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Chapter Text

It had been such a long time since Auguste had called for her.

She didn't know what else to expect, really. As if being married to a complete stranger and obliged to complete the wedding night in the presence of witnesses--all much older, all quite male--wasn't indignity enough, now Marie found that she was given little else to do as queen but be passive and be dressed. Be pretty, be still, be quiet. Be a topic of gossip, be ogled, be sneered at, be simultaneously observed and ignored, all day, every day.

Her mother had ordered her to represent Austria well within this unequal union, and Marie had done her best. But her attempts to create some semblance of chemistry with Louis XVI had failed. He was too young to shoulder the burdens that his thoughtless ancestors had obliged him to manage, and thanks to a heart that actually concerned itself with the sufferings of the common people of France, he spent a shockingly small amount of time at social gatherings, instead preferring to devote himself to actual governance.

His studiousness impressed the court, but left him almost no time to tend what little fire remained in his home hearth. To be fair, he certainly had tried, on the few nights when they had mutually come across each other in the hall that separated their private bedchambers. He courted her gently, appropriately, entirely too chastely, and she excused herself to dress in something that he could remove without requiring a retinue to assist. And then there was clumsy caressing, clumsy lovemaking, and afterwards clumsy excuses. And so, so many bitter tears.

She had known this whole thing would be hard, but no one could have told her in advance quite how hard.

So day after day, she went unsought-for and tried to find some meaning in the beautiful prison of Versailles, wandering the halls, dressed gorgeously in an endless forest of gowns that seemed to exist simply for the employment of an army of garment workers. Something other than roaming through the gardens whose beauty she no longer saw, staring at priceless works of art that had no value to her, singing to a captive audience who came solely for the prestige of boasting that the Queen had personally invited them to a private event.

... ooof!

She reeled backwards, as stunned as if she had run into a brick wall. A solid mass of muscle stood before her, resplendent in full military dress, tense and unmoving. She cringed up at the Marquis de Lafayette, who looked down at her with an unsmiling expression. "Your Majesty, I will remove myself from this hallway if my presence ... next to the wall ... is bothersome."

Despite the cloud of depression she labored under, Marie smiled, if a bit uncertainly. "Always a pleasure to, err, run into you, my dear Marquis."

He looked less than convinced. "Is your usual habit to run headfirst into people much larger than yourself, which incidentally, would be nearly everyone here?"

"Are you calling me unobservent, Monsieur?"

"I am merely suggesting--"

"Because it's true."

His look of irritation and displeasure softened slightly at her self-depreciation, and she continued, "I am sometimes so surrounded with beautiful things that I see nothing at all. I was a bit too self-absorbed to see what was directly in front of me, and for that, I apologize."

Now he looked surprised indeed. The tension in his jaw tangibly eased. "Your Majesty, allow me to apologize for my hasty words. I was not seeking an apology for this incident. On the contrary, I was concerned that you might have injured yourself, or that I might have damaged your dress."

"Oh, I am not worried about this dress."

If she had thought that he looked surprised before, now he seemed absolutely thunderstruck, to the point that he actually stared at her, mouth slightly agape. "Did you ... did you just say that you did not care about one of your dresses?"

Marie shrugged as she fingered one of several hundred ruffles, giving herself something to do with her hands. "Well, it is certainly lovely craftsmanship and it would be a shame if it were torn, but that sort of thing can always be mended and I have so many, I could easily wear others and ... have I said something surprising?"

"Your Majesty, you do not seem quite yourself. You must be exhausted from the sun, it is quite hot. Allow me to escort you back to your chambers immediately to allow you to rest."

Marie laughed now. "Completely unnecessary, though I appreciate the sentiment."

"But I insist." As he took her hand and delicately placed it, feather-like, on his much larger forearm, he explained in a low voice: "You were observed acting in a rather distracted manner for most of the morning. There has been ... talk. Most of it less than complimentary. Minister Blaisdell, Count Fersen and I have all been watching the halls for you."

"How flattering."

"It was His Majesty's express wish."

"Instead of coming to me himself," Marie sighed, a familiar sense of bitterness and disappointment welling up inside her. She swallowed hard against the bile that abruptly rose into her throat.

Somewhere in her periphery, she was aware that Lafayette had stopped and was looking down at her with the gentlest expression that she had ever experienced directly from him. Only later would she understand that it was one of the first times that she was facing him in the absence of his implicit disapproval. She was so used to the unspoken sense that she was doing or saying or just being wrong that when she dared to meet his eyes, she felt as though she was seeing the the first rays of sun after a long, dark storm.

The moment was too electric, too strong, and they both shied away, both reddening to different degrees. Marie spoke first. "Perhaps it is a bit warm after all, Monsieur Marquis. If we may go to my rooms as quickly as possible."

"Right away, Your Majesty."

She began to look for him. Not entirely by her will, but simply to give herself something to do in between the countless moments of daily ennui.

At first, she was content with those glimpses of a royal blue coat from afar. It was enough to see him distantly when he stormed out of formal assemblies and forced the attendees out of his way with raw angry energy alone. Then came the day that he went too far and verbally lashed one of the nobles publicly during a policy meeting, and Marie found him in a side garden, turned out to hopefully regain some degree of civility. Judging from the fierce mutters that escaped his trembling lips, this was taking considerable effort.

"We meet again, Monsieur," Marie said as she sauntered past him. Surly, bristling, eyes dark with rage, he was still faultlessly handsome, and she suddenly understood why every female member of the court anxiously looked for this man at every social event. In the midst of luxury and privilege, his expressed disaffection with the current state of the country was borderline indecent, and it was easy to imagine that fiery passion turned to more ... carnal pursuits.

"Your Majesty," he said, curtly, brushing non-existent lint from his gloves. Nervous energy with no other outlet. Marie bit her lip sympathetically. "Will you take a turn with me through the walks?"

He glowered at her.

She hid a smile at his exasperation and covered her mouth with a delicate lace fan. "Perhaps a quick stroll will help bring clarity to your thoughts?"

"My thoughts are not in need of clarity, my Queen. Indeed, they seem to be entirely too clear to the assembly. I was accused of sedition, though they stopped short of calling my words treasonous." He bristled. "The King declared a recess before blood could be drawn."

"How fortunate for them," Marie joked, but Lafayette remained unamused.

"The nobility has lived extravagantly upon the backs of the common man for generations at this point. They do not understand the danger that they are putting themselves in by continuing to ignore the plight of the lower class. And ultimately to what end? To buy a painting from an artist whose work they dislike, to put in a room that no one ever enters, in a house that they may visit for three weeks out of an entire year, if the weather is favorable." He shook his head furiously. "It cannot continue. It cannot."

"No, it cannot."

Now he looked at her again, with that look of befuddlement that made him appear less like a war hero, and more like a tongue-tied young man, trying earnestly to find the right words to say to a blushing maiden.

... just like ...

... Auguste.

"Your Majesty?"

She looked at him, searching his face for ... what? Confirmation of mutual desire? A resemblance to the husband whom she had utterly failed to win over? Any sign that she needed to collect herself and remember who and where she was?

All she saw in his eyes was the same question she asked herself in the mornings, all through the afternoons, every single lonely night, every time she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Who are you?

"Your Majesty, you ... I am not accustomed to this sort of talk from you."

"Is it unwelcome, Monsieur?"

"Not in the least. I find it deeply refreshing, to be perfectly frank. I was beginning to think that none of the ruling class understood what I am trying--and evidently failing--to express."

"Perhaps a different approach is needed," Marie suggested, gently. "If we wish for them to relieve the burden of the lower classes, we should set an example and give of ourselves. Tell me the next time that you intend to visit the issue, and I shall be present in the assembly to support you. Sometimes it takes a woman's deeds to shame a man into what he ought to have done for himself."

He looked at her intently again, with that mixture of dubiousness and incredulity that wrinkled his brow so fetchingly. Marie imagined his internal confusion and had to suppress laughter. He wanted to know, she could tell; why did she all of people seem to understand him, when nearly all of their mutual peers had no issue whatever maintaining the status quo?

"There is no guarantee of success, I must admit. This is a risky venture that may ultimately ruin my reputation."

"Then you may join me, for mine has long ago been trampled into the mud. This venture should prove ... exciting."

It was so exciting, in fact, that there were multiple assassination attempts foiled in the months that followed: two against Lafayette, clumsy fools who ought to have realized that they were dealing with a recent veteran of warfare. One against the Queen, a man who tried to make a lucky strike with garden shears and failed, badly. One against the King himself.

Versailles was in uproar.

Marie had never before seen D'Eon de Beaumont so giddy with excitement. Every night he found her in her new chambers (for security purposes, he obliged her to change bedrooms regularly now) and brought her scraps of information. Some, like the details of their would-be killers' tortures and forced confessions, she could have done without. The failed murders aside, these people were not the nobles that she had angered and shamed in a public forum by offering to pay her taxes when they had refused. They were desperate peasants who had been promised fame for doing away with the tyrants who ground the commoners of France into the dust, and more importantly, gold to feed their hungry families. These, she insisted, should not be punished for grabbing at the proverbial carrot dangling from the stick. D'Eon, predictably, did not share the sentiment. "Did you know that His Majesty has actually designed a more effective guillotine? I can't think of better subjects to test it out on!"

"Mother of God, D'Eon, please. No more of this. Tell me how the reforms get on."

A mild shrug. "The people are benefitting, although a large number of them are not willing to give you any credit for it. Surprised?"

"Not in the least," Marie sighed, but quickly smiled at the sight of a large shadow approaching from the hall. "Ahh, perhaps that's L--"

Her face, so bright, quite abruptly crumbled like a fallen pastry, and she quickly excused herself from the conversation to disappear into an adjoining room. D'Eon turned to see the Marquis de Lafayette patrolling in the hall. He frowned and murmured, "Ahhh, my pretty bird was hoping to see someone else, then. How very curious."

When she returned with swollen eyes and puffy cheeks, he tactfully said nothing about her altered appearance, instead asking quietly if she would like a glass of red wine. And Marie giggled through her sniffles and pointed out that she hadn't had red wine since the day that they met, and that was the day that Louis had given her that unexpected mission, and she had taken her success as a sign that he had gained some faith in her, and perhaps she could finally look forward to brighter days in their relationship, and and and ...

"And?" he asked, too gently.

"And ... well, I'm here, and he's not. Again."

"Dear little bird," he sighed. "Trapped in the cage, forever craning for the kernel just out of reach. I pity you deeply, my Queen. I truly do."

She walked in the garden that night, feeling quite assured that a light mist of rain would keep other lovers from the palace indoors, instead of seeking groves to rendezvous for clandestine affairs and stolen kisses.

She had not counted on the fact that she was, once again, being watched.

It was well past midnight, and the lilies, tulips, and roses shone jewel-like and twinkling in the dim moonlight. Marie stood before the glistening flowers in one of her simplest gowns, a cotton-and-linen affair that still would have ruined the finances of the average family of five to purchase, and wondered abstractly whether or not transplanted flowers ever regretted the loss of home and familiar when they were brought to a strange land to become ornamentation.

"My lady!" an excited voice exclaimed behind her, and she felt a strong hand reach out for her shoulder, arresting her immediately with the feel of warm silk against her slightly chilled skin. "My lady, please wait. I am your partner from the masquerade, and I have longed to find you again ... Your Majesty?"

He let go instantly, and internally she mourned, missing the all-too-brief contact. For that heated moment, she had been able to forget that she was a lonely Queen whom few respected and many mocked, and a wife whose husband forewent her company in favor of academic endeavors, and the latest subject of conversation for the gentry to deride. In the few seconds that she had felt that touch, she had felt human, not regal, and she had not known before how much she missed that.

He made immediate apologies, stammering through an explanation that he must have mistaken her for someone else, to please forgive his impropriety, and Marie told him to keep quiet and cease his nonsense, of course she was the woman that had danced with him at the masquerade ball, he should have known that as soon as she awkwardly stomped on his foot for the second time.

That recollection made him chuckle, and for another precious moment, his hand met her skin carefully, with much less strength and significantly more tenderness.

She felt a gnawing emptiness, magnified in the presence of a potential connection.

"Your Majesty. These last weeks have surely been trying for you. I admit, I have been very impressed by the strength and resilience you have displayed at all times."

"It has not always been easy for me," Marie confessed.

"Yet you persevere. I have fought beside men who showed less courage under fire." He looked thoughtful, his strong features obscured by the dark night. "This may be too bold for me to say, but you've ... you've grown. You've blossomed."

She thought of transplanted flowers again, a small white rose lost amongst native greenery.

And then she froze, as the man who normally stood eight inches taller than she was came entirely too close and invaded her space as a monarch, pressing his mouth against hers with reverence that threatened to become a blasphemous passion if she entertained the idea. She touched his biceps with trembling fingers and let him hold her up, as her legs were proving unequal to the task, and all manner of unworthy and wicked thoughts entered her mind, and she felt so very, very alive for this fleeting moment.

"My Queen," Lafayette finally managed in a whispered groan. He held her at a slight distance, just enough so that his need would not be so immediately perceived. She was acutely aware of it just the same. "We must not. Not at this moment, at least. I will find a proper time to join with you, but for now, please return to your chambers, and remember me ... as I will remember you."

She felt the rain in that moment, and she realized that even now he was protecting her. She would be able to explain a midnight walk through the gardens with little comment, but no amount of explaining would dispel the vicious rumors if she came inside drenched to the skin. She ran as quickly as she might, only looking back once she had reached the safety of a doorway. He stood where she had left him, fading into the shadows cast by the trees, still watching her.

Chapter Text

Interior Minister Blaisdell sat in his office, a sheaf of papers before him awaiting ink and seal. They must wait until he had finished his cup of tea, and that must wait until he had heard the latest bit of news from one of his most reliable lackeys. They had found the woman responsible for the whole debacle with the du Barry necklace. She was, of course, protesting innocence, swearing that she was a mere pawn in someone else's grand scheme, but a letter from her former spouse gave the lie to an otherwise plausible story as to why she, as a completely innocent party, might be found in possession of a parcel of unique diamonds of remarkable quality. And why she owned significant holdings in England when just recently she had been a member of the French aristocracy. And why her husband had suddenly initiated hasty divorce proceedings and fled on the first available boat for Australia.

Blaisdell listened in utter silence until the man had finished speaking. Then he smiled his wolffish smile and reached for a tea cup. Fine porcelain, as was the current fashion, and completely unadorned, just like himself. Austere luxury, as was his wont.

His subordinate offered to hand him the tray of accompanying cream, sliced citrus, and exquisite sugar cubes, but Blaisdell waved him off. Not necessary today, bit of unpleasant work to do shortly, but a glass of that excellent whisky that the Queen sent over would do, if that could be prepared in advance against his return. Just a finger of it, please, and just a sliver of ice, thank you. 

Blaisdell entered the dungeons through one of many hidden side entrances and stood unmoving as the sounds of an enraged woman echoed through the desolate pit. D'Eon sat in a chair by the cell, indifferent to all of the abuse hurled his way. He stood quickly once his eyes lit upon the Minister. "What a surprise, sir. I was certain that you would send one of your underlings. Didn't want to miss the fun, or wanted to keep in practice?"

"Just wanted to see her with my own eyes, I suppose. Morbid curiosity." 

As Blaisdell approached the bars of the cell, Jeanne de Valois-Saint-Remy spat at him. Her aim was revoltingly accurate. Blaisdell turned his face aside at the last possible moment, choosing to accept the insult calmly rather than flinch or retreat. He chuckled coldly as he cleaned his face with a silk handkerchief. "Ah, so this is our royal flower of delicate femininity? I must rely on your assurances then, D'Eon. Her mannerisms seem more aligned with your average whore."

"How dare you," Jeanne hissed. "You common mongrel, you think serving under this neutered King and his Austrian tramp gives you any standing to speak to me, a woman of true nobility, a daughter of--"

"A bastard sired in shame who just happened to have a father in the royal line of succession? Your lineage does you little credit." Blaisdell looked over at D'Eon. "What has she had to say for herself? Is it worth hearing?" 

"Oh, it's been the usual muddle of half-lies, complete lies, damned lies, and outright lies. I personally don't need a repeat performance, but perhaps it will amuse you."

"Doubtful, but I have a free hour now, might as well occupy it." 

Blaisdell brought a second chair, sat down and listened placidly as Jeanne heaped slurs and coarse insults upon him, with an unperturbable smirk on his lips, and nothing she managed in that hour disturbed that expression. The shrieks grew louder, the accusations increasingly violent and unhinged, and he sat there unmoved through it all, as calm as if he were sitting on a bench in a public park. 

