“If you are prone to prayer, now would be a good time.”

She looked at the ground. “It’s too late for that.” With all her courage she forced her knees to fold and she went down. From the corner of her eye she saw the glint of a long, sharp blade as Jacques removed it from his sleeve. She lowered her head, baring her neck, and clenched her jaw so she would hold her dignity until the end. Sophie, my daughter, I’m sorry my sweet one. If only I –

There was the whisper of metal slicing the winter air, a moment of bright agony. And then there was nothing at all.

There were several gowns tossed over the screen, and Sophie, in her undergarments, studied each one, trying to decide which to wear to the masked ball that evening. The ball was to celebrate her lady Henriette, and the success she’d had in England. Henriette, as weak as she was, had decided to join the festivities. Sophie had helped her dress and was then given leave to prepare herself for the ball.

The door banged open and the screen was knocked over. Fabien stood there, giving Sophie a stare that drove ice water through her veins.

“What are you doing here?” she managed. “Are you looking for my mother?”

Fabien stepped over the fallen screen, kicking gowns out of the way, and picked up a trunk. He dropped it at Sophie’s feet. “I was looking for you. To tell you to leave.”

Sophie stared. “I don’t understand!”

“I think you do. Pack your affairs and get out. You have no place here.”

Sophie’s hands went to her throat. This is impossible! “What…what about my mother? What have you done to her?”

The pitiless expression on Fabien’s face told her the truth. Oh, God! Please no!

“You will be making the journey back to wherever you come from alone. I shall return tomorrow morning. If I find you still here, I shall have you tossed into the gutter.”

Sophie’s legs gave way and she grasped a chair to keep from falling. Fabien spit on the floor and turned, slamming the door on his way out.

Rohan strolled through the night shadows of the garden, listening to the muffled gaiety of the ball inside the palace. In his hand was a mask of Apollo which he would don when back inside.

A guard appeared from behind a tall holly bush.

“Have my orders been carried out?” asked Rohan.

“Yes, sir. The men are ready.”

Rohan nodded. “I will leave a message in the usual place.”

“When?”

“When the time has come.”

“What is our plan? We shall capture the King?”

“No,” said Rohan, turning back toward the palace and pulling on the mask. “The King is not our prey.”