Palace of Versailles, France
Late December 1837
Evening settled over Versailles in a way that felt certain and unhurried, as if the day itself knew exactly when to give way.
The light faded slowly, not all at once, but in layers. The last gray of the sky dimmed behind the tall windows, leaving the rooms inside the palace to rely on lamps and firelight. Outside, the gardens that had held a quiet sense of life earlier in the day now grew still again. The paths that had carried footsteps hours ago lay empty, their edges touched once more by frost forming in thin, uneven lines.
The cold returned without resistance.
Inside the west wing, however, the air felt different.
Warmer, yes.
But not only because of the fire.
There was a sense of ease in that part of the palace that did not exist anywhere else.
Napoleon pushed the door open without knocking.
He did not need to.
The sound reached him before he fully stepped inside.
Laughter.