At one point, he was aware that D'Eon had slipped away, a quiet shadow blending in with all of the others. Both he and Jeanne knew it when D'Eon returned, however, for he came through the main door, gallantly leading a figure by the hand, someone who entered with such uncommon grace and elegance in her gait that it was immediately apparent that they were in the presence of the Queen. Instinct took over; Blaisdell rose to his feet and formally bowed, Jeanne promptly lowered herself to the floor, praying that she appeared sufficiently contrite. 

"... is this she?" Such simple words that held so much meaning. 

Jeanne's head jerked up. "My Queen, please spare me. I am innocent--" 

Her words, injected with pathos, were interrupted by a rude snigger. Every eye in the room turned to Blaisdell, who remained unapologetically amused. He shrugged, and after giving him a stony stare, Jeanne continued to plead her case, sometimes emotionally, sometimes pathetically. 

It was an excellent performance. Marie saw through it, one actress to another. 

She allowed Jeanne to finish, exhaled quietly, and shook her head. "And so you would ruin me--ruin France, truly--over a lack of recognition?"

The implicit denial of mercy shattered the façade of humility instantly. Jeanne's face creased with rage. "I deserve it. I am French royalty--true royalty, born to it! I didn't marry into it or toady my way into it!" This last jab was directed at Blaisdell, who did not react. 

She redirected her furious gaze to Marie. "Do you have the first idea what starvation truly is? Watching everyone in your home have to decide day after day whether they will die quicker from eating rotten scraps as opposed to nothing at all? Month after month, seeing the graveyard grow with the graves of your classmates? Every year, the lion's share of your town's money and food traveling out to serve the Crown for absolutely nothing in return? I was fortunate where others were not; I was happy enough to marry well and to be able to decide that I would not go through such deprivation again, do I not have that right?"

"Of course you do," Marie said firmly, "but I am quite certain that your right to live well should not have been cashiered at my personal expense."

She took a step towards the cell, and involuntarily, Jeanne shrank back. "Under different circumstances we might have been friends; I am sadly short of them. Allow me to extend sympathy to you, since you have now made that an impossibility."

"I want none of your false comfort," Jeanne retorted. 

"Very well," Marie sighed, and she looked remorseful as she consulted quietly with D'Eon. Jeanne looked wildly, back and forth, from the pair of them, to Blaisdell who had stood by all this while, smugly observing, to the glint in his left hand that she was certain had not been there before, and she felt a terror claw at her chest. Finally Marie pronounced sentence aloud.

"She is royalty, so please grant her death with dignity, monsieurs. Let it be as painless as may be. That is my express wish."

Jeanne screamed aloud for mercy, but the Queen had already turned and exited purposefully. The doors shut behind her with a loud clang; never before had the sound of a bolt sliding into place struck such fear into Jeanne. She retreated to the far wall, scrabbling against the rough cobblestones. "Cowards! False nobility! You dare lay a hand on a woman? A relative of the King?"

"Come now, Madame, you have tried this tactic before and it has failed. Do be more original!" Blaisdell's mockery felt insufferable at this point, and she determined that she would fly at his face as soon as he entered the cell. She would make him pay! If she was to die, leaving him with a few good gouges in his face would comfort her greatly. If luck was with her, she might actually be able to blind him permanently!

D'Eon withdrew a rusted key from a hidden pocket and tossed it to Blaisdell. "Will you need me afterwards, m'lord?"

"Not at all. I'll be done shortly enough. I am not at all impressed with this petty venom, and I have a lovely glass of whisky waiting for me upstairs."

D'Eon took his leave, and Jeanne stared hatefully at Blaisdell, who was unlocking the door of the cell with quite a casual air. She flinched as the rusty hinges squawked under the weight of the door opening. He entered the cell, lingering near the opening, eyes daring her to attack him or affect an escape. The blade that had been in his hand seemed to be gone. Had she imagined it in her terror?

"Well?" she demanded, voice trembling but slightly. "Have you lost your nerve? Or has your limp conscience finally firmed up?"

"A prick joke, my lady? You shock me." Blaisdell looked at her appraisingly. "Perhaps I should inquire after your nerve. I could have sworn you were going to scratch my face just a minute ago."

Jeanne stood up straight. Keep talking, you intolerable wretch! The small needle of rock that had broken loose from the masonry felt reassuring in her damp hand. She spoke with disdain. "You expect me to come near you and give you an opportunity to ravish me? You are sorely mistaken, craven whoreson."

"Ravish you? You flatter yourself. I hardly desire your filthy taint." 

"Ah, are the rumors true, then? You save your foul desire for the King himself?"

A flash of anger manifested itself in Blaisdell's eyes, and Jeanne saw her opening. With a strength and speed born of her desperate circumstances, she lunged directly at his face. He stood firm, blocking the door, and she wound up her arm, intending to snap it straight and draw the sharpened rock across his throat. She saw his hand swiftly move under her wrist, the sudden thought of something just happened, but what flashed through her mind, and too late she saw the blood streaming into her clenched fist and the wetted blade in his hand. The repulsive smirk was finally gone from his face, replaced with a terrifying blankness.

She sank to her knees, instinctively and ineffectually clutching at her opened wrist with her other hand. Blaisdell observed her for a few moments more before vanishing into the darkness. He did not bother to shut the door to the cell. 

Jeanne stood and took a tottering step forward. That fool! This doesn't even hurt, it can't be that bad ... She would escape--all she needed to do was tie up her wrist and rest a bit--and once she had recovered, she would make them all pay! She would ... she woullllld ...

She slumped down again, breathing gone shallow. The lights seemed dimmer, almost fading, and it was so quiet now. So quiet. ... so terribly quiet. 

The blood continued to run through her fingers, now forever frozen in place.

Chapter Text

Louis XVI stood in the hall outside of one of many identical formal meeting rooms, surrounded by a gaggle of ministers and nobles arguing animatedly. This particular debate had been going on for nearly six hours, and for over nine hours the day previous, and for nearly as long the day before that. The chief instigator of the current topic on the floor was Lafayette, who seemed to be inflamed by every contrary opinion. 

But if Lafayette thrived on the level of conflict, Louis was deeply overwhelmed by it. He was glad for the presence of the Interior Minister in more ways than one. The nobles who normally roared in his face did not dare to be so forward with Blaisdell, and when he was both physically and emotionally overwrought, his friend provided both a solid emotional touchstone and a strong physical shoulder to rest on. Louis leaned into Blaisdell's arm a bit more and felt the older man stand even straighter, more firmly. 

"... your Majesty, you have yet to answer our questions. These reforms that you insist upon, precisely how do you intend to pay for them if the Crown is close to financial ruin?" This, from a man in golden silk and brocade, his jaw and gut set obstinately.

"Asked and answered," Blaisdell said shortly. "Baron Villeneuve, have the goodness not to crowd so close, if you please."

"I will have the goodness when one of you provides an actual solution to these grand ideas that you keep expecting us to shoulder the burden for--" The Baron advanced without paying any heed to Blaisdell's warning, which proved a mistake when the Interior Minister suddenly moved forward and grabbed the Baron by the lapels in the exact manner that one would pin a poisonous snake. The hall abruptly became deathly quiet.

With devastating precision, Blaisdell quietly repeated himself, "Do not approach his Majesty, my lord Villeneuve. We can hear you from a distance. Do step back, and feel free to repeat your question when you can do so without attempting to menace my King."

The mortified noble made no further attempt, but this did not stop the grumbling from other quarters. Louis was very glad to see the various and sundry carriages coming to take the aristocracy back to their chateaus. One by one, they filtered into their cars and left, some making it a point to be overheard as they continued to complain aloud, though few wished to directly meet Blaisdell's icy glare.

"You have a long road ahead, sire," the minister commented as the last of the nobility left the scene.

"Alas, I have no choice but to walk it, as beset by thorns as I may be," Louis sighed. Even though there were few other people around at this point, he continued to lean heavily on Blaisdell.

The older man looked down at him with something approaching gentleness. "My king, you are weary. I would be gratified to extend hospitality for the approaching week's end. Allow me to invite you and the queen to join me at my house. There is something pressing I would like to discuss with the two of you together, privately."

Louis willingly gave his intention to attend; Blaisdell already knew in advance that he would. There was little Louis liked better than an exquisite dinner, and Blaisdell was well in position to provide that. The chef he currently employed was a refugee from Italy and debtor's prison, and working for a French nobleman who paid timely was nothing less than a godsend. Blaisdell mentally began to prepare a menu of no fewer than six courses as he hurried through the concourses looking for the queen.

He found her in front of her own carriage, surrounded by the hangers-on and lollygaggers she used to invite into Versailles to help her fritter away several thousands in francs on card games. They were unhappily protesting her decision to no longer host or attend said entertainment. Marie, what's happened to you? Don't you like us anymore? Aren't we your dear friends? 

Of course you are, Marie returned gently, but I have neglected some duties for far too long that must not be delayed further. If you will all excuse me, the Interior Minister appears to want to speak with me. 

They scattered before the minister's approach. Marie sat high on her cushions, looking down at Blaisdell. She was glad for her current position, for he intimidated her and ever since D'Eon had told her in whispers what had become of Jeanne de Valois-Saint-Remy ("I think he actually dropped her down an oubliette afterwards!") she was more than a little frightened of him. "Monsieur Blaisdell, a good afternoon to you, sir."

"And you as well, my Queen." He lay the proposed scheme for the weekend before her, to which she also agreed, and watched as her glistening carriage took her through a gladed avenue and quickly out of sight. He spent approximately fifteen minutes more outside before devoting the remainder of the afternoon to clearing his desk of items that needed his signature. He didn't need any distractions this weekend. He had a crisis on his hands that required a resolution even more urgently than the country's financial woes--a married couple badly in need of a point of connection.

"Auguste dear, do you have any idea what prompted Minister Blaisdell to invite us to his home?"

"Not in the slightest," the King admitted. "He works outrageous hours. He works so much, actually, that he frequently has his personal chef come to Versailles to prepare his meals. I know very little about his private life, but I do know he values his free time, so I never thought an invitation was on the table. I'm a bit flattered, frankly."

I'm not, Marie grumbled internally. The timing of the invitation felt strangely suspect. Blaisdell had been giving her more than one long stare recently, and she wondered if it was because she had made it a point to go visit with the woman accused of impersonating her to Cardinal Rohan. The poor girl had cried, just like Jeanne, but Marie had recognized sincere sorrow when she saw it, and the comfort that she had offered had been immediately and gratefully accepted. Word had gotten around, of course. The Queen condescended to actually meet the harlot who pretended to be her and fooled a man of the Church! What on earth is this monarchy coming to? She ought to have ordered her public hanging! 

"The countryside is beautiful in the afternoon," was all she said aloud.

"It is indeed," Louis agreed.

She made a few more attempts to draw him into prolonged conversation, but eventually admitted defeat and instead just quietly crossed to the other side of the carriage to sit next to him. He seemed to appreciate this more than passing commentary on the scenery, as he tenderly squeezed her hand and slipped an arm around her slim shoulders.

Not for the first time, Marie wished that these reforms weren't so pressingly necessary. The stress of leading change was wearing Louis to skin and bone. He saw virtue in the majority of opinions even when they were diametrically opposed to his own, and he was not willing to give any one side more weight than any others, which made it even more difficult for him to decide which way to drive the country forward. Marie lay her head on his shoulder and sighed deeply.

"You sound like I did earlier today," Louis said ruefully. 

"I'm sure my day was not half so stressful as your own, my King."

"Don't be so certain. I have heard how constant you have been in meeting with the lower classes, to foster good will and hear their concerns. I have also heard that the people are suspicious of your kindness and have attributed your behavior to guilt. It is no small feat to continue doing what is right in the face of obstinate distrust, my Queen."

She looked up at him, smiling gratefully as she reflected on his thoughtful praise. She thought about their destination again, and her mouth quirked. If nothing else positive happened this weekend, at least she could say that she and the King had a productive quarrel trying to out-compliment each other for working hard. A slow start to intimacy to be certain, but at the point, she was starved enough to gorge on scraps.

Blaisdell was standing outside his chateau waiting for them, dressed only a touch more handsomely than his own domestics. He took one young royal on each arm and walked them inside, chatting with them in a familiar, almost paternal manner. He was charming, he was suave, he was spirited, and Marie had never enjoyed his company half so much. He led them into his dining room immediately and offered them three very different aperitifs that he insisted that they partake in. For 'enhancement,' he claimed.

The staff had been busy filling the sideboard and table with amuse-bouches of seasonal fruit and fresh cream, and savory chunks of cheese blended with fragrant basil. After the royals had opportunity to sample the small tastings, all three of them sat at table and enjoyed tiny plates of vibrant salad, soup silky with vegetable purée, a bite of canapé and a sliver of omelette, a delicate crêpe stuffed with herbs and roast game bird, all leading up to the main course: an exotic concoction by the chef that Blaisdell called 'shrimp fettuccine.'

"It's amazing," Louis announced after two bites. "I know that you said it's just ground wheat flour, eggs, cream, spices, and shrimp, but I truly have never had something so harmonious and balanced. It's filling, but it's so light. It's so elegant and yet very humble. I honestly can't remember the last time I ate something so lovely." 

As he continued to praise the food ecstatically, Blaisdell turned his attention to the left. His tone was amused. "My Queen, I am sorry to see that the food does not inspire the same response in you."

"My lord, forgive my silence. The food is excellent. I simply believe that I have eaten quite enough." Marie swallowed hard and toyed with her spoon, trying to appear more pleased than she felt. She had managed one bite of everything offered to her, but between the unforgiving dress and constrictive corset, she was quite fit to burst. 

Louis continued to enjoy his food as if he had not eaten in the same grand style that very morning. He had, indeed, not stopped rhapsodizing about the food since the first bite. Marie smiled politely, nodded occasionally, did not make much of an effort to join in and otherwise stared down at the tablecloth, making mindless patterns with her fingertips. And Blaisdell noticed.

After the meal, Louis made his way into a nearby sitting room, where he quickly found several books that he had not quite finished on his own time buried amongst the stacks. One glass of vintage tawny port later, he was deeply engrossed in his reading, and no further sallies by Marie were given any meaningful notice. She sat there, unhappily focused on him, unable to get his attention, until she finally coughed minutely, murmured, "If you'll excuse me then, your Majesty," and left the room quickly.

She soon realized her error. She was in a strange house--she had absolutely no idea where she was going! Too embarrassed to ask the servants for any assistance, she blundered about until she found a door that led outside; from there she quickly escaped into a garden bursting with several varietals of blue and violet flowers in riotous bloom. She sat on the nearest chair and turned it to face away from the building. The flowers, at least, would not gossip about her tears.

She had barely had two minutes to sit and feel pity for herself before she heard the measured tread of footsteps and the warning crackle of gravel shifting beneath heavy shoes just moments too late, and she dolefully saw that this particular garden was a cul-de-sac--one way in and no other ways out. Plunging through the foliage would victimize her dress. 

She heaved an irritable sigh, as she was well aware of just whom had hemmed her in. Even from a distance she could feel his eyes on her back, which was completely exposed save for a bit of chiffon. She internally cursed the whimsy with which she had chosen her traveling clothes. Cooling and perky, indeed! At the moment she felt entirely sticky and hot and wretched, and in no mood whatsoever for the taunting she felt certain she was about to receive from the Interior Minister. 

She tried to force a smile on her face and failed. No matter; he was smirking enough for the both of them.

"Yes, Blaisdell."

"It's a lovely evening, isn't it?" He strode towards her, hazel eyes twinkling merrily. 

"Absolutely enchanting," she said flatly.

"I'm surprised to see you here. What has possessed you to come into my private tea garden?"

"Sir, forgive me. As I'm certain you have already surmised, I was attempting to leave an awkward scene. It was my error that I did not ask for appropriate directions."

"But your Majesty, what is mine is indisputably also yours. Of course you are welcome to use the house and what is in it to the very height of your pleasure, but if I may ask again, what brought you to my personal garden? Did you not notice the very particular flowers I chose?"

Marie looked around, not entirely following his line of questioning, when her eyes lit on the dusty purple lavender and the paler jasmine flowers peeping in between, the brilliant morning glories, the intensely vibrant lilies. All wafting their incense into the air which, thanks to the crosswinds, was driving directly into her nostrils. She shivered, even as sweat trickled down her spine. "These flowers ..."

"... are aphrodisiacs," he finished for her, and she felt his gaze again, touching her exposed collarbone and caressing her face, lingering lewdly on the obscenely short hem of her skirt (oh god why did she wear this dress), skimming the barely-visible perspiration spots near her abdomen. 

"My Queen," he whispered in a voice of respect sullied with lust, and the heady floral aroma slapped her hard and left her quivering. Without an ounce of her own will, her eyes dropped and almost as quickly darted aside, but it was too late; he had caught her peeking.

"Don't be ashamed, my dear Queen," he murmured. "I'm certainly not."

"You certainly have nothing to be ashamed of," she scowled. 

