Chapter One CHAPTER ONE
IT IS A truth universally acknowledged that a gentleman creeping about a ball uninvited is up to no good.

The château is ablaze, light knifing through the forest’s dark heart beyond. One can almost spy the walls of Paris just north for all the tallow and oil burning away the shadows. Tables groan on bronzed legs beneath soaring ceilings, their glistening meats and cakes barely touched. Thrice I’ve counted the servants heaving out fresh great wine barrels from the kitchens, their faces pink and damp, expressions teetering someplace between exhaustion and despair. It is well beyond midnight and the court dances on, toes bloody and blistered in their gilded slippers. Still the young king roars for more.

This ball is one of so many, they all run together like a long, boring illness. One demanded we dress like animals, another as pagan gods. At the latest, the king and his princely brothers snarled and galloped on all fours to see who could frighten the most ladies. Oncle reminded me five times that kicking the king of France was still a crime no matter how much he deserved it. The king only stopped when his mother suggested it would be more fun to shoot songbirds from her rosebushes.

Such is the way of the French court, a place run by boys and their egos and women and their wits. Everyone knows the Queen Mother, Catherine de’ Medici, truly wears the crown, but we must pretend that is not the case by satisfying King Charles’s whims whenever he shouts them into the sky.

Truth be told, this unknown gentleman is the most interesting thing that’s happened to me for weeks.

Is this sad? Yes. Perhaps even a little bit pathetic? Also yes. But a girl must find her fun somewhere.

I watch him prowl through the seething ballroom. His clothes are finely made, if a season or two out of fashion. It’s his shoes that betray his true rank—ever so slightly scuffed, the leather water-stained.

I sit up straighter, suddenly wide-awake.

I wonder which royal guard he paid off, which one he blackmailed or conned into looking the other direction so he could slip in unseen?

I caress the familiar pins in my hair, fighting the itch to slide them free. I should find Oncle. This is what he says to do. With a winning smile, he’ll slip away from whomever he’s charming to dirty his hands. Later in our family’s private apartments, I’ll cajole him into telling me how he caught the man, how he saved the night from disaster.

He doesn’t like to tell me these stories. He says they give me ideas. And God forbid a lady has ideas.

The man pauses at the unguarded corridor at the back of the ballroom. I lean forward, no one at my empty table to notice my interest. He disappears inside after a single glance over his shoulder.

My eyes slice to the empty seat beside King Charles, my chest clenching. Sneaking into a busy ballroom is one thing, but trespassing into the quiet gardens is quite another. It’s time to find Oncle. But a quick sweep of the room reveals he’s gone, vanished without a word. Even though he promised you he wouldn’t leave.

A sharp breath pulls through my teeth. I shove the thought away, trying not to let it bother me.

Oncle wouldn’t want me to do this. But if he’s gone, then I’ve no choice but to trail the man myself.

Sometimes being useful feels like being wanted, and I’m the only person left sitting alone.

The ball’s animal heat disappears in the stone corridor. A breeze sighs past, damp and redolent of roses from the garden beyond. Most of the torches have already sputtered out. The man makes no effort to hide himself, so I don’t either.

“No one would ever see you and see a threat,” Oncle said when he first slid the pins with their hidden blades into my hair. Our eyes met in the mirror and his mouth quirked. “But they should.”

I loosen one of my pins now and follow the man into the greenery.

The garden is a riot of shadows: blue, violet, and grey all smudged together. There’s no music save for the soft rustle of the forest beyond, the gentle lapping of the moat against the stone wall fencing us in.

Then, a barely there sigh.

The man whips his head toward the noise. His hand twitches—

I’m on him before he touches his weapon.

I strike his temple with my still-sheathed blade. He slithers to the ground with a soft gasp. Before he can get a good look at me, the loose ribbon from my gown pocket is around his eyes. Then I tie his wrists with another ribbon and his legs with a third.

I dearly do love a gown with pockets. So useful!

Now if only I could convince Oncle to let me carry rope instead.

“Godless—royal—scum!” the man wheezes.

I cup his cheek and smile, all of Oncle’s rules and warnings forgotten. “Mon cher, you must be more vulgar than that to shock me.”

I grab his bound legs and drag him to the wall. It is difficult work—he’s got at least several dozen pounds on me and the rose briars are rather thick and prickly—but eventually I get him up the wall that separates the gardens from the moat.

The moat glitters, deadly and deep. Wind shakes the forest just beyond, low branches twisting across the surface as if to grab the prisoner. The scent of the stagnant water cuts through the sweet roses. He starts crying softly.

“Don’t be afraid,” I say. “Can’t say you’ll love where I’m sending you, but there are worse places.”

“There are places for people like you with us.” His words are so quick and low, I nearly miss them. “The Valois family must be stopped! Their reign is a wolf feasting on the French people! We’d take you, even though you’re a woman!”

There’s a pang under my ribs. I ignore it and lift the man higher. “Tell your master the princess sends her regards, but regretfully, she is occupied at the moment.”

His mouth drops open—shocked that I know his target—but before he can ask me more questions, I cut the bindings on his legs and shove him over the wall.

At the enormous splash, a torch flares brighter in the chatelet guarding the drawbridge. Then there’s the distant murmur of male voices and the whoosh of more torches sputtering to life.

I disappear before their light catches me. The would-be assassin won’t drown—as long as he can swim, which he should have considered carefully before infiltrating the Château de Fontainebleau and its fearsome moat—but he won’t be escaping with his bound hands anytime soon either. The royal guards will catch and question him, and that shall be that. If he’s a decent liar, he might even walk away with all his bits.

