Versailles – The East Wing Apartments, Montmorency Household
Marie woke not to clattering pans or shouted orders, but to birdsong outside a mullioned window and the gentle creak of sunlit floorboards. Her chamber was modest by noble standards—no gilded ceilings, no tapestries—yet it felt like another world.
There was a writing desk by the window now. A fresh inkwell. A bouquet of blue irises she hadn't placed.
The Duke's doing, no doubt.
She dressed herself in the muted blue gown his steward had delivered the night before—soft, well-fitted, far finer than anything she'd ever worn.
When she entered the parlour, Montmorency was already at the hearth, shirt sleeves rolled, fingers ink-stained from letters.
"Good morning," she said carefully.
He looked up, the corners of his mouth lifting. "Do you always rise so early? You've barely slept in two days."
"Habit dies hard."
He motioned to the seat across from him. "I thought you might wish to dictate a letter. The Queen asked if you'd submit a written account. She wants it for her private archive."
Marie sat, heart fluttering. Not at the Queen's request—but the way he was watching her. Not with pity. Not with courtesy.
With something warmer.
She nodded. "I'll write it myself."
"Of course." He rose, walking to the cabinet. "Tea?"
Marie smiled slightly. "You make tea?"
"I make exceptions."
Their fingers brushed as he handed her the cup.
She didn't pull away.
---
Three Days Later – The Courtyard Overlooking the Fountains
Marie stood with Léonie, who now served as her assistant. The young maid grinned as she adjusted the fold of Marie's cloak.
"You walk like a lady now," Léonie teased.
"I don't know whether to thank you or scold you."
"He watches you like a man in love," Léonie added, dropping her voice.
Marie's heart skipped.
"He's a Duke," she said carefully. "And I'm a story the court hasn't decided how to end."
"But you've captured him, all the same."
Marie glanced up toward the window above the courtyard. A flicker of blue moved behind the curtain.
He was watching.
And somehow, that terrified her more than the Duchess ever had.
---
That Night – The Duke's Study
Montmorency leaned over a map, fingers tracing routes along the Seine. Marie entered quietly, holding the letter she had finally finished for the Queen.
He looked up, and for a moment, the mask slipped. He smiled—not like a nobleman, but like a man who had missed someone.
She handed him the letter. "It's done."
He took it, but didn't read it.
"You're thinking of leaving again," he said, eyes scanning her face.
Marie stiffened. "You think I should?"
"No," he said. "But I think you're afraid of what staying means."
She hesitated, then said, "You risked your name for me."
"I would do it again."
Her voice softened. "Why?"
Montmorency stepped closer. "Because I've stood in rooms filled with gold and silk and masks—and I never felt more seen than I did the first time you looked at me without bowing."
He was close now. His hand brushed her wrist.
"Tell me to stop," he said gently.
She didn't.
Instead, she rose on her toes, and in the quiet hush of his study, she kissed him.
Brief. Trembling. Real.
Then she stepped back, breath uneven.
"I'm still afraid," she admitted.
"So am I," he said.
And they said nothing more.
But the air between them had changed.
---
Elsewhere – The Disgraced Apartments of Duchess d'Artois
Silk drapes had been replaced with heavier, cheaper fabric. Her staff had been halved. The Queen hadn't dismissed her—but had left her twisting in silence, reputation gutted.
Geneviève d'Artois sat before a dulled mirror, plucking at the thread of her sleeve.
"She dares parade through the palace like a baroness now," she muttered.
Madeleine hovered nearby. "The court favors her. And Montmorency shields her."
"She's still a servant," Geneviève said. "Even if she wears lavender."
"Lavender suits her," Madeleine whispered before she could stop herself.
The slap was sharp.
"You forget your place," the Duchess hissed. "You forget mine."
Madeleine held her cheek, but said nothing.
Geneviève stood, crossing to the fire. "Let them smile. Let her feel safe. Versailles has a thousand eyes and ten thousand knives."
She picked up a sealed letter—unsigned, its wax a pale pink—and handed it to her maid.
"Take this to the Bishop of Amiens. Tell him the girl in Montmorency's household once confessed to desecrating sacred items."
Madeleine blinked. "That never happened."
"It will be believed," Geneviève snapped. "And once the Church questions her, not even the Queen will protect her."
Madeleine swallowed. "And if the Duke intervenes?"
Geneviève smiled—a slow, venomous thing. "Then he falls with her."
---
Back in the Montmorency Wing – Marie's Chamber
The letter arrived on the morning breeze, slid under her door without a sound.
Marie picked it up, brow furrowing. No seal. No name.
She opened it—and her hands went cold.
One sentence.
> You may wear finer gowns, but you'll always be filth in the eyes of God.
She read it again.
And then she burned it.
But as the flames curled over the edge of the paper, her fingers trembled.
She was no longer alone. But someone had decided that made her twice as dangerous.
---