"You flatter me," he said, and took another step into the enclosure. He was not close enough to touch her, but Marie felt the unbearable heat of his presence all the same. Even knowing that she had nowhere to go, she attempted futile retreat, trampling the train of her gown into the shrubbery.

Instantly Blaisdell was at her side, holding her by the hand for courtesy's sake, but really supporting her by his other hand, firmly on the small of her spine to keep her from tottering backwards. He was too close and she was uncomfortably aware of his erection and her own arousal, her nipples shamelessly standing at attention through the silk bodice. He didn't press his advantage, instead merely commenting, "You appear to be off-balance, your Majesty. This garden can be discomfiting to say the least. Allow me to assist you back indoors, where you can be more at ease."

"Ever a gentleman," Marie sniffed. 

He brought her back to the library, dropping more than one hint in her ear about the benefit of keeping her husband company in her current state, before heading for his office to look over a few more letters before consigning them to the fire. Regardless of how much he worked, the papers on his desk somehow seemed to multiply anyway. 

He had been at it for close to two hours, and the pile yet remained discouragingly large, before he heard a peculiar sound in the general vicinity of the library. He already knew exactly what he would find, but it still left him dismayed to see Marie alone on the sofa, staring blankly at the books and an empty glass of wine. She didn't seem to notice the tears that dribbled off her chin, leaving garish stains on her skirt. Blaisdell stood there silently for nearly five minutes before she turned her head. Her eyes were tortured, her voice even more so when she murmured in low tones, "... he ... he did not wish to join with me tonight."

The advisor frowned. "He said this to you, or did you infer?"

"He said so, most clearly. Perhaps I was coarse in my expression, but I tried to let him know that I was very willing. He thanked me for the attention, but he also said that he was not feeling up to the duty tonight." She smiled, but the corners of her mouth wobbled uncontrollably. "He was most kind in his refusal."

Blaisdell sighed. This problem seemed to run deeper than he had originally assumed. "Your Majesty, this sort of matter is not uncommon for married couples, even young ones. It takes time, patience, understanding, and the willingness to continue forward even when the road is not clear, to overcome it. I do have some small experience in providing guidance in these matters, though of course it is at your discretion whether you wish to make use of me."

Marie seemed to freeze before meeting his eyes with an incredulous expression. "Monsieur Blaisdell, I am not certain I took your meaning aright."

"I am quite certain you did. The King has already consulted with me on this matter." He saw Marie's outraged look and quickly continued, "I assure you, Madame, he has laid the blame for the current situation entirely at his own feet. He worries constantly that his insecurity and fears keep him from being able to meet your physical needs adequately. As always, I stand ready to serve both you and him to the best of my ability. I will provide counseling if you desire it, I can demonstrate technique if you wish it. And if you wish to use me merely for a physical outlet, I have no objection."

It was such a genteel, pragmatic way of offering an intrigue that Marie could only laugh at first. "How romantically you offer to make love, Monsieur."

"This is hardly love, my dear Queen. I suggest, and continue to suggest, that you reserve that feeling for your husband, or at least a better man than myself. I am offering physical release, nothing more."

"It sounds very empty and unfulfilling," Marie said. 

She was already getting to her feet. Blaisdell caught her by the hand, as deferential as ever. His smile promised ungentlemanly behavior. "I assure you, you may feel several emotions shortly, but 'unfulfilled' will not be one of them."

She gave him a most excellent excuse to shove all of his letters to the floor as he lifted her easily by both thighs and plopped her on the desk, his own behavior matching the aching need searing her all over. His gaze suddenly dropped and she remembered abruptly that she was wearing the very latest fashion in ladies' hosen, the crotchless pantalette. Worn for Auguste, who hadn't noticed. She felt a miasma of painful feelings, not in the least because things had deteriorated to the point that she had turned to his most trusted advisor just to keep from weeping all night long, yet again.

Blaisdell waited until she stopped biting her lip to gently dab the spot of blood away with his thumb. His other hand rested lightly on her thigh. 

"Are you ..." she asked, hesitantly.

"When you are ready," he said calmly. "I am at your command, you shall tell me when to begin."

She sighed and leaned into him, smelling his shirt and skin. The silver hairs that lay smoothly on his chest felt like silken threads against her burning face. He smelled like pipe tobacco and warm sugar candy, buttery leather and pine straw and the whisky that she sometimes left for him in his chamber within Versailles, musky cologne and dirty money and dirtier secrets. She gently removed his formal wig, revealing a handsome head of shorn chestnut-brown hair streaked with gray at the temples. She stared up at his hooded eyes, hands gently scraping his solid pectorals, debating.

"Will you be my Auguste for tonight?" she finally asked in a small, pleading voice. 

Blaisdell looked down at her solemnly before nodding. 

She guided him down before her, hands on his shoulders, and he worked, skillfully, sometimes with quick flutters of his tongue, more frequently with deliberate motions and gentle nips on her inner thighs, rough fingertips tracing the creased skin of her sex. He edged her closer and closer, denying her a speedy release, ordering her to wait. She begged, she hid her face in her hands and sobbed, she arched into his face helplessly and pulled his short hair, she screamed for Auguste more than once, and finally she stretched herself on the desk, shivering, and drifted off, mumbling nonsense as she passed into sleep, finding a troubled peace at the last.

Blaisdell quickly brought a blanket from the nearest bedchamber and wrapped Marie in it before taking her to her own quarters, careful not to step on her ridiculous dress as he carried her. He counted himself fortunate not to run into anyone on the way; even though it was his house, it would make for an unpleasant snag in a situation that was rapidly becoming so delicate that it was threatening to unravel at any moment. Her need was so deferred and so intense that it would boil over soon; he was genuinely amazed that it had not already.

The bed stood ready to receive her limp frame. He laid her down and undressed her rapidly, aggravated at the number of buttons and bobbles, twists and ties and ribbons and ropes this piece of wasteful frippery required to keep from falling to pieces. She slowly rolled out of the garment, crumbly and soft as sugar, and turned to her stomach, nude in the moonlight, mouth still moving unconsciously. Blaisdell backed away slowly, trying not to make a sound as he hung up her clothing in the dark. He allowed himself one final glance before leaving the room and hurriedly returning to his office.

On the shelf that held his legal volumes, there was a full whisky bottle standing next to clean glasses. A small but much appreciated favor. He poured himself two fingers' of liquor, and with a tired sigh, began to pick up papers.

Chapter Text

The next morning seemed to evaporate in the literal blink of an eye. Although there were no official duties to preside over in Blaisdell's house, there were still all of the social niceties that must be handled, such as playing host to all of the neighboring nobles who came through to pay an unexpected visit upon realizing that the King and Queen were in residence. Blaisdell ensured that the impromptu visitors did not needlessly aggravate his guests, sending them away when it appeared that Louis was becoming too tired to continue to be gracious. He had a fairly good idea now just why the King had refused his wife last night. He mentioned it over the noon meal.

"I'm sure I must make a sorry sight at times," Louis confirmed as he eyed his plate of roast duck thigh set atop an artful display of root vegetables. "Some days I can hardly keep my eyes open, the arguing is just so draining. I know that I must consider all sides to make the best possible choices. Somehow it just never occurred to me how many sides of an argument there could truly be."

"Your Majesty, perhaps there are not as many as it initially seems," Marie quickly interrupted, and both men looked at her with some surprise. "I have learned from painful experience that some arguments are made merely to occupy space. If you write down the salient points from each argument, you may find that most of them are unnecessary efforts to consume time and distract from a more pressing issue. ... what, have I said something odd?" For the two men were now staring at her with genuinely astonished faces. Louis recovered himself first.

"My Queen, forgive me. I was simply caught off guard by your insight. Mr. Blaisdell has often expressed the same opinion, but it startles me to hear the idea from you as well."

"Which clearly carries far less weight when it comes from me," Blaisdell retorted.

"Well, you're not my wife."

"No. Just the Interior Minister of an entire country."

"Maybe you should be prettier," Marie suggested impishly. "Then people would be much more inclined to listen to you being so smart."

Blaisdell looked from one royal to the other. Both of them were smirking in a most undignified, borderline adorable manner. He had to remind himself not to smile along with them. "So you are implying that I am ... not pretty?"

"Oh, I thought I said that very clearly," Marie tossed back.

That made Louis laugh out loud.

The rest of the meal passed pleasantly, and Blaisdell soon excused himself, hinting baldly that perhaps the two of them should spend time in his tea garden. Marie led Louis back down the walks until she found the secluded spot. Cheeks pink from laughing (they had not yet stopped making jokes), she shyly took his hands and sat him down. 

"This garden is lovely," Louis said, looking around. 

"It is," Marie agreed readily. She smiled at Louis, waiting for the rich floral scent to overtake his senses. She wondered if they might mutually be so overcome that they might actually ... kiss right out in the open. The thought felt so wildly bold that her cheeks quickly suffused with red, and her breath quickened.

"Marie! What happened? You've gone completely red! My god, are you having a reaction to these horrible flowers? You look like you can hardly breathe!"

"What? No! Louis, wait! Let me explain--"

But he already had her by the hand, hustling her away, and nothing she said impacted him; he did not stop until he had gotten her back inside, far away from the garden, and when he finally stopped and turned to her and said, "Oh, thank goodness. Your color is much improved. Now, where were we?" the mood felt so utterly spoiled that all she could do was shrug and mumble, "Honestly, I've forgotten."

They spent the next two hours inside, Louis poring over books and telling Marie about what he was finding, and how it might apply to lockmaking or craftsmanship. Sometimes Marie could follow his train of thought, but for the most part she was only able to listen politely and nod. It was a great relief to her when a smartly-attired servant entered the room to announce that Blaisdell wanted their company for afternoon tea.

"I was going to ask how the pair of you got on, but I can already tell it's not quite as well as I might have wished," the older man commented as he handed teacups around. "Was the garden not entirely to your liking?"

"It made Marie ill," Louis said promptly.

"It did no such thing," Marie protested.

"Nonsense! You were completely flushed and your heart was pounding so hard I thought you might faint. I don't think I've ever seen you in such a state."

"No," Blaisdell said dryly, "I imagine you have not." 

Marie shot the advisor a look that might have etched stone. He gave her an expressive raise of one eyebrow and continued, "Well then, tell me precisely what you precious two have been up to."

Louis immediately expressed excitement over the book on physics that he had discovered hidden in the library collection. Now he was flushed, joyously rambling. When he finished, Blaisdell chuckled. "So one of you was excited because of the flowers, and one of you was excited because of a book. My goodness, you two need intervention desperately. Are you willing to take my advice now, or shall I wait until this evening?"

"Perhaps this evening," Louis mused, "I still want to read about--"

"Now," Marie said, cutting him off.

Blaisdell looked from one to the other and spread his hands with mock helplessness. "I do believe that the woman shall prevail in this argument. Come along, my liege. It is in your best interest to listen to your wife this time as well." He escorted them back outside, waving off Louis's protesting that Marie would suffer from the pollen, and devoted an hour to guiding them through more productive flirtations. 

The effervescent afternoon worked wonders. Between the verdant surroundings and the provocative floral arraignments, Marie's obvious pleasure, and Blaisdell's assistance, Louis found confidence. After being encouraged to kiss repeatedly, he became needy, and Marie was willing. 

Trusting that they would be able to find a satisfactory conclusion on their own, Blaisdell left them to themselves and gave orders to his staff to delay the evening meal by two hours. He returned to his office and continued to sort through his myriad correspondence. At one point, he cast his eye towards the garden. It appeared to be empty, and he merely smiled and shrugged. His young charges were not exactly experienced wantons, most likely they had become shy when the urge had fully overcome them and retreated to one of their chambers to couple together. 

He allowed himself to set his work aside shortly before seven and strolled out to the veranda to relax with a glass of calvados. The bitter liqueur felt pleasant and warming in his stomach, and he was contemplating turning in early, when he realized with a start that the King was at his side. Blaisdell filled a snifter and offered it to his monarch automatically, which Louis accepted and drank down with an equal lack of thought. 

"Your Majesty--"

"I couldn't," Louis said. His dejected stance, drooped over the balustrade, said everything. 

"I tried, and she was so patient. We embraced each other several times, and I recalled everything that you have instructed me to do. But ..." He sighed wearily and spoke in a low tone. "This does not come easily to me, and my body simply refused to follow through. Without you to talk me through it, all the old fears came back, and I ... I froze. She tried to assist me, but it was hopeless by then. All I could do was hold her close and promise that we won't give up, but knowing that I have disappointed my wife yet again makes me so discouraged that I find myself unwilling to hurt her by continuing to give her false hope."

"Your Majesty, allow me to remind you that you are currently hungry, upset, and on your way to being drunk. If I may be so bold as to speak freely, this is not the right time to declare yourself a future celibate."

Louis gave him a doleful stare before giving up his resentment at the blunt truth. He lowered his eyes and moaned, "What am I to do now?"

Blaisdell patted his hand in a comforting way. "Remember, a large part of the reason you are here is to concentrate on your wife. If things have not been well between the two of you for some time, you know that it is not reasonable to expect immediate results, and nothing I tell you will be of any use if you do not apply it consistently. I expect you to try again, and if need be, I will be in the room with you and the Queen to assist." He stood and opened the door to the interior of the house. "But for now, let us focus on that mutton roast in the dining room, and perhaps a chess game afterwards."

Marie did not make an appearance during the meal, nor did she show up afterwards. The atmosphere was subdued, both men concentrating hard on the chess board, when Louis abruptly conceded the game and went into the library to sit alone. Blaisdell gave orders to a servant to inquire whether the Queen wanted to take her meal alone tonight before looking in on his King. Louis was reading a book again, his brows creased. He appeared to be reading less for pleasure and more for distraction. 

Blaisdell recognized that expression instantly. He had seen it on another face not even a day prior. "Sire, you have given up too soon."

"I know it, and yet ..." Louis looked away from the page, out of the window, towards some distant point in the dark sky. "I cannot tell anymore, Blaisdell. I don't know what the correct course of action is. I don't know whether she actually wants me anymore."

"My king, I assure you she does. She is as afraid as you are." Blaisdell looked at his young charge with piercing eyes. "But as you see, she continues to try again, and as her husband and her King, you can do no less."

"My lord, everything you are saying is logical and correct. But somehow, when it comes to the sticking point ... I cannot."

"We shall find a path forward," Blaisdell said with such conviction that the young King did not doubt for a moment that, regardless of the means by which it might be done, it most certainly would be done. He smiled wanly, then stood. 

"I think I shall read in my chambers for the night, Monsieur. I know that I ought to go to her again, but I also fear that she will entertain hopes of trying again this very night, and ..." He trailed off, and Blaisdell did not speak. After a minute of oppressive silence, the King murmured, "Good night, Mr. Blaisdell," and left the room, his footfalls gradually fading away as he retreated, again giving up too soon.

Blaisdell remained behind, debating within himself, until the servant returned to report that he had carried a light meal to the Queen's room. He considered taking advantage of this opportunity to look in on her himself, but decided that he would not. She was most likely still expecting to see Louis. Perhaps he also should turn in for the evening. It had been a surprisingly busy day, and he would have an equally full day tomorrow. He would just go to sleep.

At some unholy time in the night, Blaisdell found himself standing by the servant's entrance of the Queen's room, knuckles grazing the door. Sleep had eluded him for several reasons, not the least of which was the woman behind the door. 

He lingered there, listening for anything at all. There was no sound of crying, or a spurned lover muttering angry obscenities to herself. No pacing the floor, no sound of an angry pen scratching out a furious letter.

No sound of sleeping, either.

He gently tapped and the door opened silently a heartbeat later. Marie stood before him wearing nothing but her chemise. He could see instantly that she hadn't slept, she hadn't eaten, and she was deeply wounded. She crossed her arms over her chest and stared at him defiantly. "Mr. Blaisdell."

"Forgive my untimely intrusion, my dear Queen. I retired to my chambers before I inquired after your health." 

"And that breach of etiquette required you to rise in the night and visit me by a side door?"

Caught. He made his usual conciliatory gesture, which, in his current state of half-dress, felt utterly ridiculous. "I was concerned about your state after speaking with the King, but I thought it presumptuous to supplant him. I imagined that he might make another effort to comfort you." 

Marie's eyes narrowed. "As you can well see for yourself, he did not." She made a bitter sound and drifted over to the window seat, giving him an even clearer view of her silhouette through the ghostly muslin. She sat down, folded her hands and leaned back against the wall, the very picture of elegant desolation.

Blaisdell sighed internally, though he did not allow his worry to show on his face. "Yes, I can see. I am rather disappointed to hear that."

"As am I," Marie said sardonically. "May I assume that you are here to offer your services?"

