Then three fireworks rocketed upward and exploded simultaneously. The sound was deafening, much like musket and cannon fire on the battlefield. Philippe blinked, stared, and instead of flaming sprays of stars he suddenly saw flaming bodies flying outward, wounded and dead soldiers in the air, severed arms and legs plummeting earthward, blown apart in battle.

He stood from his chair, his face blank, his eyes glazed. He wobbled a moment then staggered away.

“Brother?” called Louis.

Philippe disappeared into the crowd. Louis hurried from his chair to follow, waving back guards and guests. Philippe stumbled from the amphitheater, along a stretch of rose bushes, and down toward the pool house where there was no one to see or hear but the moon, the stars, and a polecat sniffing about the vegetation for mice. There, he fell to the ground, covered his head with his hands, and wailed.

My brother! Louis knelt beside him and drew him into his arms. He felt the heat and the angst that raged there. Then Philippe pushed away, holding up his hand as if it was a shield.

“On the field, I saw a young man,” he said. “He carried his brother in a sack over his shoulder. He told me he’d made a promise to their mother, to take him home.” He paused, then, “Would you do that for me? I wondered. I would, I know. But you? I do not know.”

Louis nodded compassionately. “Philippe, you think because I am King I am not also a brother. That I may have all I want and yearn for nothing. Even a King can’t have all the life he would want to live. It’s you who live those parts of my life for me. It’s you who truly lives the life yearned for by a King.”

Philippe drove a fist to his forehead as if wanting to bash the terror from his mind.

“The war still rages in you,” said Louis.

“And it will never cease.”

“Stop.”

“You cannot resist the last word, can you?”

“Brother.”

Philippe snarled. “Why do I do this to myself?”

Louis reached for Philippe again, gathered him, and held him for the barest moment until Philippe wrestled free. “Go!” he shouted. “Leave me! I command you!”

Louis stood. And this once, he obeyed his brother’s command.

As the fireworks continued to fire upward and explode in dazzling showers, a figure in dark clothing entered the empty chapel, stepped silently into the penitent’s side of the confessional, and pulled the door shut. With gloved hands the figure placed a small roll of parchment into a gap in the slats, a gap that would be overlooked unless someone knew it was there. Then the figure quietly slipped away.

Beatrice approached Fabien as he gazed at the loud, brilliant display overhead. “I believe I was promised a walk in the garden,” she said.

Fabien glanced around. “We are in a garden now.”

“So we are.”