Hunched over his desk in his tiny room, Cassel dipped his ink into the well and prepared to write. At that very moment several large drips of water leaked through the roof and onto his paper. He looked up in frustration, and another drip caught him in the eye. Curses! Can a noble not even have a closet that does not leak?

As he slammed back in his chair in frustration, he saw a note sliding beneath his door. He jumped up, grabbed the note, and opened the door.

But no one was there.

He looked at the note. It bore the same wax seal as before.

At the edge of the forest as a light rain fell, Montcourt was hunting with his spaniel. The dog ran out into the trees for a pheasant but returned with a note tied to her collar. It bore the familiar wax seal.

There was nothing out the window that he wanted to see, but Chevalier stared anyway, his eyes following the clouds, a flock of birds, and a late season fly crawling on the other side of the glass. When he heard Philippe enter the chamber, he didn’t turn around. “If the King’s hair hurts,” he said, “perhaps it was the wine last night? They say, ‘Eat the fur of the beast that bit you,’ but who wants a mouthful of fluff for breakfast?” He felt Philippe’s angry gaze. “Did I speak out of turn? Come now. How is our King?”

Philippe’s fists clenched and unclenched. He looked as if he had something to say but feared the speaking.

“Talk to me,” said Chevalier, looking around at last. “What is all this secrecy?”

Philippe went to the table, picked up a half-filled wine glass but then let it fall to the table. The wine ran across the table’s surface like blood. “You must vow to me.”

“On my father’s life.”

“Your father’s dead.”

“My mother’s, then.”

“Forget it.”

Chevalier walked over and took Philippe’s arm. “Your distress pains me.”

“Make your vow, then. That what I tell you will go no further.”

Chevalier put his hand over his heart. “On my life. I vow my oath.”

Philippe drew his finger through the spilled wine. “My brother is very sick.”

“I always said you’d make a marvelous King.”

Philippe glared. “Stop it.”

“You were serious? Goodness.”

“He’s gravely ill. Should he die it is possible I will be regent.”

“I had no idea.”

Philippe grabbed Chevalier’s collar. “Not a word to anyone. This is a testing time but I know with you by my side, I can overcome anything.”

“Of course. Now, I must have air. Come, join me.”

“I cannot.” Philippe hesitated. “I have…to think.”

Chevalier called for a footman, standing at the door, to bring his coat. “As you wish,” he said to Philippe, caressing his cheek. “He is in my prayers. As are you.”