"Only to the extent that they are acceptable to you, my Queen." He was coming towards her anyway, though he stopped well short of entering her personal presence. His dressing gown had come undone, only half-covering his breeches, which likewise concealed nothing. Her nipples were beginning to bud, a fact made more obvious when she unexpectedly took a deep breath.

"I almost thought you wouldn't come," she admitted. "Though I was prepared to keep waiting."

"I can only offer physical release to you, my Queen. I am not able or authorized to give you emotional comfort. In view of what happened earlier, I believed my presence might prove more of a hindrance."

"It might be more accurately said 'what did not happen.'" She gave him an accusatory look. "You knew perfectly well that Auguste was not coming back."

"Not perfectly, there is always the possibility of the unknown." He came closer. He could see the slight tremble that seized her hand, how she clasped them together to hide her uneasy excitement. "And perhaps I concerned myself with his consequence, had he bothered to return and found the two of us compromised."

"Mr. Blaisdell, you really do have the strangest ways to describe fucking."

That word coming from her mouth jolted him. An unexpected filthy phrase from such refined lips. He became aware that the only thing still keeping his dignity intact was the waistband of his increasingly damp breeches.

Marie stood suddenly and approached him. Caught out, caught off-guard, he instinctively placed his hands behind his back, realizing too late that this action pulled the dressing gown open completely. He was certain that he must look as foolish as he felt, but Marie did not seem to notice as she reached up and lightly skimmed the fabric away to cascade away from his muscular torso, a body that he had no business having as a lifetime bureaucrat. She allowed her fingers to trace his flat abdominals, but stopped at his navel, denying them both the touch that was most desired. An involuntary sigh escaped his lips.

"How long would you have waited in this state?" she murmured.

"My Queen, I have already waited the entire night long."

A pause. Then, she brushed against him, emotionally exhausted, physically depleted, starved for food and affection, and still so crushingly beautiful. "And are you also in need of physical release, Mr. Blaisdell?"

Louis found Marie in the library that morning, preparing coffee for two. She seemed much more relaxed than the night previous, and when he began a stammering apology, he received an enthusiastic hug in return and assurances that all was well. Greatly relieved on several fronts, he immediately offered to do just as she wanted--even sit in that ghastly garden again, if she so desired, but Marie told him that she would be fine with sitting right here and listening to him talk about one of his favorite books. Could he perhaps tell her about how porcelain was made?

Absolutely delighted to do so, Louis launched into a lecture that lasted through two more cups of coffee and a round of delicate pastries, and Marie allowed him to rattle on to his heart's content as she quietly recalled a memory from early that morning: misty grey light dappled by the movement of slender tree limbs, twittering birds, the smell of cold linen crushed against her burning face as she screamed into the pillows--oh god, Blaisdell, oh god, oh god ohhhhgodohgodohgod--strong hands moving her expertly, steadily, until they held her very, very still, sweat splattering on her neck as he groaned deeply through gritted teeth, tension finally coming undone and letting them both breathe, and a final whisper of My Queen breathed out with such exhausted gentleness against the whorl of her ear that it may as well have been a kiss. 

"Marie, you're flushed again," Louis commented as he paused in his speech to look carefully at her. He shyly kicked at the expensive rug before blurting out, "I ... I know that it is yet early, but ... if I could persuade you to try again with me, I would be ever so grateful."

She consented instantly. Overjoyed that she really was giving this difficult situation another try after his failure, Louis took her by the hand and led her back to his room, promising her that he would see it through this time. 

They passed their host in the hall. He took in the situation at a glance, smiled at them and said in most gracious tones, "Good morning, your Majesties."

Chapter Text

A carriage clattered up to an anonymous set of apartments in the heart of the milliner's district and came to a shuddering halt. Charles Auguste Bohmer looked out of its grimy window and huffed a disgusted sigh. In the two years since he had been driven to some shithole village in the hinderparts of France, it felt as though everything had become more worn-out, more decrepit, more stagnant. God, he missed the France of his youth! The entire country seemed as though it was fading away, her glory diminished beyond recovery. 

He squeezed out of the door with all the grace he could muster. The forced exile had not been kind to his body or good for his health, to say nothing of the beating his ego had taken throughout this entire affair. He had wasted--there was really no other way to put it--utterly wasted the last four years of his life on that accursed necklace, and what did he have to show for it? A complete loss of royal favor, the confiscation of his assets, and the mortifying realization that he had been roundly tricked by a swindler. Now not only was he out of the money that it had taken to craft the du Barry necklace, he didn't even have the damned thing! And there was next to no sympathy for him. His formal demands for recompense from the Crown had been met with derisive laughter, and all of his acquaintance, while displaying nominal pity, made it quite clear that they felt as though he was the cause of his own problems. "Mon dieu, Bohmer, how could you have been taken in by such a barren prank? The queen's 'special friend?' Don't you realize that bitch doesn't have any friends?" 

He tried to suppress the grin crawling across his face. Well, despite the government's efforts to keep him out, he was back. It had taken six months of working quietly to re-establish his clientele, but the hard work was paying dividends at last. His clothes were selling beautifully, and small wonder--in this current atmosphere of inelegance and disorder, of course the discerning consumer would look to a man such as himself to provide a modicum of decency. It was a shame that he would not be able to use his real name for some time, but he could easily prepare a plausible tale to explain his acquisition of clothing that had all of Bohmer's hallmarks, should inquiry come from any inconvenient quarter. And he felt rather safe on that point. This current monarchy was weak; they would have much bigger problems on their hands very shortly.

Whistling tunefully to himself, he began the work of tidying his shop and preparing to open. He respectfully greeted the ladies who passed him in the street and nodded politely to a petite dame in an old-fashioned blue gown and a steel-gray wig who sat on a nearby bench, reading a newspaper.

Louis and Marie stood in a lovely parlor that overlooked the back garden. There were books available, but Louis had decided he would prefer to focus his attention on his wife. They had just embarked on a fresh round of compliments and jesting about her latest dress when their host came in and formally bowed to them before explaining that an urgent matter had arisen that required his personal presence in Paris. "I will need to pay a visit to Versailles as well. Does it please your Majesty to begin business on Monday, or would you like for me to send around the correspondence delaying your return by a week?" 

Louis pondered momentarily. "We really ought to resume the talks between the nobility and common class as quickly as may be. There are many considerations to resolve, and I need to continue to gather information to make good decisions."

"And you also need to rest," Marie said pointedly. "My king, you are utterly exhausted. Would it not be possible to allow your ministers to handle business in a brief absence?"

"Let ... let the ministers handle this? Without me? But how will I know if they are in alignment with what I would do myself?"

"You have at least one who knows exactly how you would respond in most cases, perhaps you ought to make use of him."

"I ..." Louis suddenly looked quite sheepish. "Yes, I suppose that would be an acceptable solution for a few days. He has mentioned something familiar in times past."

Marie could feel the Interior Minister's eyes burning into the back of her neck, and quickly ducked her head to hide her grin. It was not at all easy to keep the smugness out of her voice when she replied, "Then take his advice, my King. He is a wise councilor."

"I crave my queen's approval," Blaisdell said in a voice of complete calm that showed just how disgruntled he truly was. "Perhaps I shall save my advice in future and offer it solely to her, as my king does not give it as much weight when it comes from me directly. Please excuse me, I shall return as soon as I may."

"Have I offended, my lord?" Marie said innocently. The look she received in return could have easily scratched glass, but all he said, "My Queen, I assure you that is not the case. Please use any convenience in the house as you see fit. I shall return."

"Have I offended him?" Marie wondered as the older man quickly hurried away, but Louis smiled and shook his head. "He is more angry with me, my dear Queen. It is no jest when he states that he gives me the same advice and I do not take it."

"Would it not be simpler to do as he suggests, then? I thought that was an advisor's main purpose."

Louis sighed. "If only it were so easy, Marie. Blaisdell came to power under my father, and he is not entirely pleased with the changes I am trying to make. He will not oppose me, of course, but at times I feel as though I have his support solely due to my position. He is a wholehearted proponent of the monarchy, but as a noble, the reforms negatively impact him. Naturally, he will want to protect his interests." 

"I was under the impression that he was more pragmatic than that," Marie said. "Also, that he was more blunt. I feel certain that he would have informed you if he felt as though you were in the wrong."

Louis thought about that for some time before nodding slowly. "Perhaps you are right. I must say, my Queen, it is genuinely inspiring to see you take such an interest in my affairs. I feel as though ... things may yet work out for the best, somehow."

"I am grateful to have my King's confidence," Marie said, smiling. "Shall we take a turn though the gardens? There is actually a question that I have often had that this conversation has put me in mind of."

"But of course," Louis said, taking her arm, and they went outside through the nearest exit, strolling slowly through a pomegranate grove that was rich with shade, fruit and luscious fragrance. The day was warm, the breeze was steady. Marie took a deep breath, trying to commit this peaceful moment with her husband to memory. She was grateful that they would not be returning home so quickly, for she was all too aware that whatever progress she and Louis made here would quickly be ground out of them by daily life at Versailles. And then--but no! She would focus on the present, and continue to hope.

"Marie? What did you want to ask me?"

... ah, yes, something to distract her from her all-encompassing fear of the future. "Once, Mr. Blaisdell told me to ask you what he did before he entered the service of the king. And … well, I have always been very curious as to why he seems to be so attached to you."

"Oh, I see." Louis fell silent, thinking over his words carefully. When he spoke next, he looked away from Marie, hands slowly wringing, one over the other.

"Believe it or not, there have been other assassination attempts, even prior to the reforms. I experienced one shortly after I turned sixteen. I was asleep in my room, and I started awake, feeling that something was not right.  I saw a man standing near the wall, wearing gray. He blended in so perfectly that I was not certain he was truly there until our eyes met. I froze, and he came towards me, pulling out a revolver as he came. I remember the moonlight shining on the barrel, and his smile." He stopped, shivering. 

"I was very fortunate in that my father had insisted on assigning Hervé Blaisdell to guard me personally not two weeks earlier. I had not given Blaisdell much credit before--all I knew of him was that he was the third son of a merchant--but when I finally found my voice and I screamed out loud for someone to please help me, he came in the room immediately, and then ..." 

Marie came to his side.

His voice dropped to a whisper as he continued, still not looking at her. "There was a horrible sound and then ... blood, Marie. So much blood. I was a sheltered boy. I had never seen a dead body before, particularly not one that had been alive ten seconds before. I just ... I tried not to see, or remember, but I knew it when Blaisdell was taking the body away. He did it with as little care as a farmer hauls a sack of potatoes, and I was sickened. Perhaps I am truly too soft-hearted, to pity the man who wanted me dead ... I couldn't sleep properly for months. Every time I tried, it felt as though something black as night was waiting to swallow me down. I felt on  some nights if I slept that I might never wake again, that I might die of fright. And I despised and feared my bodyguard, even though he saved my life. I believed that he was an utter monster. 

"One day the lack of sleep and bad feeling finally ground me down, and when Blaisdell asked me one too many uncomfortable questions about why I looked so haggard and worn, I ... I actually screamed at him, as unbelievable as that seems. And then of course I began apologizing, but he didn't let me finish. He told me that he knew I was going through a difficult time, and he reminded me that things would only get harder, because no one pities a king. I truly hated him then, Marie. But he also told me something far more important. He said that if I would trust him to watch over me, I would find that he could be gentle as well as hard. He taught me ... that sometimes you have to give a difficult person a second chance, and you have to persist through troubling situations regardless of how you may personally feel." Louis smiled faintly at the memory.

"In a way, remembering that piece of advice has been both a blessing and a curse. I want to listen to my people, and I also want to follow the advice of my wise ministers, but I truly cannot do both. People deserve more than to be judged on an initial impression and it is very important that I consider their concerns and perspectives, but I cannot do that and follow the advice of my advisors, particularly not Blaisdell's. His way would get results, but he is undoubtedly a hard, pragmatic man, unconcerned with the hurt he causes. I cannot rule in that manner, my conscience does not allow it. So perhaps you can see more easily why I hesitate to give Blaisdell the power to speak for me, even though he and I desire the same ultimate goal. He and I will always be at variance."

"My husband, have you considered that that may be for the best? You do not necessarily need an advisor who constantly agrees with you, you need someone who will point out the flaws in your strategy. As you yourself have said, Blaisdell is a good councilor. You must simply find a middle ground between your desire to please everyone, and his desire to see results regardless of what methods he takes to get them."

Louis smiled.

"My dear, dear queen, I think I may have found that middle ground."

Bohmer finished helping his latest customers load their substantial purchases onto their carriage and engaged in their merry gossip for several pleasant minutes before bidding them farewell. He felt more than a little satisfied with himself. Not only had he talked the ladies into buying three more gowns apiece than they originally intended, they were so pleased by the quality of his products that they promised to bring friends on the morrow. It was true, he had almost given himself away multiple times, but like the average society lady, they had not been paying much attention to anything he actually said, as they were significantly more concerned with their social calendars and intrigues and potential lovers.

His smile faded slightly as he re-entered his store and saw that old beldame in the dusty blue loitering about, fingering the hem of one of his most expensive ball gowns. Well, that's one more dress I'll have to send out for cleaning, he thought, feeling injured. These lower-class louts were getting too many clever ideas from idealistic simpletons like Lafayette. He would have to make it clear to this one that his was a fine establishment, not some boutique for cast-offs. Plastering on a condescending smile, he strode up to the small woman and cleared his throat. "Is there ... anything I could assist Madame with, hmm?"

"Why yes!" the lady said in a voice that reminded Bohmer of chalk scraping a slate. He shuddered internally at the thought of interacting with this hag for long. He could possibly throw her out on some pretext, suspicion of theft or some such. "I'm searching for a gift for a dear, dear friend of mine. She absolutely adores gowns."

"Is ... that so," Bohmer said, suddenly feeling less certain. There were many elderly heiresses in Paris who delighted in buying expensive gifts for favored acquaintances even as they allowed themselves to fall out of fashion; perhaps this was one of that strange set. "Ahhh ... well then, these are my latest acquisitions, if any of these interest Madame?"

"Yeees," the woman drawled, looking over the dresses, stopping at one of deep scarlet. "Ahhh, this. She would positively go wild to have this."

"T-t-that, Madame? Surely not, that is an outfit for a harlot! That particular dress has come into fashion by way of our current Queen, who used to display herself in a similarly vulgar manner at court. Now I hear she fancies herself a deep politician and offers up far-fetched financial propositions to our governing bodies, egged on by that miserable Monsieur Marquis de Lafayette. Of course I have the dress available if your friend insists upon having it, but I would not encourage any lady of good breeding to dress like that Austrian." 

"Ah, then this one?" The lady pointed to a deep gold gown in a peculiar cut. Bohmer groaned inwardly. God in heaven, didn't people have dignity anymore? Or class? He forced himself to smile. "Madame, your friend appears to have unique taste in clothing. I feel as though I should like to meet her personally, in order to offer her the best suited clothing for her ... nature. Pray, may I make an appointment for a fitting on her behalf?"

"Oh yes," the woman creaked out. "But first--"

The door to the shop opened and slammed shut with unwarranted violence. The cheerfully jingling bell sounded jarringly out-of-place in the sudden silence. Bohmer stared, affronted, at the man who had just entered wearing a drab, plain coat. "Monsieur! Kindly have respect for my shop unless you wish for me to pitch you back outside to the gutter you came from!"

"Now now, Monsieur ... Farrion? Is that what you call yourself these days? Pray do not be so unkind after I have traveled an hour to see you!"

That mocking voice, so grating and unpleasantly familiar ... 

... Who? ... 

Bohmer felt a frisson of fright inject itself into his body as he took a closer look at the woman in front of him, who grinned at him hideously. He looked at the man blocking the door again, realizing that the drab coat was made from silk, emblazoned with actual silver in the fleur-de-lis pattern, and he suddenly recoiled. "Mother of God, it can't be! B-b-but how--"

"I warned you not to return to Paris, Mr. Bohmer," Blaisdell said in a voice of quiet menace. It felt as though all voluntary movement in the shop had ceased, as they were slowly forced to a point of inevitability. "I believe my exact words to you were 'return at your peril.' Has my memory failed me already?"

"Monsieur, I believe there has been a terrible mistake. As you yourself have said, my name is Phllippe St. Juste Farrion! I have absolutely no idea who this exile is that you speak of!" Bohmer dashed for the counter which displayed his business cards. "You see? I am--"

"Holding up a card with a false name on it," Blaisdell interrupted, and shook his head gravely. "I am afraid that this is not going to stop me from recognizing you, Bohmer. Neither is gaining twenty-five pounds and growing a beard. But I suppose that your presence here will save me the trouble of actually having to chase you down to kill you."

Bohmer edged backwards, nervous eyes on the unmoving Blaisdell, when he felt the point of a blade in the small of his back. He immediately yelped and recoiled. The old lady. The goddamned old lady. He stumbled forward, trying to get away, only to realize that Blaisdell was now holding a knife on him as well.

