Henriette sat at a small table in her inner chamber, her heart heavy, her hair loose and her face wet and puffy with weeping. “A dead child,” she said as she touched her cheeks with a handkerchief. “What if the Dauphin follows him? And then His Majesty?”

Madame de Montespan, Henriette’s witty and most graceful lady, reached across the table and took Henriette’s hand. The Montespan was beautiful, tall, and slender, with golden-brown hair and bright eyes. Other ladies-in-waiting busied themselves nearby in the room, one tatting lace for sleeves, another reading, yet another mending a stocking.

“You already know the answer to that question,” said the Montespan gently. “Your husband would be King, making you –”

“No!” said Henriette. She put the handkerchief down. “I would not wish to live in a world where my dearest, our dearest King is not! And Chevalier, God help us. He already divides the court. My marriage has three members, not two. If my husband were King, Chevalier would rule by the rod and my husband would be his rug!”

“Your husband is a good man and would make a good king. And you’d have power.”

“I’ve seen what power can do to a man and how it can be taken away.”

The Montespan nodded. “The fault of the English conspirators. And your brother has your father’s throne.”

“As long as he keeps his head.”

“Calm yourself. Let’s go look at the pretty things in the pavilion. All the tailors of Paris are here. I’ve never seen so much cloth.”

“I’d rather you did my cards.”

The Montespan nodded. She picked up a deck of Tarot cards and gave them to Henriette. With trembling hands, Henriette shuffled then dealt them face down.

The Montespan slowly turned the cards over. “The cards talk of past, present, and future. Your past is sadness. Yet there is a friend in your present willing to help you.”

“If I could find this person,” said Henriette, “I would ask only to protect my King.”

The Montespan’s hand hesitated over the last card and she studied the face of her young mistress. “You care for him greatly.”

“There is nothing I would not do for him.”

The Montespan smiled. She turned over the final card. It was Death.

I remember….

His father, Louis XIII, dying…

Sick, in bed, a royal bed surrounded by grieving nobles and ladies. The old King’s eyes were rheumy and faded, yet there was a rage and determination in them, yet.

Anne of Austria stood close to the bed, holding young Louis’ hand. Louis was repulsed by the stench of death yet fascinated with the reality of it.

“Who’s that?” the old King demanded.

“Your son,” said Anne. “Louis the fourteenth.”

The dying man’s eyes fixed Louis with an icy stare. “Not yet he’s not.”

“Sire?”