“Charming, charming,” she says almost to herself. “I am the queen of France. This is Monsieur Sagouin, our most trusted friend and advisor.”

The standing man stares at us without smiling. The queen does not introduce the gentleman at the desk. Which speaks volumes about who he is.

“Madame.” We bob our heads.

“In this time of suffering, it is our custom to invite young friends from the less fortunate neighborhoods of the city to take tea,” the queen says. “I want my son to know that not all children are as fortunate as he.” She raises a hand. We turn, and there’s the dauphin, watching us, wide-eyed.

I try my best to smile in a friendly, Ettie-like way, hoping he doesn’t instantly have us arrested.

He rises at the queen’s lifted hand. He’s pale and wears a jacket of midnight-blue velvet edged in silver frogging, with a scarlet pin at his chest.

“Mesdemoiselles, this is Louis Joseph Charles Romain, the dauphin of France.”

We curtsy yet again, and the dauphin comes toward us, which causes his mother to raise a delicate eyebrow. Doubtless, the dauphin usually doesn’t greet common guests. But now he takes Ettie’s hand, while keeping his eyes on me, and then takes my hand, and whispers, “Nina—so that is your name,” in a quiet tone of victory. He waggles his eyebrows at me as if to communicate something; I assume it is that he is not going to give us away, or to implicate me in the theft of his necklace, and I breathe a sigh of relief. He returns to his sofa, and a servant appears at his left and offers him a silver platter, on which is balanced a tiny cup. He accepts the cup and has a sip. Another servant appears at his right and offers him a folded serviette. He uses it to dab at his lips delicately before returning it to another servant to be taken away.

I decide that he is ridiculous. How many servants does one person need to drink a cup of tea?

A new servant appears and pours black tea. He adds a golden spoon of sugar and a drop of rich cream to each and, after stirring them, extends the tray toward us. Ettie and I both take a cup. The china is whisper-thin, the handle so fragile I’m afraid I’ll snap it. It would fetch a tremendous price in the Thieves Guild. I take the smallest sip. The tea is piping hot and creamy. It tastes like heaven.

Yet another servant holds out a tray full of miniature cakes. I recognize them from the larders of the great houses I’ve robbed. You learn a lot of things when you’re hiding in the kitchens of nobility, waiting for the household to fall asleep. One is that cooks are artists of a rare caliber. Another is the names of delicacies served to the wealthy. There are fat réligieuses filled with crème anglaise and topped with salted caramel. Milles-feuilles with their wafer-thin pastry between layers of cream, and dominoed icing. Puits d’amours, delicate tarts filled with almond paste. Charlottes loaded with raspberries. Miniature tarte tatins and plump profiteroles oozing melted chocolate.