“Because of who he was.”

“A criminal? A traitor?”

“Worse. A Protestant.”

Silence hung in the air, an agonizing silence that had no balm. Then Beatrice noticed a new vase of flowers on the sideboard. “Flowers,” she said without emotion. “How lovely.”

Sophie wiped her eyes. “I thought they were for you.”

Beatrice walked over and spied a note nestled in the leaves. She slipped it out and saw a lower case “h” on the outer fold.

“Who are they from?” asked Sophie.

Beatrice grabbed her cloak and went to the door. “I have a toothache. I need to visit the apothecary.” She looked at her daughter. “I shall be a while.”

On foot and with her cloak to hide her face, Beatrice ventured from the palace into the town of Versailles with several coins in her pocket. Returning to the palace in the fading sunlight, she did not go to her apartment but directly to Fabien’s office. She did not knock, but pushed the door open to find him alone at his desk, hunched over, holding a magnifying glass and studying a paper with strange writings. The room was dark; the single candle burning so low it would soon be in need of replacement.

“You are fond of your books, aren’t you?” said Beatrice.

Startled, Fabien looked up. “Ah…yes,” he replied. “I’m at present reading a treatise on espionage in imperial Rome.” He put down the magnifying glass.

“I like a man who reads.” Beatrice stepped from the shadows into the faint candlelight, glancing at the paper on the desk. Her lips had been reddened and her hair was loose and seductive. She walked past Fabien, running her hand along his shoulders as she passed, and opened the door on the far side of the office. Fabien got up to follow.

The room behind the door was Fabien’s torture room. Shelves held ropes, iron pinchers and shackles, drills and hammers and pokers. Tables were stained with dried blood. Beatrice picked up a pair of manacles. “Do you enjoy your work?”

“I would not say enjoyment but rather satisfaction.”

“Does it pain you to see people suffer?”

“I do not consider such matters.” Fabien came up behind Beatrice, brushed her hair away, and touched the nape of her neck. The softness of it caused his heart to pound hard against his ribs.

“Do you look them in the eye when you punish them?” asked Beatrice.

“Always,” said Fabien. He grabbed her shoulders and turned her around to kiss her. She slapped him in the face, splitting his lip and drawing blood. Then she traced her finger along the blood and licked it off.

Fabien watched her, his mouth stinging, at once shocked and thrilled. So this was how it would be. “The line between pain and pleasure is fine,” he said.