“Oh, my kind sir. It is just I, Lady Scarlet Cavendish, emissary for Prince George himself, here to see my dear friend Marie again. I was here earlier in the week, you might recall.”

She held her breath.

“Enzo! Do you remember this woman? Says she’s from Prince George.”

Enzo peered out at her, and then the door opened. “What’s your business here again? You were given one visit; that is all.”

Scarlet’s voice pleaded, and she wrung her hands. “I know, I know, but I forgot to tell her just one more thing, and as we all know, she may not have long to live on this great earth of ours. Oh, please, might I have another moment with her?”

Enzo grunted and let her pass. He winked at her.

She reached for his hands, squeezing them, slipping him another small bag. “Oh, thank you! Thank you, my dear French friends. You are all that is goodness.”

He pocketed the coins. “Five minutes. That’s all you may have. We will knock on the door when you must leave.”

The corridor stretched out, long and dark. For a moment, a deep foreboding filled her as she considered the finality of such a walk: long, sterile, and eerie.

When Marie’s prison door opened, the woman ran to her, flinging her arms around Scarlet. “Thank you for coming! Oh, thank you, mon amie.”

They heard the door shut behind them. Scarlet pulled her to the corner where no guard could see them. “We have no more time. Quick! Put on my things.”

“What about my daughter? How will she escape?”

“But my dear, it will be simple.” Their whispers fluttered into the darkness of the prison like the whoosh of butterfly wings.

To the guards outside, Scarlet hoped, they sounded as the words of a final goodbye. They rapped on the door. “Two more minutes!”

The women hastened, working as quickly as their fingers allowed. Marie gasped when she saw knives sewn into Scarlet’s underclothing.

“Hush now.”

When the men opened the door a few short minutes later, a very solemn woman exited, her large skirts billowing around her. She spoke not a word, hiding behind her veil, wiping tears and mourning the soon to be dead. Nodding to the guards as she passed, she stepped regally past them, a handkerchief at her nose.

Showing a rare form of decorum and respect, they let her out into the night with equal solemnity. Shutting the door behind her, one of the guards said, “I liked that one. Felt like she’d care for my own mother, she would.”

The others guffawed in great heaves of laughter. “Gone soft, have you? Take care of your mother, indeed! She’s aristo, as aristocratic as the rest, just lives in England; and word is, we aren’t supposed to touch her—protected by her prince.”