Geneviève
The Marble Hall, Versailles — Late Morning
The Marble Hall was colder than I remembered.
Perhaps it was the bodies—too many nobles packed into one sun-drenched space, gilded and perfumed and wilting beneath powdered wigs. Perhaps it was the tension coiled so tightly in the air, it might snap and slit a throat. Or perhaps it was the way every eye turned toward me the moment I entered, like I was the final act in a tragic play they all came to watch.
Bastien's arm brushed mine. We were not touching, not truly—but the gesture was close enough to suggest intimacy. And appearances mattered in this court far more than truths.
"Smile," he whispered under his breath. "They hate it when you look frightened."
I didn't smile.
But I held my chin higher and stepped into the light like I belonged there.
At the far end of the hall, beneath the twin marble cherubs that flanked the fireplace, sat the three appointed inquisitors—one for law, one for the crown, and one for the Church. They were all dressed in pale grey silk, faces inscrutable, hands clasped before them like marble saints.
In the centre of them stood Mademoiselle d'Aubrey, still in mourning black, though her veil had been lifted just enough to reveal a perfectly tear-streaked cheek. She had been the dead courtier's most visible mistress. Of course, she was here to grieve. And to blame.
"Do you want to guess which one has already decided your guilt?" Bastien murmured, eyes flicking to the inquisitors.
"Only one?" I whispered back.
He chuckled once—dry and dangerous.
A herald cleared his throat. "The inquiry into the death of Vicomte Étienne de la Rosière is now in session. Those summoned may present themselves."
I walked forward. The hush followed me like a tide.
They seated me on a narrow, uncomfortable stool. My skirts fanned around me like a bloodstain. I placed my gloved hands neatly in my lap and waited. To my left, Bastien stood like an idle companion. Not summoned. Not seated. Just there.
The first inquisitor—a sharp-boned man from the Ministry of Law—spoke first.
"Countess Geneviève de Marçay, you were seen leaving the masquerade shortly after the Vicomte. You were also the last person to speak with him before he was found dead in the Hall of Mirrors. Do you deny this?"
"No," I said calmly. "I spoke with him. He had taken too much brandy and was reciting a poem about his own beauty. I told him he ought to lie down before he embarrassed himself further."
"Did you follow him?"
"No," I said. "And had I known he would drop dead in the Hall of Mirrors, I assure you I would've suggested a more discreet location."
There were murmurs. A few stifled laughs.
One of the other inquisitors, the bishop in grey, leaned forward. "You have a reputation, my lady."
"Yes," I said. "Many. Which one are we referring to?"
The bishop did not smile. "A reputation for wit. For irreverence. For collecting secrets."
"Well," I said, eyes narrowing, "at least it's not for poisoning my lovers."
That stung. Several courtiers visibly shifted.
The bishop continued: "You received this note, yes?"
A servant brought forward a velvet tray with the anonymous letter I had tucked into my bodice.
My stomach turned. So they knew already. Or they wanted me to think they did.
"I did."
"You withheld it."
"I was unsure whether to believe it," I lied. "And unsure who I could trust."
There was a pause. The bishop's gaze didn't leave mine.
Then the third inquisitor, a woman from the Crown's inner circle, spoke up. "And who do you trust now, Countess?"
I glanced—only briefly—at Bastien. He arched a brow at me, as if daring me to say his name.
"Myself. My wits and my morals." I replied.
The woman smiled faintly. "Wise."
The questions continued. And I answered all of them—not truthfully, but convincingly. I painted myself as clever, a little vain, but ultimately harmless. A woman who gossiped, yes, but only to entertain. Not to destroy.
The room was hungry for a scapegoat.
I would not be fed to them.
Bastien watched everything with quiet intensity. Once or twice, he stepped forward with a quip or clarification—he had an alibi for my whereabouts after the masquerade, which was only half true. And the other half was unprovable. Which was the only kind that mattered.
By the time the inquiry paused for midday wine, the tide had shifted. The rumours would still swirl, but I was no longer the favoured suspect.
Which meant I was now something worse: useful.
I stood slowly. Bastien stepped in before anyone else could approach, and offered his arm again.
This time, I took it.
We exited through the side corridor into the Hall of Mirrors. The light was blinding. Our reflections stared back at us from every direction—two figures dressed like courtiers, walking like allies, thinking like thieves.
Once we were alone, I hissed, "That was a game of knives."
He smiled. "And we didn't bleed."
"Not yet."
He stopped walking. Turned to face me.
"We need to talk."
"About?"
"The note. The vicomte. The fact that whoever killed him either thinks you know something… or thinks you are next."
I folded my arms. "Why do you care?"
"Because," he said, voice lowering, "they tried to send me a note, too. But I intercepted it first. Someone's threatening all the wrong people."
My heart thudded.
"So we're both being watched," I said.
He nodded. "And that makes us inconvenient."
I stared at him for a moment. The mirrored hall warped our reflections—made us look taller, sharper, colder.
"All right," I said at last. "We work together. We find out who killed the vicomte. And why."
He offered his hand.
I didn't take it.
But I walked beside him again.