"What do you want, then?" he roared, hoping that the unusual noise might summon help. "You royal ruffians, it wasn't enough to rob me of my goods, my money, my business, and my name, you have to grind me into the mud with the heels of your boots? Why am I being punished? What is it that forces you to hound me like a pitiful cur? Having the audacity to want to make a damned livelihood? Actually believing that the Queen's word was good for something?"

He shrieked in pain even before the sound of the clunk finished echoing around the shop, and his knee gave way beneath his bulk, bending to a degree that it had not done for many, many months. D'Eon de Beaumont hovered over him as he writhed on the floor, eyes alight, darting, enflamed with something akin to joy. She looked entirely mad. "At this very moment, I'm planning to punish you for slandering the Queen, which you don't seem to be able to stop doing despite all of your previous assurances to the contrary."

Bohmer fought through near-blinding agony to shout, "What have I said of her that was untrue? Like it or not, the time of this monarchy has passed! The two of you are clinging to something rotten and bloated! The people of this land are going to rise up and cast you off like filth into the streets--"

"Did he just call us 'shit?'" D'Eon wondered.

"I've been called worse," Blaisdell said, amused. 

"Well, this has become quite boring," D'Eon said. "He's already been condemned for breaking exile. Can I slit his throat now?"

Bohmer choked on his words as Blaisdell shrugged and replied, "Sure, but don't soil your royal blade on a fool. Use my knife."

He tossed his blade to D'Eon, who caught it easily, and left the shop, locking the front door behind him as he left. He could hear the frantic jittering of the deadbolt as Bohmer clawed at the knob in a futile attempt to escape. No one on the street had bothered to stop, indeed, they weren't even taking notice. He stopped momentarily to buy a newspaper and fresh-cut flowers from a peasant nearby who was well pleased with the unexpected business, and kept walking towards Versailles. 

Behind him, he heard faint screams.

Dresses toppled as Charles Auguste Bohmer plunged through his shop, unthinking in his haste, knocking items down on all sides as he sought an exit in vain. "You animal! Attacking a man on his own property! You're worse than criminals!" He heard Madame Beaumont's insane cackling somewhere behind him and desperately threw himself down cellar, where he might be able to hide in the cluttered space.

He really ought to have known better. 

As he crouched in the middle of the filthy storeroom, listening to his weak heart thunder in his chest, he became all too aware of the burning mass of nerves that his left knee had become in a matter of thirty seconds of panic. That bastard D'Eon had hit him perfectly in an old injury. He admired the skill that sort of precision that took even as he cursed the pain, sweat oozing into his eyes. 

"You called?"

Oh god no ...

D'Eon was standing over him, grinning madly, blade in hand. Bohmer tried to rise, but his newly-injured knee betrayed him and left him helpless on the cellar floor. He tried to speak, to scream, to plead, but D'Eon shook her head and whispered, "Quiet now," before descending. 

Chapter Text

Blaisdell was busily drafting the formal referendum that would allow the debates to continue in the king's absence when Madame Beaumont slid into his office, flecks of blood soiling her dress. Blaisdell took this in silently before asking, "I have a question for you. Do you currently have any reason to believe that Bohmer was saying the things he said as anything other than a stall for time?"

"You mean, was he telling the truth about the potential for revolution?" D'Eon made a noncommittal gesture with her hands. "There's always talk to that effect. The latest I've heard is that some of the nobles are encouraging it as well, but considering that they'll likely be the first against the wall I don't give it much credit."

"If this situation sours, you remember the plans we discussed, correct?"

"Absolutely, my lord. I have safe houses already prepared for whenever they may be necessary."

"Excellent farsight as always. You never fail to impress, Madame Beaumont." Blaisdell reviewed his work carefully before signing the vellum. "Now, I'll hear your briefing on exactly what you did with that doddering fool, and then we will need to prepare an official statement on behalf of the King for the press commenting on the shocking death of our most unfortunate friend Bohmer. They should have a field day imagining him killed by robbers seeking to rummage his cash box. How terribly sad for him, yes."

The return trip was much less eventful, and soon enough Blaisdell found himself back home. The young royals were waiting for him outside in the shade of a mature aspen. A small table nearby held cold drinks and refreshments, of which they had taken approximately none. He took one look at each of their faces and shook his head. "Still no success?"

"We ... came closer to satisfaction," Louis said in hesitant tones.

"Meaning?"

"We completed, but it was not ... entirely what either of us wished for," Marie said, not meeting Blaisdell's eyes.

"My queen, remember that this matter will take significant time and effort to set right. You have opportunity to continue to make it exactly what you wish."

"I do not think that we will meet with success in this matter without assistance."

Blaisdell looked discreetly at the two of them again. Although they sat next to each other, they could not have been further apart emotionally. Marie was gloomy, but attempting to catch Louis's eye, and Louis was frustrated, embarrassed, and clearly ready to stand up and walk away. "Just as you wish, Your Majesty. Shall I make preparations to join you tonight?"

"Not tonight," Louis said in a voice that was so uncharacteristically ill-tempered that both his wife and his advisor stared at him. "Please forgive my shortness, but I am tired. I have been preoccupied with this matter for nearly twenty-four hours straight and it has completely exhausted me. You will excuse me, my lord, my Queen." He bowed briefly before going back inside. He did not look back at any point.

Blaisdell watched him go until he disappeared before turning to look at Marie. She gestured helplessly. "My lord, there is only so accommodating one person can be."

"Dare I ask what happened?"

Marie let her hands fall into her lap and stared down. "We ... completed, as he said. But I was not satisfied, and ... I was not able to pretend that I was, as I have in times past."

Blaisdell sat down heavily. "This ... is a problem, my Queen."

"I am aware," she said. She stirred the fallen leaves on the ground with the toe of her slipper. "When we began this morning, it was the sweetest experience. He is not aggressive, as we both know, but I could tell that he was making an attempt to be more assertive. I tried to allow my body to be sensitive to him, but ..." She squirmed, her cheeks turning a smudgy pink. "I have learned to prefer the way that you have demonstrated, and he does not make me happy."

"Your Majesty, to put it crudely, that may simply be a matter of adjusting for physical differences, which again is part of being willing to continue on through difficulties."

"It's beyond the realm of 'difficulties,' I'm afraid. I'm used to his heart not being in it. But today was the first day that mine wasn't, either, and I believe that hurt him."

"That is a bitter pill, indeed." He assumed that it would be enough to avoid emotional entanglement. He had not accounted for Marie simply losing patience with the matter. "Well. As I have said in times past, it does not benefit France in the least for you not to get on with your husband, Madame."

She nodded listlessly. "You're telling me that we need to stop."

"If it has impacted your relations with your husband to this degree, then yes, we need to cease contact. If things change in the future, of course you will always know where to find me."

"And what if I say no?"

"No, my Queen?" He was taken aback not only by the word and the sentiment it implied, but by the assertiveness in her voice. He was equally surprised by how much it personally pleased him. It was so rare to hear a firm voice from either of his royals.

"Perhaps you will think me immoral to explain so directly, sir?"

"I sincerely doubt that, my Queen. Please, continue."

"When you have lived in palaces all your life, affairs simply become a fact. It is deemed somehow more noteworthy to display fidelity, even though we are expected to set a moral example for our country." She looked away from him as she spoke, her voice low but steady. "As a woman, you are doubly damned--you are blamed for your husband's indiscretions if he strays, but you are condemned for your want of modesty if you make efforts to please him. I have long known that Louis is not as ... interested ... as I am, but I always thought that continuing to maintain within my sphere, and always being willing, would be sufficient to occupy me. It is rather disconcerting to find that it is not, particularly as I have no true recourse. It would be deemed a matter of course for Louis to keep a mistress, whereas I would be instantly vilified for the same." 

Now she looked at him, eyes shining with a compelling expression that she did not usually show. He stared back, fascinated. "I have been forbidden to eat for so long that I will not give up my meager  meal without a fight. You must forgive me this indulgence, my lord."

Blaisdell stood abruptly. "Your Majesty, allow me to show you the rest of the garden."

It became apparent why he was moving her. Not all parts of the garden could be observed from the chateau windows, and he quickly directed her into a grove of citrus trees that stood tall and shaded the walk. Their perfume anointed the air with a constant cloud of peppery tang and warm oily bitterness. 

Her hair, done in a low bun, bounced most invitingly as they walked. He was aware, acutely so, of the moments when he brushed against her voluminous skirts. Her fingertips felt small and tender in his light grasp. He felt sharply how much more dangerous this would be if he had not resolved years ago to not allow himself to emotionally invest during his dalliances. She was so unconsciously charming, she would induce nearly any man to break vows. Already he was looking for a place where they might couple if she wished it.

"I have observed a curiosity regarding yourself and the King, your Majesty. You clearly love him, and he very much loves you. But your manners of expression are so different that you do yourselves great harm." He saw her eyes slide sideways and the corner of her mouth pucker, and he continued, "You cannot have failed to have noticed that the King is happiest when you listen to him and appear pleased in his presence. And I am personally aware that the king knows that you desperately wish for him to put forth more effort in the bedchamber. And so, the two of you instead do something quite perverse. You appear disinterested with him when he lectures, and he likewise does not try to please you sexually."

She stopped short and stared at him, face ablaze as she snatched her hand back, rubbing her fingers together as if she had grazed something unbearably hot. "Monsieur--"

"Forgive my impertinence, your Majesty, but by this point we may as well be straightforward as may be, hmm? You know as well as I do that your husband is observant. He is well aware when you feign interest, and he responds with the same indifference."

"Are you also blaming me, Monsieur Blaisdell?"

"Perhaps I am. Between the two of you, you are the more assertive; you have taken the lead in several matters where you were not expected to, and you have met with great success. I recommend you do the same in this instance."

She paused, turning over his words in her head. She still clutched her hand. He longed to kiss her fingers, to feel them on his face, a caress, a slap, anything, anything at all. Finally she looked at him again, face still deeply flushed, mouth held tightly. Her top teeth worried her bottom lip nervously, and he was transfixed, not breathing, waiting.

"... take what I want, to put it crudely?"

"Yes. Crudely."

"Then permit me to be crude," she said, and closed the space between them by kissing him hard.

He pulled her fully against his torso, gripping her slim waist where it emerged, stem-like, from a billowing silk blossom skirt of yet another extravagant dress. His hands would not even obey the mental command to release her. She seemed to be in a equal state of lustful distress, literally tearing their mouths apart to gasp for breath. Instantly he followed the curve of her exposed neck, laying kisses from her ear to the firm ridge of her shoulder--oh god, Blaisdell, please sir--and allowing her hand to tug his cravat in the wrong direction in her haste. He chuckled at the blunder and helped her, entangling their fingers at the end, slowly pulling away and watching her subtle reaction to the feeling of friction. So impatient, my beautiful Queen.

I'm starving.

In that case, permit me to feed you. He picked her up and carried her deeper into the citrus grove, showing her a rustic bench half-hidden by the hedges. He set her down with great care before kneeling in front of her. Shall I be Auguste again?

She did not answer, instead drawing his face upwards for another kiss, and this one was gentle instead of urgent, but still far too bittersweet to be her husband. She shook her head, their foreheads meeting.

No, be yourself.

As you wish.

He began by quite literally kissing her feet--removing her satin slippers and pressing his lips to the tops of her toes. Then he crept upwards, rough fingers stroking her calves, love nips and wet kisses on her inner thighs, blunt nails slowly raking across her pelvis. She gasped, arching. Damn you, Blaisdell.

Call me Hervé, my Queen. He came closer, then, giving her a cruel smile, applied his tongue to her sunken navel. She glared at him.

Call me Marie.

Very well, Marie. He kissed her midsection, watching through the veil of his eyelashes as her head lolled helplessly. Her hands trembled uncontrollably as she held her skirts out of his way, layers of crinoline and tulle becoming an annoyance that they were both growing weary of. 

He suddenly stood, leaving her furious and unsatisfied.

You--

Take that damned dress off. 

She complied unthinkingly, the Queen of France disrobing in the middle of an orange grove on the order of one of her husband's advisors. She wondered at the lack of disgrace she felt before remembering that they had allowed themselves to be two private persons, instead of the heads of the government. She undid the last of the buttons and stepped away from the dress, which crumpled in on itself without a body to cling to. Rotten luxury.

Blaisdell had denuded himself in the meantime as well, his silk and leather garments set aside on the ground, wig cast aside, and she looked at his body breathlessly. She realized that despite having relations with him two nights in a row, she had not seen him properly yet, and in the speckled light of an orchard his body did not seem quite real. She came to him, curiously examining his torso. He had more than one old, deep scar. 

His head followed her as she explored. The only sound was a noisy jay, and their mutual panting. She was trying to decide where to go next, biting her lip, working up the nerve. He resisted the urge to guide her, letting her choose for herself where she might feast.

Finally she exhaled, and let her hand slide between them, closing uncertainly, feeling how rigid he was, stone-hard but still so soft at the top, hot and rough and veiny at the bottom. He hissed appreciation, his chest moving with noticeable speed. She timidly drew her hand upwards and his breath came out ragged, shaky--oh god, Marie, don't undo me so quickly--as he distracted her with another series of kisses and a wandering hand of his own, moving over her shoulder and slipping down to one pale breast, gently tugging, teasing.

The wind felt so warm on her bare skin.

She felt his hands readjusting her, placing her firmly against the bench, facing away from him. She turned to protest, but his arms did not move from her side until she stood still with a grumble. Big fingers rewarded her compliance, big rough fingers with perfect calluses that hit her nerves like tiny needles and left her shaking, and then there was a softer feeling, so much softer and wetter that she could not endure it, and she pleaded for release which did not come. Instead, those rough fingers began to stroke between her moist curls in front. 

A momentary thought entered her head, that this level of wicked lust might actually shock Gabrielle. 

Ahhhhh--Her sharp sob startled her back to the orange grove, back to her body treacherously displaying desire for a man who was neither husband nor lover, and she bit her lip to keep from screaming loudly as Blaisdell finally brought her off almost casually. She only had time for another half-breath before she felt his chest pressed against her back, his hands repositioning her thighs--are you ready, Marie?--and that huge swollen head, seeking an entrance. He was more gentle than she would have guessed he would be, his groaning growing deeper as he completely sheathed himself.

Her hair spilled loose, already clumping with sweat. 

After a few more seconds he moved. It took Marie a very little time to find a proper rhythm with him, but when she did it felt like the most natural, smooth motion imaginable, and he was so accommodating, adjusting and re-adjusting, now letting her have the lead, now imperceptibly seizing control again with a few flicks of his hand as he guided her along the edge. She tasted the vaguely-bitter air every time he made her gasp and smelled his salty, musky skin when he came in close to steal kisses; she felt her heart hammer wildly as the sounds of their rutting became noticeably wet. Herve's voice had become irregular as he simultaneously urged them both towards the peak and tried not to slide off of it. Oh, God, my Queen, my Queen! His motion had become hard, strident, a very determined animal thrusting.

She shrieked, her body tightening without any voluntary will, her voice ringing above the trees, and Hervé caught up to her quickly--oh Marie!--and suddenly much more urgently--oh god, Marie!--before stiffening and becoming still. She allowed him to completely spend himself before she gently parted from him and finally faced him, kissing his sweating brow as he shuddered in aftershock. He recovered slowly, pulling her in close to hold her. 

The wind was so, so warm.

Thank you, Marie, he murmured into her hair. I think ... perhaps I have been starving too.

They re-entered the house separately. Marie returned to her room, where she spent the remainder of the night by herself. Blaisdell found Louis reading in the library and asked for permission to join him, which the King granted. The conversation began with common pleasantries and gradually turned to news from the royal court and Versailles. "I have prepared a memorandum that will allow the financial meetings to continue without you for this week if you wish to recuse yourself from them. I will return to town tomorrow, so do let me know if you wish for me to publish it."

"I ... will decide soon. Thank you, my lord Blaisdell. You are most considerate."

"Always my pleasure, my king."

After a pause, the King remarked, "I frequently wondered why you would not take up chambers in Versailles, but your home and grounds are so charming, it is no wonder you would prefer to spend your time here when you are able. Your citrus grove is particularly nice."

There was a silence in which neither man looked at the other directly. The sound of pages turning felt onimous. Finally Blaisdell began, "Your Majesty--"

The King shook his head. "My lord, I do not blame either of you. I authorized it. I cannot deny that it was very startling to actually see. But I ..." 

He stopped and looked directly at his advisor, who appeared somber. And perhaps more than a little embarrassed.

"... I believe you were right. I am not nearly the lover that she needs. And I have absolutely no idea what to do about that."

Chapter Text

Blaisdell returned to Versailles the next day, just as promised.

