Fabien nodded vaguely, trying to dismiss her comment, wanting to dismiss his suspicion and focus on the traitors of which he was quite sure. He drew long lines connecting the red spots on the map.

“I checked with the stables,” said Laurene. “Both Anjou and Poitier are riding to Paris.”

“They aren’t the only ones.” Fabien spread Beatrice’s paper out and studied it again. “Laurene, I dispatched a messenger to Pau a week ago. If he returns in my absence, secure his findings in a lock box.”

“Your absence? Where are you going?”

Fabien grabbed his cloak. “To Paris.”

The chapel was quiet and somber; even the shadows on the floor seem softer out of respect for the nobles who had come to pray for the health of the King. Henriette and Sophie entered, crossed themselves, and moved up the aisle. Henriette selected a pew near the altar while Sophie found her mother and slid in beside her.

“Mother,” she whispered. “I’ve missed you.”

Beatrice looked up from her folded hands. “Your duty to me is to do well for your lady.”

“Yes. Yet my first thought is always to talk to you. Like when I found the chambermaid in your drawer today.”

Beatrice’s hands abruptly unfolded. “Chambermaid?”

“She found papers of yours on the floor. I think she was putting them back.”

Beatrice slowly put her hands back together. “Of course. How kind of her. You must point her out to me so I can thank her.”

“I will.” Sophie looked around, then said, “So few here this morning. Where is everyone?”

Beatrice stared straight ahead.

“Mother?”

“Don’t you remember?” replied Beatrice. “They are practicing. The King has us learning a new dance. Shh, now!”

Sophie folded her hands then looked down at her feet to see if she could remember the dance steps. She tapped them back and forth as quietly as she could.

Chevalier was hurled to the floor of Fabien’s office where he skidded and slammed against the base of the desk. He struggled to right himself, getting up onto his knees, his cheeks and forehead bruised and bleeding, his face contorted into a mask of rage and utter disbelief.

“I captured you, Chevalier, in Paris!” said Fabien as two guards stood beside him, hands on their swords. “Paris, where the traitors have been gathering! And I’ve brought you back to Versailles.”

“The Duc of Orléans will have your head for this!” sputtered Chevalier. “And when your head is on the block, do you know what he will say to you? He will tell you –”

Fabien kicked Chevalier in the chest, knocking him down again. “I’ll tell you this. You are to be executed in the morning, along with the others.”

Chevalier pulled himself to his feet where he stood, heaving, glaring. “The King would never permit it!”