Chapter Two - One is Never Too Manly for Swooning

“Olivier, please stop laughing,” Renée said. “What about this situation is amusing?”

We were in the library, myself sprawled out on the striped chaise with a wet cloth draped across my forehead, and Renée smoking a pipe behind Father’s marquetry writing desk. Though the powder blue curtains were drawn over the windows, a few slivers of sunlight managed to peek through and trail along the orange-waxed floors. I felt moments away from vomiting a second time.

“Everything,” I said, unfolding the cloth and placing it over my face. “Our brother—who has never broken a single rule in his entire life—snuck out of the party last night, stabbed Comte de Coligny’s coachman, and shoved him into the Seine. How do you not find that amusing?”

“So, you believe what Henri told us?”

Did I believe Étienne was a murderer? The same Étienne who carried Renée around on his shoulders until she turned eleven? The same Étienne who always assured me it was all right if my nerves made it so that I couldn’t do everything the other boys my age could?

“Olivier?” Renée asked. I didn’t respond, and a second later she yelled, “Olivier!”

“What? I’m thinking.”

“You have to think about whether or not you believe our brother killed someone?”

I peeled the cloth away from my face and cracked an eye open. Renée’s feet were propped up on Father’s desk, pink skirts hiked to her knees. There was a gaping hole in the heel of her white stocking that definitely hadn’t been there the night before.

“No. . . Yes,” I said. “I don’t know.”

Renée made a face. “Of course you would say that.”

“What do you mean of course I would say that?”

My sister took a long drag on the pipe, tilted her head back, and blew a puff of smoke toward the ceiling. It swirled and danced between the scattered waves of light spilling across the gilded scrollwork like clouds billowing in a storm. “I mean that you never take the time to think things through in a rational manner.”

I huffed, turning my body to face the rows of towering bookcases. “Wonderful. Glad you think so low of me.”

“Well, it’s true!” she said. “You have barely left the house in years because of your condition”—I let out a snort at the word condition—“and perhaps that has altered the way you view things.”

I sat up, ripping the cloth from my face and hurling it to the ground. It landed on the carpet with a soft plop. “This isn’t about me! Étienne was found with a dagger in his hand, Renée. Why else would he have been running through Le Marais with a dagger if—” I scrubbed a hand over my face. “Merde. I don’t know. I don’t know.”

An uncomfortable silence fell between us, thicker than clotted cream. I remained on the chaise, determined to lie there with my arm draped across my face all damn day if I had to, until Renée shuffled to my side and poked me in the ribs.

When I turned to look at her, she held the pipe out to me in her shoddy version of a peace offering. It struck me then—as it often did whenever we were this close—how startlingly similar we looked. It wasn’t seeing my own gray eyes, mess of unruly black curls, or rosy-hued pale skin reflected back at me that was unnerving, however. It was knowing this was exactly what I would look like in stays and a female wig.

“No, thank you.” I pushed her hand away.

Renée lowered her head. The wooden pipe between her fingers smoldered, sending a fresh cloud of smoke into the air. “I’m sorry for what I said before. I know it’s difficult for you to leave the house, and I didn’t mean to insult you for it. I just can’t believe this happened.”

I tugged at a loose thread on my sleeve. “I can’t either.”

“I’m going to think of a plan,” she said, shoving my feet off the chaise and squeezing in next to me.

“A plan for what?”

“For proving Étienne is innocent.”

“You truly believe he’s innocent?”

“Yes. And you should as well.”

I contemplated giving her a swift kick in the side. “God, Renée, I do think he’s innocent. Of course I think he’s innocent. I just can’t for the life of me come up with a reason why he had a dagger in his hand or why he would have wanted the comte’s coachman dead.”

“Étienne must have been framed. That’s the only possible explanation.” Renée’s voice was quick and frantic. As if speaking to convince herself. “Perhaps people are still angry our parents took him in fifteen years ago, and someone wanted him arrested because they don’t believe he should be considered part of our family.”

I flinched. Memories from throughout the years came back to me—of whispers and scathing looks shot at us during dinner gatherings; of callous laughter and gossip concealed behind silk gloves; of accusations that our parents were mad for daring to take in the little boy from India who was placed on their doorstep with nowhere else to go.

“All right,” I said, “we prove he’s innocent." Because we have to. Because neither of us can fathom the alternative. “What is your plan?”

