds don’t urinate?” The words sprang from my tongue, as they so often did, with no care for my embarrassment or horror.

Lucie peered at me. “Monsieur, are you drunk?”

“Ah no, I don’t believe so.” I took a step back, my heel knocking against a silver serving tray. Damn, my nerves! Why could I not be like others, aware of etiquette and proper discussion? Not bird urination, for heaven’s sake. “I never drink quite enough for that. Liquor makes me strange, you see. I mean, stranger than I already am. Er. . . so—” I took another step and forced a smile. “Is anyone else sweating?”

“Monsieur! I have been looking everywhere for you.”

I spun around to see the family valet standing before me, my misplaced powder blue frock coat slung over his arm.

“God, Henri,” I said, dragging him into the hallway. “Why did you not show up before I humiliated myself in the grand salon?”

“Monsieur, I must speak with you—”

“I know it isn't proper to listen in on someone else's conversation, but Lucie du Luys and Madeleine de Froix said the strangest thing about Étienne.” I plucked my coat from Henri’s arm, wiped off the choux creme smashed into the lapels, and shrugged it on. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you? About why I can't find Étienne anywhere or why the goats are running about or why Mademoiselle du Luys and Mademoiselle de Froix were acting as if he had done something wrong.”

Before Henri could get a word out, Renée emerged from the doors to Father’s study, a glass of red wine clutched in her hand. “Olivier, why are you making such a racket? You’re going to wake the entire house.”

My twin sister had yet to change out of her gown from the night before, though there were now considerably more wrinkles marring the lilac satin of her dress, and her bodice sat considerably lower on her chest. Low enough, in fact, for me to see the bruise-colored vestiges of kisses someone had left between her cleavage.

“Merde, Renée, could you not have your décolletage so. . . visible this early in the morning?” I clapped a hand over my eyes. “I just woke up.”

“And whose fault is that?” Renée frowned, though she yanked her bodice up to a more acceptable height. Thank God, for my stomach roiled as all the cream puffs and profiteroles I’d eaten last night threatened to come back up.

“Who do those belong to?” I asked, indicating the now hidden marks on my twin sister’s chest. “Anyone I need to challenge to a duel?”

Renée snorted. “Olivier, you wouldn’t win in a duel with a Christmas ham.”

“I’ll have you know last month—”

“Monsieur! Mademoiselle!” Henri interrupted. “It’s imperative I speak with you. The elder Monsieur d’Aumont has been arrested.”

I stared at Henri, blinked, then threw my head back and laughed.

Étienne. Arrested. Ha! It would have made more sense if my parents were arrested for their masquerades of debauchery and the stamina powders they passed around like glazed pastries. It would have made more sense if it was Renée or even me. But not Étienne.

I wiped at my eyes, laughter sticking to my lips like lavender honey. “Wonderful jest, Henri.”

“It’s no jest, monsieur. The Marechaussee sent word this morning. I have yet to succeed in waking your parents to inform them.”

I thrust a pinky into my ear, digging around on the off chance a bit of lace or feather had become lodged in there after last night’s festivities. “Are you certain you mean Étienne d’Aumont? Around this tall”—I raised my hand a few finger lengths above my head—“wearing a constant frown, always with his nose stuck in some God-awful book about birds or astronomy? That Étienne d’Aumont?”

“Olivier, stop.” Renée clutched at my arm, the lace of her sleeve brushing against me. “I believe he’s telling the truth.”

I glanced at Henri, noticing then how much of a mess he looked, with visible stains on his periwinkle waistcoat and purple smudges akin to blossoming violets under his eyes. His powdered wig was askew, a single pomaded strand hanging in his face and flying about whenever he spoke. Henri was many things—stuffy, boorish, abominable at keeping the d’Aumont family gossip to himself—but he was never unkempt.

A sudden dread fell around me like damp velvet. Henri wasn’t lying.

“We needn’t worry ourselves sick,” I said, forcing my tone to remain casual despite the acid clinging to the back of my throat. “I’m certain he was arrested for something inconsequential. Running through the streets naked, perhaps. Or for getting caught up in some sort of illegal bird rights demonstration. If we traipse down to wherever he’s being held—”

“The Bastille, monsieur,” Henri said.

“Yes, if we traipse down to the—” My stomach flipped. “The Bastille? Isn’t that place for rather. . . serious criminals?”

Henri was silent. The birds in the abovestairs aviary began to chirp. A gust of wind blew back the velvet drapes, and they knocked against the gilded sconces along the wall. Somewhere down the corridor, a gentleman called out in his sleep. Then Henri said, “Monsieur, your brother was arrested for murder.”

Arrested for murder.

The words rattled around in my head, circling through my thoughts over and over and over, until I was dizzy with panic. Étienne spent his days sketching flowers in the back garden. He watched birds with me whenever I was worried and in need of a distraction. He snuck Renée and me out of the house on clear nights so we could all sit together along the Seine and count the stars. He would never do anything wrong.

He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t.

I opened my mouth to let out another burst of laughter.

And threw up all over the parquet floors.