The sputtering candle offered only the faintest of illumination to the palace corridor. The hour was late and Fabien was deep in thought as he carried the candle on his way to his chamber; so deep that he was startled when a shadow appeared at the light’s edge.

“Monsieur Fabien?” The voice was soft, sweet, and feminine.

Beatrice stepped into the pool of light. Fabien’s heart skipped a beat.

“You are lost, Madame?” he managed.

“In truth, I am scared,” said the lady, her brows furrowed. “The war. The night. The palace is not the same when the King is away. Two nights gone and every room is empty and dark. Would you walk me to my apartment?”

Fabien felt himself nod.

Beatrice stepped full into the candlelight. So beautiful! he thought. What do I say to her? How do I behave?

They began walking, and Fabien tried his best not to let the candle tremble in his hand. “Despite the news of your friends, you seem in good spirits,” he said.

Beatrice stared. “What about my friends?”

“The Parthenays. They lived close to your family in Pau, yes?”

Anxiety flashed across Beatrice’s face. “Known to me, yes. A tragedy I cannot bear to ponder.”

They reached the door to Beatrice’s apartment. She turned to him and smiled. “Perhaps we can walk again for a while. In the garden during the day? And talk of happier things.”

Fabien nodded. How do I conclude this? Do I dare touch her? Dear God, I want this lady.

But then Beatrice kissed the tips of her two fingers, and placed the fingers on his shoulder. With that, she entered her apartment, leaving Fabien alone.

The young man stood beside a road to Versailles and sobbed as he dug a grave with a small shovel. His friend knelt beside him, his arms bound, his mouth slack with shock. Scattered beyond the two of them, across the road, were ten other men, their heads blown apart. Their broken carriage lay on its side, one wheel spinning in the wind.

Three men with black masks stood over it all with weapons on their arms, watching. Silent. Then one stepped forward, put the muzzle of his musket on the forehead of the bound man, and fired. The man fell backward into the half-dug grave. The young man with the shovel screamed.

One of the armed men pulled off his mask. He aimed his musket at the young man. The young man gasped. “I…I know you!” he said.

“You used to know me,” sneered Montcourt. He pulled the trigger. The man’s head shattered and flopped over, blood pouring into the dirt.

Montcourt snatched up the shovel and handed it to one of Cassel’s two thugs. “Tomas,” he said, “nobles do not work.” Tomas began but then Montcourt took the shovel back. “I have a better idea,” he said.