“Black Cat?” he says.

Oh no.

“Your Highness?” I say.

Perhaps it’s the invasion of his personal space, perhaps I’m the only one who ever treats him like this, but instead of the fury that should overcome him, and despite the dagger pressed against his neck, his eyes brighten and his face splits into a joyous smile.

“You know each other?” Ettie asks behind me in a voice so laced with delight that between this and St. Juste I just know that she believes my life is far more romantic than it actually is.

Before either of us can say or do anything more, the air shudders with the sound of gunfire. The dauphin, Ettie, and I are thrown around as the horses rear, and we land in a tangled heap on the floor, with him apologizing profusely and me elbowing him out of the way. Outside, there’s shouting, horses galloping, and the screams of a crowd now afraid for their survival. The air begins to taste of smoke and gunpowder. Lamarque’s voice carries as he orders everyone to stand aside so the procession can exit the bridge quickly.

The carriage rocks and we’re on the move. Ettie wobbles and climbs onto the seat, holding out her hand to help the dauphin up. The dauphin rises, reaching trembling fingers toward the carriage window. I bat his hand away.

“Don’t be a fool! Do you want to get shot?”

He opens his mouth to say something, when the carriage gives a sudden jolt, and he falls backward, slamming his head against the seat. He slumps over. Ettie gives a small screech and dives toward him, checking to see if he’s alive.

I’m not sure whether she cares because he’s the dauphin of France or because she hopes he’s the love of my life. Either way, I feel no small sense of relief when she nods to me to tell me he’s alive. I’d rather not be arrested for murdering the heir to the throne just at the moment.

“Are you going to tell me how you know him?”

I sigh. “I might have visited his bedchamber once.”

Ettie gasps, happily scandalized.

“To rob him, Ettie. Don’t look at me like that. It was several years ago.”

There’s a long silence before Ettie adds, “And yet he still remembers you.” She lets that hang in the air between us, heavy as guilt.

I try to weigh up the chances that the dauphin is not bearing a grudge after all these years—I did steal one of the crown jewels from him, after all.

“He’s also very handsome,” Ettie adds, as if there is some sort of attractiveness competition going on that I am unaware of.

“Is he?” I say, as if I haven’t noticed.

18

Of Drownings

Ettie is in charge of everything that happens when we arrive at the palace. Not because she knows the ways of nobility better—she doesn’t—but because she is perfect combination of charming and pathetic. When the carriage door swings open, a servant with a round moon of a face and flushed cheeks pokes herself through the doorway. Ettie promptly bursts into tears, pointing at the dauphin and gasping an incoherent explanation between breaths. Havoc ensues. People run hither and thither; there are orders, there is shrieking, and the dauphin is borne away by five people, as if one person isn’t enough for a royal of his handsomeness.