Louis spent his morning alone in the company of a cup of strong coffee, nominally reading a paper, actually endlessly going over the last seventy-odd hours in his head, wondering what he ought to have done differently. 

It wasn't as if this was the first time that Marie had begun to rely on someone else instead of him. This might not have even been the first time she had had an affair. Court rumors had her being serviced by Count Fersen one week and the Duchess Polignac the next; there were whispers that she was secretly bedding the Marquis de Lafayette, and the truly unkind insisted that she had continued some lurid form of a relationship with Count Marenzi. Louis had enough sense to recognize malicious gossip when he saw, but of course this situation was vastly different. Under normal circumstances, he would have sent Blaisdell to get to the bottom of it, but ...

Louis realized much to his chagrin that Blaisdell had been right, mortifyingly so--he really had never before seen his wife so overwhelmed with pleasure. Why, she had been moaning like a ... ahem. He blushed. 

He tapped his fingertips together and pursed his lips, uncomfortably pushing the vivid memory away. He felt embarrassed to recall it, even though it was forever before his eyes. Had he not witnessed it personally, he would have never believed that his stiff, cold Interior Minister knew how to utter sounds so shamelessly obscene. Blaisdell? Passionate? Nonsense! Rubbish! Complete slander! 

... was it the sex that bothered him, or her obvious enjoyment? 

He had known that she was willing beyond what was always expected or seemly for a lady, but he had assumed that it was a phase that she would leave behind. Clearly he had been mistaken.

... could he even make her scream like that?

The cup empty, Louis stood and drifted aimlessly--so aimlessly that he suddenly found himself in front of that accursed citrus grove. Feeling defeated, he stopped pacing about and tried, not for the first time, to think this whole thing through with some semblance of rational thought.

He had authorized this. He had every assurance from his advisor that this situation was not uncommon and could be handled with a lack of personal emotion, and it was being handled; Marie would hardly boast about this, and Blaisdell himself was no prattling fool. Would it be so unforgivable to let her just continue relations with the Interior Minister?

... of course it would. Part of the problem was that the sex and enjoyment wasn't coming from him. 

Poor Marie was fed up with his behavior, he could tell, but he felt helpless to change. He had been trained for years to see his wife from the chivalrous perspective: as a princess to be protected and cherished, an ideal to be placed upon an untouchable and unreachable pedestal. "Marie" and "the Queen" had long been so interchangeable in his mind that he no longer saw a difference between the regal Queen of France, and the willowy woman with melancholy eyes who frequently crossed his path, surreptitiously looking at him. In short, his wife was the Queen of France, not his lover. 

Perhaps you could go back to thinking of her as 'Marie' in your personal chambers? Blaisdell had suggested once. If the issue is that now you have come to see her as a head of state that you must hold in infallible regard, you may find success in remembering that once she puts aside the royal robes, she is still a woman who longs for a man.  

He had tried that, and nearly every other suggestion that he had been offered. But the root of the issue could not be solved by mere physical exertion alone. And because he could not envision her as his lover, his performance suffered nearly every single time, a humiliating series of setbacks that had been capped by seeing his advisor, a man two decades his senior, easily succeed where he had so miserably failed.

"... Auguste?" 

Marie stood behind him, staring at him with that expression that she had when she was about to ... ask. He felt a series of emotions hit him abruptly: mild shock, painful uncertainty, a dull ache reminiscent of a deep bruise, and underpinning it all, a strange sense of relief. She had not yet given up on him. 

"Marie." He almost added my Queen but decided against it at the last moment. "Good morning. Did you sleep well last night?"

She smiled and shrugged one shoulder. "Well enough, I suppose. How are you this morning? I have been watching you pace around for some time, is there something on your mind?"

"Watching me?" he said with some surprise, and she gestured back at the chateau. "You can look over the gardens from the main hall. I saw you a half-hour ago. I was waiting for you to come inside, but when you did not, I imagined you had come here, perhaps." She hesitated. "You can't see into the citrus grove from the house's windows."

"No, you can't," Auguste repeated, and they looked at each other in silence. Marie looked away first, unconsciously wrapping her arms around herself. Her cheeks were red.

"... he left a message for me this morning. He told me that I needed to speak with you, as soon as possible. He didn't tell me why, but ... I imagine you must know the reason."

"I saw the two of you," Auguste said, simply, and those words hung between them.

"...I suppose the blame for this is mine, fool that I am," Marie murmured. She tightened her arms around her waist. Despite the volume of her skirts, she looked small, even smaller than usual. "Are ... are you angry with me?"

And quite suddenly, he wasn't. Even if he could have been selfish enough to blame her for the outcome of his own decision-making, he could hardly continue to harbor resentment when she was clearly hurting so much. "My love, of course not. I was shocked, yes. But that was simply my own failure staring me in the face. I cannot blame you for it."

She looked at him with brimming eyes. "Auguste, darling, truly?"

"Truly, Marie."

"Oh my," she whispered. "Oh god, thank you. I ... I don't know how to thank you enough. I ... I knew afterwards that something was wrong, but I had no idea what. And this morning, I felt worse, as if everything we had accomplished was on the verge of collapse. I just--"

She had been stumbling towards him the entire time, arms outstretched, hot tears spilling, and when she reached him there were no more words, just entangled arms and hasty kisses, and sobs repeatedly interrupted by a gentle "Shhh."

They finally achieved the level of spontaneous desire that Blaisdell had been trying to encourage them towards, anxiously tugging each other into Auguste's bedchamber, giving each other deep, wet kisses, and half stripping each other of several layers of clothing before they realized that a petrified maid was standing near the bed, clutching the linens protectively against her torso as if they might shield her from this high level of depravity. The look that she gave them as she managed to gather her wits and flee the room was one of complete disgust. The King and Queen, indeed! What filthy beasts!

Auguste chuckled at the mortified expression on Marie's face. "Remember, my dear, almost no one has seen us be affectionate in public."

"Desperate times call for desperate measures," Marie said with her sweet smirk, and Auguste agreed as he allowed her to take the lead. She undressed him with significant care, unwinding his cravat the correct way, taking the time to undo the raveled buttons on his waistcoat instead of carelessly ripping them loose. She had learned from previous failures, just as Blaisdell had instructed her. Always be mindful of what he is telling you, even non-verbally. You only think he is not telling you what he wants. 

She ran her fingers inside of his silk shirt before opening it and exposing his bare chest, letting her nails gently graze his nipples into a puckered attention. With every piece of his daily uniform that she set aside, she looked up, gauging her progress by the sexual tension expressed in his face. So far he was silent, but the flush that ran all the way into his hairline said much that he had not. She removed his wig and mussed his soft blond curls with both hands, receiving a quiet but pleased moan.

As she came in close, offering and accepting more kisses, she was pleasantly surprised to feel the warm, solid bulge in his pants gently brush her hip. Again remembering what Blaisdell had suggested--undress yourself for him, and remind him that he should lust for you--she let her dress fall unheeded to the floor and stepped out of it clad solely in her under-gown. In the moonlight her chemise was transparent, but in the broad light of a new day it was dazzling and radiant. She looked over her shoulder at Louis, and for all of the sparkling sunshine that surrounded her at that very moment he felt as though he was in the presence of a goddess. He stared at her, not quite daring to reach out lest she vanish.

And then the breaths stuck in his throat, as she approached him and knelt in front of him, gently removing him from his breeches, shyly touching, looking up for affirmation. He looked down, disbelieving, as she brought her face closer. Before he could whisper anything other than a pleading "Oh, Marie, darling, d--" she opened her mouth and lowered her head again. He yelped, shocked by both her wantonness and his own pleasure in it.

How long he stood there for, he could not say; not that it mattered. It felt as though this moment could not be anything other than a dream or a lewd fantasy, but the scream bubbling from his dry throat was certainly quite real, as well as the feeling of his body releasing and Marie's face going quite pink as she pulled away and delicately wiped her lips. She looked entirely too pure to have done any such thing, and yet she had, willingly, lovingly.

Feeling quite beside himself with a sweet excitement that left him unable to think of anything other than completing with her, he picked her up and carried her to the bed, where the remainder of their clothing came off, rather hastily, and he mounted her with equal haste, drawing gasps from them both as they connected. His motion was gentle and hesitant, but this time Marie was determined to be pleased with what he offered, and he found his confidence again as he moved between her spread thighs, rocking her into the padded headboard with every shivering thrust. He could feel her trembling as she fought off wave after wave of oncoming release, her body clamping on him and his body returning the favor as he impulsively let his hips lead, her nails scraping his shoulders as she writhed under his chest, her tiny feet pushing deep into the backs of his calves. She was so beautiful, her pink lips all swollen and bitten and her eyelashes stuck together, lust and sweat highlighting the constellations of moles on her shoulders. Her eyes had never seemed so blue.

She drove him close to his limit as she rocked hard into him. The counterthrust left him gasping, and instinctively, he wrapped his arms around her tightly as he pushed back with a deep moan. They struggled together, neither able to best the other, until her body shot upwards and she finished with short sobbing cries, a climax that he soon joined her in, breathlessly.

Blaisdell returned to his house shortly before sunset. He looked for his young royals in all of the public rooms before one of the servants advised him that they had not left the king's chamber since the afternoon. He looked in on them, sleeping nude together in a contented heap, and quickly averted his eyes while chuckling under his breath. There was hope for the two of them yet, and hope for them meant hope for France. 

He quietly shut the door again and took his glass of whisky outside, sipping slowly. He watched as the sun melted down through the clouds at the horizon, its last sparks shooting vivid indigo streaks through the mellow violet sky, and stood there until the light faded away, leaving the the distant stars nestled in velvet black.

Chapter Text

The King and Queen returned to Versailles eventually, and talks between the nobility and the commoners continued. Marie kept her word and began to take a firmer hand in the arbitration of the dialogues. She halted arguments that became repetitious and overly contentious before they could explode into open disrespect, and she reminded the participants to address each other with dignity, stopping more than one pointed repartee in its tracks. The sessions were still rowdy and raucous, but her imperious presence was keenly felt. Many stared at her with great surprise at her initiative and boldness, among them the Marquis de Lafayette. Other narrow stares burned into her, tiny venom-filled claws of hatred from nobles and peasants alike.

Now that she was an active participant in the arbitrations, Marie noticed Louis's exhaustion to a degree that she had never previously perceived. Whether they respected him personally or no, the people still looked to him as their leader, and the weight of these enormous expectations was enough to stagger any man, let alone one so young. She made certain to show him a sign of approval every time their eyes met, and just as foretold, his appreciation for her attention showed on his face. He seemed less overwhelmed than usual. The lines of his visage, so youthful, seemed firm and strong. Marie felt her heart swell for him, and determined inwardly that she would not fail him, come what may. She would stand solidly, so that he would no longer feel unsteady.

Marie looked across the attendees and suppressed a surge of annoyance as her eyes met with those of the Marchioness Guillame, an elderly widow who professed herself a great advocate of social reform and had offered her wholehearted support in the earliest days of change. So far she had declined to vote on every single initiative. And there sat the Vicomte du Hessey and the Baroness Justine, two others who had given lip service to her requests for support, but had not delivered on their promises. There was the Comte Richelieu, the Marquis du Gallifrey, the Duc du Largbornesse ... and that unspeakable wretch, the Duc du Polignac. Marie let her eyes linger on him just long enough for him to take notice before pointedly flicking her gaze elsewhere. She took some mild satisfaction at his discomfiture. Behind her, she could hear Blaisdell snickering.

"Your Majesty seems to have wrested control of these proceedings quite admirably," he observed during a brief recess. "It can be difficult to find a middle ground between the needs of the many and the will of the Crown, but you are doing a fine job if I do say so myself."

"I appreciate your sentiment, my lord."

"And I see that you and the king are getting on quite well. I'm very pleased to see that. I give you the credit for the change in circumstance. I presume this means you will not continue to require my assistance?" 

They both noticed Lafayette's eyes dart in their mutual direction. Marie quickly smiled to allay suspicion and said in a voice meant to be overheard, "We will continue to monitor the situation carefully, Monsieur Blaisdell. Thank you as always for your dedication."

"I am delighted to be of use to my monarchs," Blaisdell replied in his usual silky tone, before bowing formally and moving away. 

But despite her public bluffing, things had in fact not changed all that much between the King and Queen. She continued to make her wants and needs plain, allowing him the space to take charge if he wished. He had not done so. He finally had an opportunity to show his constituency that he had the materials in his person to make a wise ruler, and he intended to prove it with deeds, not just words. He was busy during the day, even more so in the night. 

"My Queen," Louis said very gently when approached one evening with a bald request to join her in her chambers, "surely you find the future stability of France to be of greater importance than our conjugal state. And you know how much of a predicament our national finances remain in. We are making too much headway for me to allow myself to be distracted now. I'm afraid that I cannot oblige you, my love."

"Louis--"

"I do not say this to hurt you, dearest, but simply because this matter is my first priority." He closed his hands together before opening them again, nervously. "I was under the impression it was yours, as well."

"Your Majesty, of course the wellbeing of France is first and foremost in my mind, but I also thought that you might spare some time for me as well. Do you truly intend to continue drafting the reforms through the entire night? As you have done every night for the past three weeks?"

"I do indeed. The prevailing public opinion is that we have no actual concrete foundation to support our ideas, and I have no intention of coming this far only to stumble at the end. I will be busy revising the referendums, as will Blaisdell."

He stood, and the chair squeaked in protest of the sudden motion. "Marie, can't you see it? This is our dream coming true at last. We are on the verge of giving France the future she deserves! We may actually successfully preserve our legacy! This horrible nightmare may finally be at its end. Isn't this the end result you longed to see? Aren't you excited?"

Silence. She tried to smile, and found she absolutely could not. Oh, my god, not again. Not this again! "I ... yes, my King. Of course you are correct." 

At the disconsolate tone in her voice, Louis approached her, his hand outstretched. "My love, I know very well that this is disappointing to you at present, but just think of the glorious future that lies ahead for all of us. Think of yourself, finally receiving the adulation that you have well earned. Think of the people truly praising you and declaring that you are the reason that France did not fall to her doom! I cannot dream of any better reward for my wife, that the people who once cursed her will bless her name! Please, dearest, come to the revision meeting tonight and work alongside me. The work will be less tedious with you there, and ... well, perhaps afterwards ..."

It was a lie, and they both knew it very well. Louis would have no strength left to offer her once the revision meeting concluded, as had already been proven night after lonesome night. And yet she accepted regardless, and let him lead her back to the salon where his cabinet waited, the future of France in their ink-stained hands.

The sky was full of clouds as Marie sought refuge in the maze of greenery that surrounded Versailles. 

The work had gone well. There had been the usual clash of ideologies and the usual sarcastic asides, but on the whole everyone present had worked hard and pulled their weight. The King was very pleased by Marie's willingness to participate, just as Blaisdell predicted; Blaisdell's commentary, while initially harsh, actually made producing the legal outlines much smoother, just as Marie predicted. And Louis actually accompanied Marie back to her chambers ... and in the time it took her to change out of her dress, a cotton-and-silk matter that would not have been out of place at a formal event, he had fallen deeply into exhausted slumber. She did not wake him up.

She stood in the garden alone, feeling the warm night wind, feeling herself be swallowed slowly by a feeling of impending inertia, feeling that familiar sensation of restlessness with no viable outlet. Feeling eyes linger on her back.

... Blaisdell? 

She turned around, hoping suddenly, but the shadowy form coming towards her was too tall to be anyone other than the Marquis de Lafayette. "Y-your Majesty. I would've wagered that you would have been asleep some time ago." He looked nervous, hands clasped, as he approached her humbly. "Would you do me the honor of taking a turn with me?"

"But of course, my dear Monsieur Marquis de Lafayette." She walked by his side, leaving just enough space between the two of them that he did not risk treading on her dress. There was a subtle wavering in his gait, an occasional missed step. "May I ask what you are doing awake, yourself?"

"... thinking. About a problem. I ... I have a problem. I-I ..." He stopped, mortified. "Oh my. Your Majesty, I am drunken. That whisky ... goddamn Blaisdell. 'Just one more,' he said ..."

"Drunken? You, sir?"

"I ... I just ... needed courage. I-I ... a letter, yes. I have ... a letter. For you. Yes."

He pressed a letter into her hand, which she immediately tucked away within her robes. She tried, rather unsuccessfully, not to smile at him. "This is not quite the persona you display to the assembly, Monsieur."

"Yes, I ... I know. If any of my comrades in arms saw me right now they would be ashamed of me. I can face bullets, I can endure hatred, I can fight all alone for the sake of a correct principle, but I am too much of a coward to face the naked truth in front of me." He laughed without an ounce of humor. "Your Majesty, what would you think of me if I told you that I have committed treason against the King?"

