Then the beautiful girl appeared again, laughing, standing beside Louis’ mother. Both women held out their hands, fingers beckoning. Louis hesitated then reached for the girl. She pulled away and fled. Again he followed.

Out of the darkness and through bright, lavishly decorated rooms they raced, past marble statues, great portraits, and gilded moldings into a dazzling hallway where countless mirrors clung to the walls. Louis saw fragments of the girl’s reflection repeated over and over – a bare breast, a porcelain-white shoulder, the small of her delicate back. She shrugged the chemise from her body and kicked it free. Naked, she ran into the room at the end of the hall.

“I can see Paradise,” warned his mother from behind. “But you must build it for yourself. And let all the world know. Louis the Great has arrived.”

Louis reached the room to find the girl lying on his four-poster bed, a teasing smile on her full lips. Slowly, she parted her shapely legs.

Louis tore his clothes off, flung himself onto the bed, and mounted the girl. With unstoppable and glorious urgency he forced himself into her. Again. Again.

Again.

He awoke as he came, his jaw tight, fists clutching the linen sheets, rising up into consciousness and the shadows of the bedchamber. His semen pooled on his bare belly, hot then cooling instantly. Sweat bathed his chest; his dark hair made a damp frame for his noble face. His eyes burned. He rubbed them, knowing he was awake yet not wanting to be.

A pre-dawn storm thundered outside the royal hunting lodge, the wind and rain battering the shuttered window. Louis’ loyal valet, Bontemps, sat quietly at the foot of the royal four-poster bed. A man in his middle years, his face was patient and kind.

The dream was fading, but Louis held on to one particular image. “Tell the architect Le Vau that I want to talk to him,” he said. “About mirrors.”

Bontemps nodded.

Thunder rolled beyond the walls. Wind caught its breath then hurled another wave of rain at the window.

More awake now, Louis drew his nightshirt down over his abdomen. “How is my Queen, Bontemps? Everyone tells me it’s going to be a boy –”

There was a sudden crashing of glass from outside. Over the noise of the storm Louis heard horses whinnying and men shouting. Then there were heavy footsteps and urgent, angry voices approaching the King’s bedchamber. A moment later, a pounding on the door. Bontemps hurried to open it; Swiss guards poured into the chamber, followed by anxious courtiers. The guards flanked the royal bed, their faces hard. Louis shrunk back, his heartbeat quickening.

“Guard!” Bontemps demanded. “What business here?”

“An attempt on the King’s life,” said one guard.

“By whom? The Spanish? The Dutch?”

“We do not yet know. Fabien is moving to quell the threat.”

“Bontemps,” managed Louis. “Explain!”