I sheathe my blade and tuck the pin back into my hair. It’s time to find Margot. If an intruder figured out the best place to find her would be in the gardens, then it won’t be long before the court does as well.

I walk until I see a tremendous boxwood cut into the likeness of a lion trembling. Pausing beside it, I clear my throat.

The boxwood goes still. And then a frosty voice demands, “Who disturbs us?”

“Only me, madame. May I have a word?”

The bushes tremble, and out steps Marguerite de Valois, Princess of France, with a pretty girl shielded behind her skirts. Upon seeing me, the princess sighs and heaves her eyes heavenward.

I curtsy to her—more for the girl’s sake than for the princess’s. It’s been years since Margot has allowed me to pay her any sort of royal deference. “But it’s the proper greeting for a princess!” I protested when she demanded I stop curtsying. She had yanked me up wearing that mischievous smirk I’ve grown to know all too well. “Yes, but it’s no way to greet your dearest friend.”

“Jac, you scared me half to death!” Margot says.

“Someone is snooping around the gardens. Perhaps it’s time to return to the ball? You’ve been busy for quite a while,” I say, pushing on the final word just a little.

Margot pouts. “You’re no fun at all, but I see your point. Make me presentable?”

I straighten her hair and dab carmine on her mouth from the tiny pot she keeps close for occasions such as these. Satisfied, she turns back to the girl. The two share a final kiss and whispered conversation that ends with a giggle. The girl gets up and leaves. I swallow, keeping my gaze politely on my feet, not wanting to know whom Margot has beguiled tonight.

Margot stares after her longingly, freshly painted lips pressed together. “Mon dieu, I love the countryside. Can’t find girls like that in Paris.”

I force a laugh and pat her shoulder consolingly. “You aren’t looking in the right places in Paris then.”

Her face darkens. “It’s difficult to find someone to kiss in the city when your mother never lets you leave her sights.”

She tilts her face toward the moon, a delicate crescent nestled against the blue-black clouds. A cool breeze rustles the treetops beyond the walls, caressing the nape of my neck and its loose curls. It beckons like a crooked finger. An invitation to explore the world on the other side, a promise of more.

Margot heaves an unladylike sigh, and I know she feels it too.

“Let’s get on with it, then.” She offers me her arm and we return to the brilliant ballroom. With our dark hair swept up with golden pins, only the clinking sapphires sewn on her bodice readily distinguish Marguerite, Princess of France, from me, her loyal lady-in-waiting.

I watch the heads turn as we arrive, see how Margot’s presence ripples through the crowd like a body tossed in a lake. The suitors swarm her in their peacock-bright doublets, with hungry smiles and eager hands. So close, I can almost pretend they’re there for me. When I’m beside Margot, the entire world feels at my fingertips, the shine of Catherine de’ Medici’s gorgeous youngest daughter spilling over me just by being near.

“We could be sisters,” Margot had said today as we beheld ourselves in the grand mirrors before the ball began.

We could be. Were it not for the, oh, let’s say, about a hundred ranks of nobility separating her royal Valois titles from my own lowborn birth. I bite my lip and push back the old urge to tell Margot more. How I not only spotted the assassin but apprehended him myself.

“Secrets stay among family,” Oncle said in a sharp voice the one and only time I had asked if I might show Margot how to hurl my knives. He gripped my arm so hard, it bruised. “Don’t you ever forget that.”

One of Margot’s suitors stops us with an elaborate bow, just a hairbreadth above what would be appropriate for her brother, His Royal Highness King Charles IX. “Madame, would you do me the honor of a dance?” He extends one leather-gloved hand to her.

Margot considers the hand for a long, long moment. The man’s fingers tremble with nerves. I bite back a laugh and turn it into a polite cough. Margot catches my eye and winks wickedly before yanking me closer.

“That depends. What could you possibly offer me that my dear Jacqueline cannot?”

The man’s throat bobs, searching for words. Another gentleman steps smoothly in front of him, his hand slipping about Margot’s without asking. He brings her knuckles to his lips.

“Dance with me instead and find out,” he promises against her skin.

Margot breaks into a delighted laugh and allows herself to be swept away, leaving the dejected suitor behind with nothing but an air kiss. The young man’s cheeks flush bright red and he flees the room without even inventing an excuse.

He never stood a chance. But he doesn’t know that the suitor with Margot in his arms doesn’t stand a chance either. Even still, watching them waltz makes my vision spot. Once, Margot and I were the lovers in the garden. It’s for the best our romance is behind us, but seeing her in the arms of this unworthy man still fills me with a sour, sulky feeling.

I’m glad Margot is enjoying herself—and has been, for hours—but I’m not, and now that the thrill of the would-be assassin is over, all I want to do is flop on my bed, but I can’t. Not until King Charles decides the night is over.

I turn away, ready to spend the rest of the night alone, when a long, horrible scream pierces the noise.

The entire ballroom pivots toward the throne. A woman sobs inconsolably, half in the king’s lap. The music screeches to a halt. The crowd surges, confused and alarmed. I search the room for Margot, hairpin already in hand. My mind races through the potential threats.

I caught one would-be assassin tonight, but what if there was another? One I missed?

I move to unsheathe my blade, but someone catches my wrist, stopping me. Oncle stares down, his mouth a serious slash.

“The queen is dead. We must leave.”