Louis clenched his fists, anger blossoming in his throat. Deep in his ear, he heard his mother’s voice. “You see the problem, of course,” she whispered. “The moment you declare your hand, your enemies may move against you.”

“Sire,” Le Vau said, “there are not enough rivers in Versailles.”

Louis stared at the landscaper. They will obey me! “Then bring the rivers here,” he said sternly.

When Le Vau and Le Notre had been dismissed, Louis walked down to the gardens where dirt-coated men were digging and planting. He stopped before the gardener, Jacques. Jacques saw the King, dropped his trowel, and folded in a bow.

“How long have you worked for me?” Louis asked.

“Six months, Sire,” Jacques said.

“And before this?”

Jacques looked up. “War, Sire.”

“What happened to your arm?”

“Left it on a field in Malines.”

“How forgetful of you.” Louis chuckled. He looked up at the bright sun, savoring the warmth for a moment, and then turned his attention back to the gardener. “What qualifies a soldier for gardening?”

“Skills at digging. Trenches and graves. Those terraces are fortified. Your trees will march in formation. The planning of a garden such as this is not unlike that for a war. Centuries from now, people will walk these gardens and see enduring beauty. A war fought for beauty, against chaos.”

“How much work would it be to dig a lake here? Half a league in length, to the trees?”

“Quite a while. I would need an army, Sire.”

Louis glanced up at the horizon, considered this, then said, “Good day to you.”

“Good day, Sire. May the Queen enjoy a healthy birth. May your dreams be full of wonder.”

Louis looked back at the gardener. “Dreams?”

“My mother once told me, before a man becomes a father he will relive his own childhood.”

Ile Saint-Louis was a grand mansion in Paris, a vast house filled with dutiful servants and, very often, joy and sunlight. Yet the rooms, as finely furnished as they were, were somber on this bright afternoon. Bontemps’ young son was deathly ill.

The boy, pale and fragile, lay sweating on a cot. Bontemps, who had just arrived from Versailles, embraced his wife – held her for a long moment in a feeble attempt to reclaim a fraction of the time he’d been away – and then knelt beside his son to soothe the boy’s brow with a damp cloth. His heart twisted and tears burned behind his eyes. Smallpox. Oh, dear God.

Two doctors from the King’s court had traveled with Bontemps. They spoke quietly with each other before sitting at the foot of the cot, easing the boy’s feet off the end, and placing a bowl on the floor. Bontemps’ son shuddered when he saw the razor blade in one of the doctor’s hands.

“I…I am feeling much better,” the boy said hoarsely.