“Gently,” said Fabien. “You can.” He put his hand on Laurene’s and forced the baby down and under the water. The child’s tiny legs thrashed but its determination was nothing compared to Fabien’s resolve.

“See how life fights death? Cherish this God-given moment.”

Laurene’s eyes were averted.

“No, look,” said Fabien. “We all remember our first time.”

And then there was a roaring into the stall, someone with arms raised and eyes huge with anger.

“Fabien!” Bontemps cried. He knocked Fabien aside and pulled the baby from the water. The child coughed and kicked, then wailed.

Stunned, Fabien shouted, “Our work protects the King!”

Bontemps held the child close. “Your work here is finished!”

Fabien snarled. “What chance does that wretch have outside these walls?”

“That’s not your concern. Tomorrow the Gazette de France will report the funeral preparations with all consideration of a royal passing. A grave is prepared.” Then, cuddling the child, he walked out.

“A grave error, to be sure,” Fabien said to the valet’s retreating shadow.

“Monsieur Colbert,” said the King as he swept into the palace anteroom where Colbert was hard at work over the ledgers, “add a monthly stipend to the royal household.”

Colbert looked up, confused. “Whose name shall I place on the register?”

“Leave it blank. The pension must remain outside of the record.” The King paused, then added, “Outside all record.”

“Yes, Sire.”

“Now then, is the pavilion prepared?”

“The tailors’ guild and its masters await your word.”

Louis touched his chin, nodded. “All nobles attending the banquet must wear French cloth. No Italian lace nor English wool. The night will reflect the glory of our French talents. Tell them all: bright colors and vibrant fabrics. For we shall all soon be tired of black.”

The chapel was adorned in black for mourning – the bunting and altar cloths, the robes of the choir and priest. A tiny, intricately carved casket sat upon a black silk sheet at the front of the church. Noble mourners listened as Father Bossuet, in a voice deep and pious, spoke of life and death.

From behind a curtain, Louis watched the funeral. His fingers were tight, his heart even tighter. It was not customary for Kings to attend the funerals of children, yet he wanted to see. He needed to see.

Philippe slid up beside his brother. “What are you looking at?”

“My friends are here to mourn. The others to celebrate my misfortune and to gossip.”

“The child’s dead. What gossip could there be?”

Louis looked at his brother, sharply. What might he know? “I’ve no idea,” he said evenly.

Philippe peeked through the curtain. “There is too much mirth in the chapel. If you will not attend at least they must pay you respect –”

“I will not. I cannot.”

“If you say so.”

“What is this insolence? Protocol demands it.”

“Perhaps we should all be bowing to protocol, brother, and not to you.”