The salons of Versailles had grown hushed in the days since the Queen's silent rebuke of the Duchess of Orléans. Geneviève had not been exiled, nor stripped of title or privilege—yet. But her absence from the Queen's private gatherings, the sudden chill among former allies, and the whispers that chased her through the corridors were punishments of their own. Versailles had no need for formal decrees when it could bleed one's reputation dry with silence alone.
Geneviève stood at her dressing table, her fingertips trailing the rim of a silver mirror. Her reflection, once the darling of the court, now seemed tarnished, shadowed by rumors she could neither confirm nor deny. Her enemies, she knew, had been busy. Most of all, Marie had been busy.
She turned to the woman seated behind her.
"Send word to the Abbé," Geneviève said coolly. "Tell him I will see him tonight. Discreetly."
Her maid hesitated. "The Abbé? I thought he was—"
"Disgraced?" Geneviève smiled faintly. "So were we all, once. But he owes me. And he has access to the letters we'll need. Go."
As the servant hurried out, Geneviève leaned forward to study her reflection again. There were lines now, near her eyes. Signs of strain. She did not mind them. They were the mark of battles fought—and of more to come. She had lost one round, but she had not been broken. And Marie had made a fatal mistake: she had humiliated the wrong woman in front of the entire court.
"I gave you every chance to stay in the shadows," she murmured. "But now, you want the light? Very well. Let us see what burns brighter—your virtue, or my vengeance."
---
Elsewhere in the palace, light filtered through the high windows of Montmorency's private apartments. It was late morning, and the court was in motion: petitioners seeking favors, ministers trading secrets, musicians rehearsing for the spring fête. But behind closed doors, Marie and Montmorency sat close together at a long oak table, their heads bent over parchment and maps.
The Queen's favor had changed everything. No longer was Marie hidden behind linen and silver trays. She now wore a gown of deep blue silk, her hair bound in soft curls, and she walked with a new posture—neither arrogant nor servile, but aware of eyes now watching her as someone who mattered.
"François de Givry has changed his tone," Montmorency said, pushing a sealed letter toward her. "He says he wishes to make amends for his former... 'misjudgments' of your character."
Marie opened the letter and read its contents with a cool detachment that would have shocked the girl she had once been. "He wants my help convincing the Queen to approve his land claim."
Montmorency's mouth twitched. "Of course he does. Half the court will want your ear now."
She set the letter aside. "Let them want. I'll hear the ones worth hearing. The rest can wait."
He studied her, his admiration quiet but clear. "You've changed."
Marie looked down, brushing her fingers along the polished table. "No. I've just stopped apologizing for surviving."
There was silence between them, heavy with shared history and growing affection. Then Montmorency leaned closer, his voice low.
"You know this won't be over until Geneviève is out of Versailles entirely. She'll strike again."
Marie nodded. "She already is. I feel it. She won't be content with slander next time. She'll dig deeper."
"She'll reach for weapons she's hidden well," Montmorency murmured. "Old debts. Dangerous allies. Even the Church, if she must."
"Then we stay ahead of her," Marie said. "We keep building allies. We give the court reason to see us not as scandal, but as strength."
Montmorency touched her hand, briefly, but with purpose. "We do it together."
Their eyes met—and though neither spoke the word, love lingered quietly between them.
---
That evening, Geneviève swept into a shuttered salon near the chapel, cloaked in a veil and accompanied only by a single trusted servant. The room was dark, save for a single candelabra burning low near the hearth.
The Abbé de Villon rose as she entered, his robes shadowed, his eyes wary.
"I thought you'd abandoned me," he said by way of greeting.
"I may have," Geneviève said, removing her veil, "if I'd had the luxury. But I find myself in need of... older friends."
The Abbé poured wine into two goblets and handed her one. "I heard whispers. You've fallen out of the Queen's favor."
"Temporarily," she replied. "But that is not why I called you. I need a letter. One you helped craft three years ago, for the Bishop of Rouen."
The Abbé froze. "That letter was sealed under oath."
"It accused a man of heresy," she said coolly. "A man who is now in the Queen's confidence. I believe it named his connection to Montmorency's father... and a hidden Jesuit correspondence, yes?"
The Abbé's hand trembled. "You plan to drag the Montmorency name into ecclesiastical scandal?"
"I plan to remind this court that no family is untouchable," Geneviève said. "And I plan to offer that reminder just as they begin to trust him."
"You'll be exiled if you're caught."
"I'll be destroyed if I do nothing," she answered.
The Abbé was silent. Then, reluctantly, he reached into his coat and withdrew a faded parchment. "If you do this, Geneviève, you do it alone. I want no part in the aftermath."
"You never do," she said, folding the letter into her cloak.
She left without another word.
---
Two days later, the Queen's spring fête unfolded across the palace gardens in a riot of color and spectacle. Musicians played harps and flutes under silk awnings, while nobles danced in embroidered shoes on trimmed lawns. Swans drifted across the marble fountains, and the air smelled of lemon cakes and lilacs.
Marie stood on the terrace beside the Queen, flanked by courtiers who now sought her approval with careful smiles. She was regal, poised, and untouchable in a gown of ivory lace that shimmered in the sun. Montmorency approached from the crowd and bowed with practiced grace.
"Your Majesty," he said, "your fête is a triumph."
The Queen smiled faintly. "Let us hope the harmony in the garden lasts longer than it did at the masquerade."
Marie's gaze flicked toward the trellised walkway at the far end of the garden. Geneviève had arrived.
The Duchess moved among the revelers like a queen in exile—still proud, still dangerous. Her gown was crimson, as if to dare anyone to forget her. Her eyes met Marie's across the garden, and her smile was razor-thin.
"She's not done," Marie murmured to Montmorency.
"No," he agreed. "But neither are we."
The two stepped away from the Queen as the musicians struck up a new tune. They found a shaded corner beneath a marble colonnade, where few dared follow.
"I've had word from our contact in Rouen," Montmorency said. "A letter has resurfaced. One naming my father and implicating him in a Jesuit conspiracy."
Marie's blood ran cold. "Geneviève."
"She's playing with fire. If that letter reaches the wrong hands, it won't just damage me. It could provoke scrutiny from the Crown—and the Church."
Marie's mind raced. "We need to counter it. Before she presents it."
Montmorency nodded. "I've already dispatched a messenger to retrieve my father's private journals. If we can show his correspondence was misinterpreted—or manipulated—we might stop her before she moves."
Marie's eyes locked with his. "And if we can't?"
Montmorency's face darkened. "Then we make the court question her motives, not mine."
They stood in tense silence, the spring air now feeling like the calm before a storm.
---
That evening, as the sun set over the gilded rooftops of Versailles, Marie and Montmorency returned to his apartments. The Queen had gifted Marie new quarters of her own, but this night, the walls of the palace felt too thin, too uncertain.
A servant delivered a sealed note: "She has met with the Bishop. It has begun."
Marie set the letter down, her hands trembling only slightly.
"We're in the thick of it now," she said.
Montmorency walked to her, taking her hands in his. "Let her plot. Let her rage. You and I—"
"—will be ready," she finished.
Outside, the bells of the palace chapel rang out softly. The court prepared for evening prayers. But behind closed doors, alliances were sharpening, secrets were stirring, and vengeance was inching ever closer.
Geneviève had made her move.
Now it was their turn.
---