"I would attribute that statement to your drunkenness. I believe I will need to have a very stern talk with Mr. Blaisdell tomorrow."

"No!" Lafayette blurted out hastily. "Stay away from that rat bastard ... oh, your Majesty, forgive my impropriety. I am ..." He hiccuped and Marie tittered. "My dear sir, you are certainly are."

Their stroll was going poorly. Lafayette had to stop every now and again to balance himself, and Marie was hard-pressed to keep from laughing out loud. He was so charming, even in the midst of his distress. "Monsieur Marquis. Explain yourself."

"Y-yes, your Majesty. Ahhh ..." He flushed miserably. "Today, during the sessions, Monsieur Blaisdell, he ..."

He wrestled for the right words. Marie waited as the warm breeze blew perfumed flower attar into her nose, reminding her of a different time and a different garden, a different man, a different and equally forbidden lust.

"The way he looked at you today, I ... perhaps I imagined it, but--no. I know what I saw in his eyes. Every single gaze he gave you ... he all but caressed you. I have never seen him look at you in that manner." A pause. "... it did not please me."

"I'm afraid I didn't notice, I was working. Surely you've noticed before today that Blaisdell always responds positively to displays of authority?"

"It's not even remotely the same thing!" Lafayette said in a heated voice before remembering both where he was and to whom he was speaking. "... Your Majesty ... forgive me, my Queen.  I ... oh god, why was I jealous of him? Why did I hate him so much in those moments? Why did I wish ..."

He looked stricken, and his intense gaze faltered when she stopped walking to look directly into his face. He avoided her eyes as he all but whispered, "Your Majesty, why does he look at you so intimately? He never did so before. Could ... could it be ... have the two of you ... b-b-become--"

"Friends," Marie said. 

"Is that all?" Lafayette murmured under his breath, the tension within him knotting his shoulders. "... but if you affirm it, it must be so."

"It is so. There is no tender feeling between myself and the Interior Minister. We found a mutual understanding as far as my role in the king's plans for reform. I am fulfilling my role, and he is pleased. That is all, my lord."

I ... I ... see. I must be a complete fool. No wonder he laughed at me."

"You confronted him?"

"I went to his chambers after the meeting, with every intention of forcing him to tell me the truth about the relationship. He was his usual self, completely evasive and mocking. I thought long and hard about smashing his face, but he swore to the same as you do and insisted that I have a drink with him. Perhaps the whisky was stronger than I realized." 

"But Monsieur, why would suspecting him of untoward behavior towards me inspire such a response from you? I receive disrespect on an ongoing basis, do you offer to fight every single offender?"

"For you?" He stopped. "Absolutely."

He was shaking. Trembling. Marie watched him carefully, wondering at the change in him. This was beyond his usual principles, as high as they were; at the moment he seemed personally affronted.

"My Queen," he began. "I am no longer able to deny what is plain. Indeed, I no longer wish to. Your Majesty, my only Queen, my dearest Marie ... I adore you, not only for the majesty and imperial power that you represent, but even more so for the incredible woman who wears the crown. I acknowledge, when we first were acquainted, I saw a spoiled, petty princess, and I dismissed you. I have never been so pleased to have been proven false in my entire life. You have proven yourself steadfast and principled, ingenious and shrewd. I am filled with honor to serve you, and you have come to mean even more to me as a person than you do as my monarch."

Marie felt her breaths stick in her throat, piling up into a bubble that seemed to be swelling larger and larger as this drunken man approached her, hands outstretched in a pleading gesture, confessing this utterly forbidden, irresponsible and impossible love as if they were not in her husband's house. She felt his shaking hands as they closed over hers, so cold despite the warmth of the night. She could see his pulse thundering in his neck, every uncertain breath he drew in, his eyes swimming behind his eyelashes, the tan birthmark on his cheek as he drew in close. The wool coat he wore felt stiflingly hot from his body heat. He was too near for her to not feel his raging need, and considering his state of inebriation and the indiscretions he had already committed, perhaps hiding it was no longer a concern.

Marie drew his face to hers and slowly, quietly whispered in return--

"You are very drunk, sir. Go to bed."

She saw him back to his own chambers with several giggles and promises that they would meet again--"When you are sober, that is"--and she began the walk to her own rooms, thinking about what might be in the contents of the letter he had given her. She examined its exterior envelope as she walked along the dim halls, her gown's hem brushing the polished floors. It was a very fine envelope indeed, the best quality paper, a silky grain, a creamy appearance. The only thing out of place was the faint bronze ring marring one corner. It smelled of a familiar whisky. 

She tapped the letter against her nose and got a whiff of two scents she knew quite well--Lafayette's cologne, and ... pipe tobacco? 

Was this actually Blaisdell's stationery? 

She stopped in her tracks, remembering that Blaisdell had told her to save her feelings for someone else--'a better man,' his exact words. ... had he known, all along?

... and if he knew, did Louis know?

She unconsciously slowed, the contradictory feelings within her warring. Weren't these just the ramblings of a besotted fool? She certainly had more than her share of letters from former paramours. Count Fersen had never given up writing to her even though she never responded lately. She had a whole drawer full of his correspondence, much of it unopened. Chances are good that Lafayette would deny the whole thing in the morning once he had an opportunity to sober up. She could put the letter in there with all the others ... and just forget.

Perhaps she ought to read it? ... 

As she stood there, uncertain, the envelope in her hand, she felt hands. Rough, hard hands, pinning her arms to her sides. She had time for one gasp before the room went dark, a burlap sack harsh against her face. She tried to scream, but the hands quickly smothered that sound, and then her air--

--and after that, there was a burning, tight squeeze in her chest as she gasped twice more and  ... 

... then, nothing.

Chapter Text

The Queen was missed the next morning at the first meal, though her absence was attributed to exhaustion. She had worked very hard the previous day, the King said in her praise, and of course the cabinet readily agreed. But when she did not appear by noon, and Madame Beaumont came into the dining hall looking very grave indeed, more than one person quickly came to the conclusion that something had gone altogether wrong. The King retired to his study with his closest associates in tow, where they listened to D'Eon in tense silence.

"She's been abducted, sire. She was last seen rather late last night, in the garden, and she was believed to be heading to sleeping quarters at the point that she was removed from Versailles." D'Eon tapped her chin with a jittering finger. "I followed the malefactors into the Rue St. Honore, where multiple identical wagons were set up to distract and confuse. I have the distinct impression that this was a well-funded, well-planned attack. I actually tracked the wrong wagon for some time before I realized my error." No one said a word in the suffocating atmosphere, and she continued, "Fortunately I was able to definitively locate her. I have individuals conducting recognizance in the area that she is currently being imprisoned in. I do not personally believe that the intent is to kill her, but that this is more designed to demoralize and humiliate. That being said, I also do not believe that her constitution will allow her to survive a prolonged period of suffering."

"Do you believe this is related to the current reformation effort?"

"Undoubtedly, sire. Of course our best interest is to find her as quickly as possible, but this affair must be kept quiet. The people must not be told that the Queen has been taken by violence from her own house, the Crown would be irreparably harmed and all of your current efforts would be for naught. To that end, I propose that the talks continue as scheduled, to give the least amount of potential alarm. We can make excuse for the Queen's absence for a day or so. I will continue my investigation in the meanwhile." She paused. 

"Your Majesty, I may have need of one of my lords to accompany me to the Queen's rescue. Whoever you send with me must be resigned to committing some unsavory acts, for these men will not surrender willingly, and we do not want these individuals glorified as martyrs through public executions."

"You're asking for one of my knights to act as an assassin," the King said in weary tones.

"I am asking you to send me men who are willing to do what will be necessary to save your queen and preserve your own legacy," D'Eon said with a hard note in her voice, and Louis nodded without meeting her eyes. He stood and walked to the window as his subordinates waited, fully aware that every eye in the room was on his back. The order he had to give felt as though it would crush him, but it had to be done, and they all knew it very well. If he could not muster the strength to demand the return of his queen, his failure as a king would be utter and complete. 

He took a deep breath before addressing the room.

"Madame Beaumont. My lords are at your disposal. I authorize you to use all means within my power and reach to secure the safety of the queen, to restore her to me, and to punish those responsible for her abduction. Do as you must to ensure the dignity of the Crown in this matter. Do not fail me in this urgent duty, my lady and my lords. That is my express order, carry it out immediately."

He heard the sounds of the men and the woman in the room kneeling to the floor as they proclaimed their absolute intent to follow his orders to the letter, and the muffled tramping of their shoes as they exited. He keenly felt the presence of the one person who had remained behind, gazing at him.

"... well done, Sire," Blaisdell said when they were completely alone.

"Those were hardly my own words, and you know it very well. I am not accustomed to ordering soldiers to attack civilians, even in a matter such as this." Louis sighed, dismayed. "My heart is not at ease with this, despite my lady Madame Beaumont's assurances."

"There is no other path," Blaisdell said.

"Yes my lord, you are correct, of course." 

A quick deflection that they were both able to recognize. Louis was uncomfortable with giving such direct orders, particularly orders that would result in certain death. And he was even more uncomfortable giving those orders when they had to be given to people who would most certainly see them through. 

In the window, the watery reflection of the Interior Minister came closer, and Louis trembled at the hard expression he saw in the man's face.   Blaisdell's coldness, even as an imperfect, passing shadow of emotion, felt unbearable. Despite what they had done and the horror it represented, Louis did not want to think about what was going to happen to those men once they were found. He lowered his head and closed his eyes, feeling much like a small child who had impulsively smashed the helpless body of a trapped rodent.

He kept his eyes closed even as Blaisdell reached out and turned him around, an inappropriate touch, a contact too intimate for a subject to offer his King. The Interior Minister held him at arm's length, gaze searching, and Louis inadvertently averted his face, as if refusing to make eye contact would stop the councilor from seeing what he was looking for. He felt himself reddening, attempting to shrink away, but the hands on his biceps held him still, as unyielding as the chain of command wrapped around his neck. The nagging feeling of being in disgrace suddenly became even more apropos. 

"You're shirking," Blaisdell said quietly, his voice toneless. There was no accusation, no faultfinding, just a simple statement of fact. "You are second-guessing yourself." 

Louis said nothing. There was no point in a fruitless denial when his advisor already knew his nature so well.

A sigh, although the hands did not let him go. "My king, you must see this matter for what it is. There will be no other way to save the queen except for blood to be shed. The person who has masterminded this crime has deemed these men to be expendable, or he would not have allowed them to lay violent hands on a woman who is by no means unprotected. They already know that their lives are forfeit, they will have no scruple in fighting as men do when they are under death sentence. Madame Beaumont's plan will result in the cleanest, most effective solution. You need but trust us to carry it out."

"I have always trusted you, my lord Blaisdell."

"Then trust me now, when I tell you with no reservation that you have made the right decision. What we do to save the Queen is as much for this country as anything you will do to broker a peace between the nobility and the peasantry. This is being done for the majesty of your reign, for the dignity of our Queen, and above all, for France."

"... yes," Louis said, slowly nodding. Slowly allowing himself to believe that he had made the right call. Slowly able to meet his mentor's eyes. 

As his confidence returned, he felt the grip on his arms loosen. Blaisdell stepped away, once again in his familiar stance of deference, and nodded back.

"Thank you for that, Monsieur Blaisdell. For France."

The day dragged on, full of silent distress and meaningful looks.

The King received a message during the afternoon meeting session that Madame Beaumont had returned and was waiting in his study. He called an early end to the day's proceedings, and watched the faces of the assembly carefully as they prepared to leave. Of particular interest to him was the Duc du Polignac, who had received regular messages all throughout the conference and seemed quite anxious to depart as quickly as possible. 

"So you noticed it as well," Blaisdell murmured. 

"Normally I would not have taken any notice of it," Louis said in low tones, "but that man never sends or receives any messages. And today, of all days, he is bursting with correspondence."

"Which, I am certain, he would attribute to happy coincidence."

"Then he shall prove it. Have my lord Count Fersen follow him."

"It shall be as you wish, your Majesty," Blaisdell said, and promptly withdrew from his side to convey the order. The Marquis de Lafayette quickly took up his post, eyes bloodshot and downcast. Louis looked at him sympathetically. "Are you well, sir?"

"... I am, your Majesty," the Marquis said, still not lifting his gaze to his monarch's face. "I am ... preoccupied with ... many worries."

"Yes, I understand," the King said quietly, and discreetly pressed an envelope into his hand. Lafayette felt his heart lurch sickeningly as he recognized his letter to Marie. The expensive envelope was fouled with a wet footprint, but his distinctive handwriting was still entirely visible and legible. He cast a guilty look at Louis, who did not return it as he continued to speak.

"Marie managed to drop it, along with two or three other trinkets. This is the primary reason that D'Eon realized that she was looking at the wrong wagon, when she saw the envelope fly out."

"Your Majesty--"

The King quickly made a gesture of dismissal. "My lord Lafayette, you do not need to justify yourself. I have not actually read the letter, and I do not intend to."

They lapsed into silence as the last of the assembly departed the room.

"I believe that D'Eon has actually located her by this point," Louis said once they were alone. He stood and began the walk to his private wing, his abashed knight trailing behind. "This will ... be a vitally important mission that she will ask either you or Blaisdell to accompany her on. I am sorry to inform you in advance that it will most certainly involve killing civilians, potentially in cold blood. I will not think less of you if you refuse this mission, my lord."

"I will not refuse any mission that involves the protection of you or the Queen, my king," Lafayette said automatically, and the King nodded, choosing not to continue in that vein. They quickly entered the study, where D'Eon and Blaisdell stood, muttering over a crabbed map of the city center and making hasty marks with pencils. They stopped as soon as the King and Lafayette entered, D'Eon directing their attention to a circled mark in the area of La Force.

"She's currently here, sire. I managed to catch sight of her earlier today as she was being moved, and I was able to follow behind for some time before they took her inside of a building. Unfortunately, the entrance was too well guarded to attempt a rescue without endangering her unnecessarily, but from what I was able to observe, she is moved to a new location every two hours, likely to disorient her and thwart escape. The pattern of the locations suggest that she is gradually being moved out of the city center, so it will be necessary for us to rescue her in the act of transport lest we lose track of her entirely when she is hidden away in some forgotten country manor home. I know that ideally you prefer more time to determine your mind in matters such as this, my king, but I need you to choose which one of your ministers will be coming with me. Now."

"I am willing, your Majesty," Layafette said without hesitation.

"As am I, my King," Blaisdell rejoined.

Louis swallowed hard. The strain of making a hasty, vital choice was audible in his voice as he choked out, "Lafayette. Take Lafayette." 

He clutched at his desk, clinging to the solid wood in a vain effort to quell the trembling that had seized his entire body, as D'Eon rolled up the map and quickly departed, Lafayette moving with equally startling speed. He had done it. He had made a quick decision. He had ordered the rescue of his queen, and implicitly, the death of several men, some of whom might only be guilty by association. 

The adrenaline rush passed too soon, leaving behind a sickly sensation of coldness. Louis edged around his desk, carefully sitting down in the nearest chair. Blaisdell stood nearby, holding a glass of whisky and a small silver bucket, ready to offer whichever might be more necessary first. 

"I did the right thing, didn't I?" Louis murmured in a shaken voice. "There was really nothing else I could do, right?" His breaths came out as hard as if he had been running for his life. "... does killing get easier, Monsieur Blaisdell?"

Blaisdell pressed the glass of whisky into his sweating hand. "Normally I would say yes. But for you, I feel quite certain that it never will."

"And yet, I must," Louis said, mostly to himself, as he touched the alcohol to his lips. 

"Yes, Your Majesty."

A shaky swallow, a gasp for air, and then, "... yes. For France."

"For France."

Another wagon. 

Another goddamned wagon. 

Not that it mattered; Marie had no idea where she was, where she was going, whether she would be alive in the next hour, and worst of all, whether or not she had any hope. A hundred fantasies had gone through her head of fighting back, of being rescued, of waking up in her own bed in Versailles and gratefully realizing that this was just a horrid dream that she could dismiss in the light of a new day. But the bruising and the cuts that she felt throbbing with every turning of the rough cart wheels gave her futile wishes the lie, and pray as she might, here she remained, in the sordid heart of a nightmare.

She was cold. The ragged black shawl carelessly thrown over her did nothing at all to cut the river's wind, and she could not even wrap her arms around herself for warmth. She was bound hand and foot, the ties on her wrists interlaced with the ones around her ankles to hobble her completely and leave her unable to walk without assistance. At some point during her imprisonment, they had clad her in rags and taken her dress. She imagined that some shopkeeper had it now, blessing his good fortune.

Well, a sardonic voice in her mind said, you did say you wanted to help the poor.

