With a flickering five-branched candelabra in hand, Fabien had searched the foul, narrow corridors and the sweltering whorehouse cells until he found his mark. The exciseman was on a sagging bed with two whores. One whore had her legs spread for another whore whose face was buried in her bush. The exciseman was taking the second whore from behind, slamming into her, sweating hard and grunting even harder.

Fabien cleared his throat. The exciseman looked around, lip twisted in confusion. The whore he was fucking rolled over and jumped to her feet with a screech.

“Hold this,” Fabien said, passing the candelabra to the whore. She took it, her eyes wide.

The naked exciseman fumbled to regain his dignity. He stood and shook his fat fist, his emerald ring on his pinky catching the candlelight. “What is the meaning of this!”

“Arithmetic,” said Fabien. “After what happened to Fouquet, I’d have thought you people would have learned something.” He leapt forward, grabbed the bald man’s hand, and shoved it back against the wall. He whipped the hatchet from his satchel and slammed it against the man’s hand, cleaving off all five fingers. The exciseman squealed in pain and slid to the floor. Fabien put his knee on the man’s chest and, with the candles from the candelabra, cauterized the finger stumps. As the man howled and clutched his butchered, charred hand, Fabien said, “Remind me now. As a tax collector, you can count, can’t you?”

The exciseman nodded, barely.

“For future reference,” said Fabien, “so can we.”

The time of the Queen’s delivery was near at hand. She tossed and turned on her bed as evening shadows cut intricate patterns across the floor, breathing hard as the contractions came, irregularly and increasingly painful. Masson and Claudine tended the Queen with steady yet anxious hands. Masson whispered to Claudine that should the baby be a girl, the two of them would need to be prepared to leave. To flee. For their lives might well be at stake.

As Marie-Therese clutched the counterpane and longed for her husband, Louis was in his apartment, preparing for a party and the reveal of something he’d been designing for months. How the court would thrill to his plan! A royal dresser played with the folds of the King’s velvet cape and adjusted the frills of the sleeves. Then Louis considered himself in the mirror a second dresser held before him, turning this way and that.

Fabien stepped as close as was acceptable, determined to give the King his report, his warning.

“Sire,” he said, his voice low. “There are members of court who are willing to sell details of our life to the highest bidder. Giving no thought to the implications for your safety. The Spaniards in your dungeon were confident that the money they spent would give them access to your court.”