“I’ve always found my closest allies have been those with whom I can share the silence,” said Montcourt.

Chevalier made a tisking sound. “I couldn’t have put it better myself.”

The men parted, each taking different directions. Montcourt walked on, glad to be free of his room if only for a short while. When he reached a south corner of the palace he saw Rohan at the end of the hallway. The King’s friend, dressed in hunting gear, was talking to a guard. The Dauphin, the King’s young son, was also dressed for a hunt, and he stomped about impatiently, pretending to shoot arrows at the ceiling.

Then Montcourt noticed Rohan’s left hand. The little finger was tapping an irregular rhythm, a nervous gesture. Something Montcourt had seen before.

Yes. Ah, yes. As he watched from his distance the guards, Rohan, and the little boy went out into the sunlight.

“I have interviewed all Her Majesty’s ladies,” said Fabien. “And now, you.”

Sophie stood before the Chief of Police in his torture room, tears streaking her face yet her head high and defiant.

“You accompanied Her Highness on her mission to Dover,” said Fabien, circling Sophie, leaning close. “You had close and intimate access to her person.”

“It was my duty.”

“What contact did you have with her, in particular?”

“I served her.”

“Tea?”

“Tea? Yes. Chicory tea. It gave her great comfort.”

“Do you know who prepared it?”

Sophie swallowed hard. “Yes.”

Fabien leaned even closer. “Then tell me.”

“What happened to my mother?”

“I’m not here to answer you.”

“Then neither am I.”

Fabien snorted. “I would recommend very strongly that you reconsider.”

“I’ve nothing. So what would I have to lose, except that?”

“Your life, for one.”

“I don’t have a life. My mother told me who I was. But that was a lie, and so I have no idea who I truly am.”

“You’re the daughter of a Huguenot conspirator against the King. Funded and supported by William of Orange.”

“My mother has paid the price for her treachery. I’m merely trying to survive. I had thought your protection would ensure it.”

“Unless you are more like your mother than you care to admit.”

Sophie’s eyes flashed through her tears. “Make no mistake, Monsieur Marchal. My mother fooled many people with her treason, but the biggest fool was you.”

Fabien dug his fingers into Sophie’s arm. “Who prepared the tea?”

She took a deep breath. “I did.”

“You look very pale, my dear,” Cassel said to the Montespan as the lady, caught up in her own thoughts, passed him unaware in the corridor. “Like a guilty child with an éclair in her petticoat.”

The Montespan spun toward him and glared. “My dear friend is ill. That is enough to worry about without you lurking in the shadows.”