Louis resisted the delicious urge to slap the doctor. He merely replied, “That must have been quite a stare.” Then he stalked from the Queen’s quarters and into the corridor, where Colbert spied him and hurried to catch up.

“The child, Sire?” he called.

Louis stared straight ahead and did not slow. “Stillborn. The funeral is being planned. Now, are the tailors arrived for the pavilion?”

“They are en route, Sire. The pavilion is the talk of the court. Sire, I’m so sorry that –” But the King brushed him off and walked faster, his footfalls echoing like the pounding of an angry heart.

Fabien found the private room where his assistant, a plain-faced, humorless woman named Laurene, sat silently with the wet nurse. The nurse was an ugly blind woman with few teeth, but she hummed sweetly as the baby suckled her breast. She was clearly a healthy child, with bright eyes and lively limbs that kicked and peddled at the air.

At Fabien’s nod, Laurene took the baby from the nurse and carried it to the door. Fabien caught her arm and whispered in her ear, “There was a chambermaid working outside the birthing room. Green eyes. A scar on her chin. I want her name.”

Chevalier stopped Beatrice and Sophie in the corridor. He cocked his head and spoke to Beatrice.

“When you first came to court,” he said, “do you remember what I told you?”

Beatrice nodded. “You said you would return any favor with interest. And yet I still wait after you had me spread those lies for you about your little blond friend, so very long ago.”

Chevalier grinned slyly and handed her an envelope. “That is what I find so endearing about you, cousin. You are so patient.”

As Chevalier walked off, Beatrice tore open the envelope. Sophie peered over her mother’s shoulder and read the letter.

The King invites you to a private showing of diverse suits of lace, velvet, and other fabrics from master tailors and mercers of Saint-Honoré. A grand carousel and banquet will follow in their honor.

Beatrice smiled. His Majesty had noticed her daughter. An impressive step forward for herself and more importantly, for Sophie.

Marie-Therese licked her dry lips and struggled to sit up. Louis stood beside the bed, arms crossed, offering no help. “You’ve no color in your cheeks,” he said. “Unlike your daughter.”

“Where is she?” Marie-Therese asked. “Please?”

Louis scoffed. He walked across the room to the Queen’s desk, picked up a sharp letter opener, and weighed it in his hands. Bontemps watched on silently.

Louis touched the tip of the blade, turned it around, studying it.

“Madre de dios!” Marie-Therese gasped.