“The truth. That it is God’s gift to me that I am by your side. That life is only beautiful when I am here. That the gardens are so glorious, they themselves gave birth to beauty. I also told him he would one day work and live in my place. That he might find himself part of the noblest family in the world, all of whom dream they might one day live like a king. Or queen.”

Louis nodded, soothed by Bontemps’ words.

“I told him that one day, when we are all gone, they will write stories about this place of wonder. Those who hear it may not believe it for it seems like a fairytale.”

“Did your son approve of your story?”

“He asked if that was where he was going. I told him yes.”

“I happen to believe,” said Louis, turning to Bontemps, “that true paradise lies in his father’s arms. To be here, with you, in this moment.” Bontemps’ eyes welled with tears. Louis placed a hand gently on his shoulder. “But that is not our choice. God has made His plans. We cannot question His design. Just as my people should not question mine. But they will.” Louis’ gaze moved to the dancing candle flame. “They mean to kill me, friend. They would kill us all to preserve the past. They may even succeed. But change will come no matter what. And if we are to endure, there is only one course. We must lay our own foundation. Here.”

“Why here, Sire?”

“Because I will not be the King of Paris. I am Louis XIV. I am the King of France.”

Louis peered out the window again, leaning from his chair. What he could not see was that out in the darkness, Sophie and her friends, overly warmed with wine, dredged about in a marble fountain to recover an emerald ring one had dropped there. They discovered, stuffed in a water pipe, a small, dark, bloated body. Nabo. What the King could see were the nobles beginning to abandon the party. Having spent enough time to appear loyal, they clambered into carriages with baggage and bundles, glancing over shoulders and up at the lodge. Anxious.

“See, Bontemps,” said Louis. “See how they run.”

3 Summer, 1667

3

SUMMER, 1667

The King’s barber was a precise little man with a pointed nose and steady hands. He snipped and combed Louis’ mustache with the utmost care and brushed stray hairs from the King’s silk shirt. Bontemps stood by, holding the King’s new crewelwork coat. The morning was bright, and light from the windows danced delicate patterns on the walls and across the tapestries and paintings.

“Sire,” said Bontemps, “the dignitaries from Issiny have been waiting a month for an audience. They’ve come a long way. Monsieur Colbert is deeply anxious they will leave. That we may lose any hope of an agreement.”