Renée’s teeth worked at a piece of loose skin on her bottom lip. “Well, I was thinking we could—”

Suddenly, the door flew open, letting in an unwelcome stream of sunlight. With a considerable amount of squinting, I turned and saw Baron de Luvois’ son, Guy le Tellier, standing in the doorway. He wore nothing but a shirt just long enough to cover his more sensitive areas, a half-buttoned waistcoat, stockings, and a single shoe.

“Have you seen my cravat?” he asked.

Renée tipped her head over the chaise, yet again exposing her cleavage and those damnable kiss marks. “Have you seen your breeches?”

“What?”

“You have misplaced your breeches, Monsieur le Tellier.”

He glanced down at his bare lower half. “Oh.”

Renée straightened, catching my disapproving gaze before I had the chance to look away. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Was it a lady or a gentleman this time?” I asked. “The person who gave you those.”

She pursed her lips. “Both. And they’re still in my room waiting for me to return so we can continue where we left off.”

I didn’t even try to hide my horrified expression.

“Mon Dieu, that was a jest. No need to look so out of sorts because you’re abysmal at talking to women.”

“I talk to women all the time!” I snapped.

“Olivier, last month you asked Lucie du Luys for a spoon.”

“Yes, and?”

“We were at a tennis match.”

I glowered at her.

“If you don’t know where my cravat is, perhaps that Indian boy your family took in will.” Guy glanced between Renée and me. “Where is he?”

I damn near fell off the chaise, torn between slapping him in the mouth or demanding he relate every instance of last night for us.

“Where did you last see Étienne?” I blurted before I could change my mind.

Guy shrugged. “I can’t recall. I don’t give much attention to what he does.”

I shot a pleading glance at Renée, but she was too busy rummaging around in Father's desk drawers for more pipe tobacco to notice.

“Did he seem out of sorts?” I asked. “Worried or tense? Did he go anywhere unusual?”

Guy considered this. “I saw him slip outside with a woman, but I didn't recognize her.”

“Renée!” I yelled, and she jumped back, banging her knee against the corner of the desk. “Monsieur le Tellier saw Étienne go outside with a woman.”

She gave me a blank stare. “So?”

“So,” I said, rather proud of myself for coming up with our first lead, “when have you ever seen Étienne go off with a woman?”

Renée glanced at me over her shoulder, hand resting atop Father’s leather tobacco pouch. “Olivier, people always engage in illicit activities during our parents’ parties. That’s what they’re for.”

“Yes, other people. Not Étienne. Someone else must have seen him leave the house with a woman. If we question the guests from last night, I’m sure we will get a better idea of who she was. Perhaps she is responsible for what happened.”

Renée’s eyes widened. “Or perhaps she can tell us more information.”

“Wait,” Guy said, holding out his hands. “So he did something last night after all? I knew it.”

“All right, it’s time for you to take your leave.” I stood and made my way to Guy, using my shoulder to shove him out of the room. “We’re busy, and you’re being an ass.”

“But my cravat!” he protested.

“No one gives a fig about your cravat. Good day.”

I promptly slammed the door behind him and locked it, lest another half-clothed courtier come barging in looking for misplaced underthings.

“Should we tell our parents what he said?” I asked, though I knew it was a silly question.

As it was every morning after our family’s masquerades of debauchery, our parents were locked up in their wing of the house, sleeping off a myriad of alcohol, stamina powder, and bad decisions. Nothing and no one would be able to wake them in this state.

“No,” Renée said. “They won’t be of help until mid-day tomorrow at least. We simply have to question anyone who saw Étienne last night on our own before more time is wasted.” She frowned. “Though almost everyone's already left.”

I slumped onto the chaise. I’d expected as much, but the truth came as a disappointment all the same. Renée, on the other hand, was visibly unmoved.

“But it’s fine,” she added. “There is another place we could go.”

Dread built in my chest, prickling down to my fingertips. Her tone, the cautious worry in her eyes, meant only one thing. I leapt up, pointing an accusatory finger at my sister. “No. I refuse. I absolutely refuse.”

“I’ll be with you the entire time. You’ll be fine.”

“I won't be fine! I hate it there. You know what happens when I go there. Don’t make me go.”

“But it’s the only place we can question the people who were here last night.” Renée’s gray eyes flashed with determination. “We must go to Versailles.”