“Where should we take her?” asked Bontemps. “She cannot stay in the King’s bed.”

“She stays,” said Claudine. “There is no choice.”

Philippe touched his wife’s face. His voice shook. “And so will I stay.”

Claudine squared her shoulders under her jacket. “How did she come to be here in the first place?”

“She walked,” said Philippe. “I followed her…her trail of blood.”

“Blood?” asked Fabien. “From where?”

“Leading from my chamber. I took her there to rest after she collapsed at the ball.”

Fabien’s mouth twitched slightly and his face darkened. He left the room without another word.

“All right, then,” said Claudine. “If she was strong enough to walk she is strong enough to survive.”

“She’s strong, all right,” said Philippe. “Like a Breton mare.”

Marie-Therese walked to a corner of the room where she knelt on the bare floor. “God help her in her hour of need,” she said, and then began to pray.

Louis stood at the window of the War Cabinet room, gazing out at the light cover of snow upon the gardens. Bontemps, Colbert, and Louvois stood nearby, giving the King this moment. A tray of breads, apples, and cheeses had been brought in, and Colbert selected a slice of cheese and raised it to his lips. At that moment Fabien entered the room, followed by several guards.

“No food or drink shall be consumed until its safety has been confirmed,” ordered Fabien. He snapped his fingers and a guard collected the tray and took it away.

Colbert frowned. “You believe Her Highness is poisoned?”

“This palace is a symbol of our King, his power, and his country. Our enemies have stopped at nothing to destroy it. From the moment the first stone was laid in this expansion, His Majesty knew this day would come. Do I believe our enemies would dare poison the sister of King Charles of England? Yes. But I also know their greatest plan is yet to show itself. “

“And if she is merely ill?” asked Louvois.

“Then your appetite will be merely inconvenienced.”

A middle-aged man with sparse hair and pudgy cheeks appeared at the door. He twisted the edge of his coat in his fingers. “You sent for me, Monsieur Marchal?”

Fabien waved the man in. “Congratulations, Nicolas La Roux. You’ve been promoted. You are now chief taster to His Majesty’s kitchen.”

“But…” La Roux blanched. “But Monsieur de Vernon is the King’s First Taster.”

“Not any more.”

La Roux forced himself to smile and bow, and then took his leave.

Louis began to pace the room, his fists clenched and his face turned upward. His grief and anger seemed to rise from him in waves. Back and forth and back, and then he stopped and turned to Bontemps. “How is Madame de Montespan? Is my lady risen?”

“I will send a footman to check,” said Bontemps.