The masked ball was festively noisy and perfectly elegant. A newly commissioned fresco of radiant angels ascending to the sun covered the arched ceiling, and dozens of faceted, crystal candelabra sent rainbows of light dancing across the floor. Courtiers chatted, laughed, and savored the King’s best wines, while wearing a menagerie of masks – foxes and horses, sprites and elves, feathered birds and sharp-toothed demons.

Fabien entered the salon without a mask, earning glances from those nearby. Yet this did not bother him. He was not a man for parties but a man for business. As he watched the crowd, someone touched his elbow. He turned to see Sophie, dressed in her mother’s most seductive gown, revealing her full, rounded cleavage and the ivory smoothness of her arms and neck. Her eyes peered out from a jeweled nymph mask.

“This is an unwelcome surprise,” said Fabien.

Sophie lifted her chin. “I’ve come to make you an offer.”

“Of what?”

“Of me.”

“Life as a builder’s wife was unpalatable to you?”

“He would not take me.”

Fabien smirked. “So I’m your only hope. You’ve come to me for deliverance.”

“Yes.”

“At least you have courage.”

“And value. I’m unmarried and pure.”

“Or you are seen to be. Which is all that matters here.” Fabien studied her bosom, her hair, her neck. “Very well. If you wish to stay here, you will work for me. Everyone apart from the King and I believe you are of noble birth. That will remain the case. You will attend court, dance, flirt, seduce, gossip, just as you do now. But you will do it in my service. You will tell me what people are doing and saying, who is sharing their bed with whom, who is cheating on his wife or at cards. Disobey and you will suffer the same fate as your mother. I will own you. That is my offer.”

Sophie’s eyes winced behind the mask, but she nodded.

Louis chuckled to see his brother wearing the same feathered owl mask as he wore, but assured him it was charming and appropriate. He took Philippe’s arm and they wandered the crowd together. Masked nobles bowed and curtseyed in their wake.

“I want to thank you for sharing my vision,” Louis said. “All too often, I’ve had the impression that the petty differences between us have proved too great an obstacle.”

“I’m sure the fault is all mine.”

“Not entirely.”

Philippe glanced around the salon, at the nobles, the candelabra, the musicians, the fresco. “It is magnificent.”

“There are still those who would destroy it.”

“My dear brother, I’ve spoken to him and –”

“I’m not talking of your friend, but of forces far stronger and more determined.”

“Who?”

“I’m not yet sure.”