Geneviève
Versailles, the morning after the masquerade
"Your corset is too tight. Either loosen it, or I'll faint for dramatic effect."
"Then faint," said Colette, her fingers unrelenting as she yanked another ribbon. "It will make a stronger impression when you arrive in the council chamber."
"I was hoping to impress them with my charm," I muttered, wincing. "Not with my corpse."
"Your charm is what got you into this mess in the first place."
She wasn't wrong.
I let her finish her cruel little torture session in silence, watching my reflection in the mirror. The countess staring back at me was a ghost of her former self, shining, golden blonde hair, ruby like red jeweled eyes, all high cheekbones and hollower pockets, powdered just right and wearing a gown the color of dried blood. If anyone noticed it had been repurposed from last season, they would say nothing. They'd simply smile and remember. Versailles never forgot a fall from grace.
"Where exactly am I being summoned?" I asked, lifting my chin as Colette adjusted the delicate string of rubies around my neck—the only real ones left in my collection.
She hesitated. "They wouldn't say. Just that you're to be in the Dauphin's wing by the hour."
I arched a brow. "Murder inquiries always this vague?"
"I wouldn't know, my lady. I tend to avoid murdering courtiers."
"Pity. I hear it does wonders for one's social standing these days."
A knock at the door saved her from having to roll her eyes again. A footman entered, bowed, and presented a sealed letter on a silver tray. The wax was unfamiliar—no crest, just a single pressed fingerprint in red.
I plucked it off the tray and opened it with the tiny mother-of-pearl knife I kept in my sleeve. For letters. And occasionally for men.
The note inside was written in an elegant, anonymous hand:
You saw him last. If you value your neck, you will say nothing. The next ribbon will be yours.
— A Friend
I smiled, slow and sharp. "Well," I murmured, "that's one way to start a morning."
Colette frowned. "What is it?"
I held up the note for her to read, but her face turned pale before she finished the first line. I tucked it away in my bodice before she could burn it out of panic.
The footman still stood there, watching me like I might collapse. Or combust.
"Tell whoever sent you I'll be there shortly," I said, rising. "And let them know I'll wear something red. Just in case they wish to aim for the heart."
As the door clicked shut behind him, I glanced at Colette.
"I need a moment before I walk into that room."
"A moment for what?" she asked.
"To think. To breathe. To figure out whether I'm walking into a salon or a trap."
I slipped the note deeper into my bodice, adjusted my gloves, and turned toward the garden doors.