“That seems to be the problem being a traitor,” said Fabien. “It never seems to end well. In any case, I hope you’re fond of horses.”

In the early evening Beatrice found Laurene alone in the palace laundry room, a place filled with vats of lye and bubbling cauldrons and crisscrossed with clotheslines upon which socks, trousers, shawls, and gowns were hung to dry. Laurene was placing wet garments into baskets as Beatrice came up behind her.

“Might I trouble you a moment?”

Laurene flinched and looked around. “Ah, yes, certainly, Madame.”

“Laurene, correct?”

Laurene nodded.

“Do you know Fabien Marchal?”

“I do.”

“I’ve a problem to discuss with him.” Beatrice ran her hand along a clothesline, tugging on it slightly, watching it bounce. “I’m embarrassed to even mention it. I believe a gown of mine has gone missing and I’m worried sick that it is lost.”

Laurene wiped her face with her sleeve. “That cannot be true.”

“I fear it might be,” said Beatrice. “Last time I looked, it was over there.” She pointed across the room, and as Laurene turned to look, Beatrice yanked a clothesline down and looped it around Laurene’s neck. Laurene spun around as Beatrice twisted the line. Laurene lashed out with her hands then clawed at her neck. Tighter. Tighter. Laurene’s face grew purple and her throat began to bleed. Her eyes bulged as she kicked and fought the noose. After what seemed like an eternity, she fell in a heap, tipping over a basket and spilling gowns on the floor.

“Burn in Hell, Catholic cunt,” said Beatrice.

As the quarter moon resumed its place in the night sky, a hooded man hauled a heavy sack down the path from the palace to the stable and around that to the pigsty. He put the sack down, made sure no one was nearby in the darkness, then removed Laurene’s dismembered hand from the sack and threw it in to the pigs. The pigs snorted and scrambled over each other to get at the tasty morsel. One by one the man tossed the freshly butchered chunks of Fabien’s former assistant to the pigs, upending the sack to shake loose the last bit, her foot, and the pigs chewed their evening snack with selfish snorts.

Back in the laundry room, Beatrice felt her hair and ran her hands along her face to make sure all was in order then pulled on her best palace smile. She walked out, taking the servants’ stairs to the main corridor where she encountered a clutch of noble ladies, with the Montespan in the middle, posing their feet in various positions.

“Beatrice! My dear!” called the Montespan. “We’re all practicing the King’s new dance. Will you join us?”

“Isn’t it wrong to apply ourselves to joy while he suffers so?” replied Beatrice.

“Ah, but it is the King’s wish.”

“Of course.”