She tasted blood in the back of her throat, seeping around the dirty rag that they had stuffed into her mouth when she refused to stop screaming. The noise she had made hadn't done her a bit of good, but it had stopped them from noticing her throwing the few personal effects she had on her into the street. She had thought at the time that she was being monstrously clever. Now, she just bitterly recollected from the smell  in her bruised nostrils that the streets of Paris were full of trash, and the things she had disposed of were likely to have gone unnoticed--or into a beggarly pocket.

She thought she had spent a day in captivity, but her brain had stopped being able to comprehend such fine details some time ago. It likely had much to do with the fact that she was not being fed and barely being given anything to drink. Perhaps that was her own fault for spitting out the stagnant water they tried to force into her mouth. It might also be due to the weeping bruises she had on every limb. Pain, she was rapidly learning, was much more nuanced than she would have ever guessed.

She wondered how Louis had responded when he had found out. She wondered, more urgently, if she would have the opportunity to find out. 

Several consecutive bumps in the road threw her to the floor of the wagon. No one bothered to pick her up from where she sprawled, a mass of hurt and bruises, unable even to cry anymore. The unheeded tears that she had already shed had plastered the burlap covering to her face, the delicate skin raw and blotchy. She turned her face up to the unfeeling sky, seeing little more than a smudgy orange through the rough cloth.

The wagon stopped abruptly as a horrible boom rang out. Marie rolled forward, unable to stop herself from striking her head. She lay there, panting hard, eyes clenched shut in a grimace as she heard the loud report of a second pistol, very nearby. There was the dull clunk of gloved fists striking meaty faces with crushing force and the appalling crack of bones breaking, men screaming with pain and the horse going wild with fear. A man hit the floorboards just next to her and she instinctively shied away at the smell--a stench of vomit, hot blood and burnt powder, stale sweat and fresh beer, an unwashed body in its death throes.

Struggling blindly in the chaos of a wagon about to overturn, she found herself jostling against another man's legs. This one was quite alive. Before she could think to react, she unexpectedly felt hands on her body, and despite her hopeless predicament, she fought. She could not resign herself to death in this way! She twisted furiously, trying to break free, and writhed against the ropes that had already torn her wrists. The cries of "Marie, stop" had no meaning. Perhaps they came from her own disordered mind.

There was shouting, and the wagon lurched once more before coming down with an awful jolt, throwing her into the air. She would have screamed if that ghastly rag hadn't dried her mouth out completely. Despite her urgent distress, all that came out was a piteous squeak as she felt herself falling ... falling to the pitiless cobblestones, where she would surely--

"Marie!"

A hand grabbed her. She felt herself jolt, and then there was a sense of breathtaking disorientation as that hand quickly--too quickly--pulled her back inside the cart and lay her down solidly. She felt the shawl snag at ten different points against the rough planks, and without a single conscious intent, she began to struggle again.

"Marie, no! Can't you hear me? It's Gilbert. I beg you, please stop."

She froze momentarily.

Could it be, truly? Or was she going mad from fear? Was the pistol already at the side of her head, waiting?

"Your wrists are bloody. Keep very still, I will have to cut you free."

She waited, unsuccessfully trying to suppress the urge to struggle as she felt the catch of the knife every time it sliced through another cable of her bonds, unable to avoid imagining that cruel blade sliding over her wrists. God only knew how many premonitions of her own dead body had entered into her waking dreams after the first four hours of captivity. 

"I am nearly done, Marie, please bear with me."

The knife slowly worked, and the sound of the withered leathers as they popped apart played jarringly on her frayed nerves. She knew what that rope would look like, discolored with dry blood and cut to pieces, and she wondered morbidly how long it would take for her to stop seeing it in her mind's eye.

Finally, the last of the cords slid away, and she fell forward, too nerveless to be able to stop herself. Her unseen helper immediately caught her by the shoulders, the exact way that Lafayette had, months ago, in a garden.

Lafayette. Saving her, yet again.

He took one quick peek under the hood and she immediately flinched away from the muddy light, from his gaze, but their eyes met just the same, and she saw an expression cross his visage, one that she could not bear to face--one of implacable hatred.

There was a light voice and a light tread as a second person quickly climbed into the wagon, saying, "I've got four dead and three injured. One's already bleeding out. What do you want me to--" Her voice cut off quite suddenly and she began again after ghastly silence, in significantly more enraged tones. "What did those animals do to her?"

"We don't have time for this, Madame Beaumont. Do you need my help with the bodies?"

"Not at all. Drive on, I will be back with the two of you shortly."

Lafayette did as he was bid. He lay Marie down carefully in a corner of the wagon and camouflaged her beneath empty feed sacks before leading the skittish horse away from that bloodstained alley. And she lay there, terribly hurt, unable to unbend herself from her current position due to violent cramping, half-blinded by the grimy light of a foggy evening, delirious from neglect ... but finally freed.

She heard the pistol go off twice more, and this time, it seemed even louder than before.

Chapter Text

An anonymous apartment in the middle of Paris held France's queen, a ghostly-pale woman covered in livid scars. 

Once the king's retainers brought her into the safe house, Marie steadfastly refused to leave it, even for necessities. The royal doctor stated that she should not be forced to; her convalescence and recovery were highly dependent on allowing her to have some degree of stability after her ordeal. As inconvenient and unconventional as all of this was, of course the king would not do anything against the best interest of his queen, and so Marie was permitted to stay in a room that would not have been deemed suitable to house a servant in Versailles. 

She slowly began to create a familiar nest for herself, softening the rough space with the gifts of her visitors--a beautiful tea set of glazed porcelain, from Blaisdell; bushy potted herbs and lush flowers, from Fersen; shift dresses from D'Eon, simply designed and expensively crafted. She painted; the walls were papered with her dreamy watercolor landscapes. But despite her slow assimilation of the space, the potions and palliatives that the doctor administered made clouded-over memories rise to the surface, and the muddy, indistinct recollections frightened her to the point that she found herself jumping at shadows and cowering in the covers, shivering despite broad sunlight. 

Sometimes one of her visitors spent all day in her company, and she remained silent, expressing agitation and uncertainty through trembling hands; other times she spoke, in a way that indicated how confused and impaired she had become thanks to the medications--medicine to heal, medicine to sleep, medicine to remember and medicine to forget. Her dreams disturbed her.

She frequently dreamed of the ride to the safe house, she explained in shaky tones when questioned. She remembered Lafayette's huge shoulders, squeezed down deliberately to make him appear smaller than he was, constantly shivering with helpless fury, and D'Eon's soft murmurs of reassurance only partially distracting her from seeing the blood and viscera splattered on his sleeves. She saw unknown faces that cursed her and one face in particular, a boy of no more than fifteen, the one who repeatedly spit on her and always made sure to hold her arm with unnecessary tightness, in order to leave blue marks. It was he who had stripped her of her dress, among other indignities.  

"Oh, I remember him," D'Eon said, nodding grimly as she recalled what scattered fragments she could of her captivity. "He was a charming rascal, thought he could give me a fight! Little sewer rat, I might have made something useful out of him if I'd met him two years back. Ah well, too late now. To be honest with you, Your Majesty, it's a good thing that he took your dress. Part of what enabled us to find you so quickly was a loudmouth merchant's wife, bragging about the silk gown he had procured for her. We had to ... persuade ... the man to show us that precious acquisition, but he was very anxious to cooperate with us afterwards. And a good thing for him, too. We did pay him for his time."

Marie frowned.

"Don't fret, dear little bird, we are not complete ingrates! We paid him well enough to buy her many dresses, we just told him that he was to forget about this one. He will. He'd better."

"So, dear Marie, what would you like for me to entertain you with?" Count Fersen sat across from her, a cup of low-end but readily-available peasant tea in his hands, a handsome smirk on his handsome face. "Would you like me to tell you all about how I trounced that scoundrel Polignac? Or shall I compose a love poem for you, and remind you that you still hold absolute rule over my heart?"

"Poems," Marie said slowly, "that might be nice."

"Nicer than hearing about what I did to that snake, to be certain. And he deserved every painful minute of it," Fersen said with obvious pride in his voice. "Very well, my sweet princess. Let us leave him behind for now. I have beauty to describe to you." He held her hand by the fingertips and they sipped tea together while he waxed rhapsodic, giving her a world of flowers, sunshine, and sweet words. And Marie smiled for his sake, even though the flowers were brittle weeds, the sunshine was watery and sad, and the sweet words did nothing to heal the holes in her heart.

At the end he drew her hand close, and laid kisses on her skin. "Dearest Marie, I know that things have changed between us. You no longer answer my letters, because I am still addressing who you were when we first met, and you have become a different person. I had hoped that your life would remain full of sweetness, but I suppose that going through bitter and sour times was necessary, even though I would have protected you from that if I could have. I adored the princess that you were when I first became acquainted with you, but I acknowledge readily that I equally love the queen that you have become."

"You are too kind," Marie murmured. She fidgeted, making meaningless shapes in the now-cold tea with her tiny spoon. "Would you do a favor for me?"

"Anything your heart desires, my queen."

"Would you be willing to let me look in the glass?"

An ugly expression instantly contorted his features. "... Except that, perhaps. Those wretches were not kind to you. I don't want you to have a shock when you see your face."

"It's ... it's very bad, then?"

"It is. Thank God you have no broken bones, but you have significant tissue damage. You will be healing for weeks more." He spat on the floor in anger. "Animals, to treat a woman in such a way. This is their idea of revolution? To exhibit the same behavior they claim to despise?"

"I am not angry with them," Marie sighed. 

"I am. And there are others waiting to take their place," the count snarled. "There are always others who consider themselves heroes to take what is not theirs, in the name of abstract justice." He stood, indignation on his face. "I know that there's nothing I can do at this point about it, but I can't accept this, Marie. You've been treated abominably. You've been driven from your home and forced to live in a ... a hole. How can you stand this?"

Marie was silent as she looked around the small space. For the men in her life, this room was representative of indignity and shame, the utter disgrace of the Queen being forced to conceal herself in a pauper's situation. But she saw it differently--she felt free, finally out of the golden prison of Versailles, no longer buried alive in tasteless wealth, offered the precious rarities of solitude and mutual respect. Here, she was finally discovering what was underneath all of the luxurious fabric and the perfect, false hair. She might at last see herself for who she was.

"I'm learning," was all she said.

It was quickly discovered that Marie could not be left alone for any great length of time in her current state. Gabrielle du Polignac was sought, but the duchess had made herself scarce ever since the extent of her husband's involvement in the queen's abduction had become public knowledge. She sent a regular correspondence of letters that Marie pored over endlessly, but she did not appear. The Queen might have accepted the company of Madame Deniau, but the lady's maid had also mysteriously vanished the night of Marie's abduction, indirectly bringing herself under suspicion. 

And thus the Marquis de Lafayette found himself in the position of playing nursemaid to an ailing woman when he ought to have been helping direct the affairs of the nation. At least, that was what he told himself when he found himself growing comfortable in this new duty.
Not that this was in any way a simple matter. The queen proved to be an absolutely dreadful patient at times, sometimes insisting on doing chores around the small room instead of resting, other times concealing herself in her blankets and weeping herself to sleep, frequently refusing to talk, and always giving him a look that he could not entirely read. Or perhaps he understood it too well, and chose obstinacy over acknowledgment.

The physician insisted that all of this would cease once she had healed sufficiently to stop needing the myriad of drugs he currently felt she must take. She was still herself at the roots, but the trauma had made things more ... complicated, and she must be given every opportunity to recover from it sufficiently. Lafayette thought privately that he might better endure Marie's ability to weather her convalescence in the absence of the drugs, but that assumption proved faulty as without any medication, Marie frequently turned into a screaming wreck, forcing away her terrors with vicious scratches and wild kicking. On those days he had to hold her for her own safety, because she could not recognize anything during those cycles of fear; she would injure herself and gladly, if only to make her nightmares stop. He held her close, too close; he cramped and sweated and endured along with her as she fought against the dead assailants who lived on through her dreams. 

One day after a longer-than-usual episode gave him aching arm cramps, he dared to press his lips to her damp temple as he felt her settling back into herself, the plague of fear lifting. To his distracted mind, he had only brushed her sweating skin with the lightest of touches, a gentle caress more for himself than for her, but the response--a full, warm embrace, a deep return kiss--left him shocked and shaking, and he had to gently but firmly separate them, or there would be no further denying the immediacy of his need, or indeed, her own. She wobbled in his big hands, her gaze slowly focusing as she came to grips with the rejection, and the look on her face was one of confusion and hurt. 

Lafayette quickly offered reassurance. "You are in pain, and I dare not hurt you any further. We cannot do this now, but as you can well see, your Majesty, I do not restrain myself out of dislike of this matter. I will join with you, Marie. Not this day, but soon."

Marie thought to protest--she had heard a similar line of deflection from another man regarding the same matter--but in an instant she remembered that she was talking to Lafayette, not Louis. And there was not a single thing that the Marquis had promised to her in times past that he had not delivered on. So she nodded, a bit reluctantly, and they avoided each other as best they could until D'Eon arrived to relieve Lafayette of his watch, but their mutual collusion was all but assured. It was only a matter of time.

Their time came on a dull morning, with a morning sky full of dirty clouds. Lafayette came in looking rather more human than he usually seemed. Marie could see the creases in his face and the dark circles under his eyes very clearly in the unflattering light. She looked at her own hands and wondered what he saw when he looked at her. The violently red marks on her wrists had not yet completed healed. 

"Monsieur Blaisdell asked me to make certain you received this," he said, handing her a dirty crate that had clearly come straight from the hold of a cargo ship. 

A lifetime ago, she would have recoiled instantly from the filthy cobwebbed container. Now, she simply opened the top, more interested in inhaling the piquant aroma of the tea leaves than worrying about the sooty dust soiling her fingers. This was a much finer blend than the poorly processed peasant tea she was becoming used to.

"This ... this is my favorite," she said quietly.

"Yes, he seemed quite proud of himself for having remembered." Lafayette pulled a roll of papers from a heavy leather pack. "And his Majesty the King sent over the latest revisions to the reform agendas, if you care to read them."

"I read a bit slower than I used to," Marie said with a touch of embarrassment audible in her tone, but Lafayette waved his hand, dismissing her concern.

"Our priority is accuracy in the initiatives, not speed. The king believed that you would not be pleased to be left out of the decision making process at this point, and I agreed with him. Please take your time, I am not in haste." He stood, his large body shoving the chair into the wall. "Shall I prepare tea for you, your Majesty?"

"If you please, Monsieur."

For all his talents, Lafayette was not particularly good at brewing tea well.  The amount of low muttering and cursing that ensued as he fumbled about made Marie fear for the safety of the teapot. She hid her face with a legal document, trying with only mild success to conceal her own amusement. "Is this ... not quite your forte?"

"Forgive my ineptitude, my Queen. Normally my servants take care of this matter. I did not imagine that pouring hot water over leaves and coming up with something palatable was quite as involved as it seems to be."

"May ... may I help?"

He looked back at her with a startled expression.

"Monsieur, do you think I have no experience with such a matter? You truly have no faith in me, do you?"

"But of course I do, my Queen! I merely--"

She had risen from her own place as she spoke, and he had unthinkingly turned around with an overfilled teacup in his hand. The collision was inevitable, the aftermath immediate. Marie's giggles overflowed, much like the lukewarm tea now soaking through her dress. "Is this revenge for your injured foot?"

They were too close, as always. The tea spot had rendered the center of her dress transparent, and now the cotton stuck to her in the most immodest manner. The smattering of wet leaves displayed her breasts more sensuously than any gown he had ever seen her wear. Despite his mortification at being responsible for putting his queen in such a state, Lafayette let a small chuckle escape. "I am glad to see you retained your mischievous sense of humor, my dear Queen."

"Some things never change, do they?"

"And I would never want them to, precious Marie." He marveled at the radiant smile she now wore, how being pleased and happy seemed to erase the trauma she had suffered. She was her old self, at least in this moment, and he wondered if there was anything he could do to keep her in this state. He watched her musing, watched her come right up to him and reach up for a soft, experimental kiss, watched as she decided that yes, they could continue.

Despite her forward behavior, he hesitated. Even though she had never confessed to as much, he was quite certain that she had been assaulted at least once during her captivity. He would not go a step further if there was even a trace of fear on her face now.

"Are you certain, dear Marie?" he asked as she began to peel the soiled dress away from her wet skin. She cast it aside, unwanted, unneeded.

"Never more, dear Gilbert."

They tumbled to the narrow bed, his mouth against her collarbones, her hands pushing his wig back to reveal auburn hair. He stopped his ministrations just long enough to allow her to set it carefully aside--then, back to the task at hand, ravishing her lips and destroying her complex braid, letting her claw ineffectually at his shirt as she repeatedly failed to open the buttons due to distraction. How long they kissed for, he neither knew nor cared as they took from each other greedily, trying to satisfy a need that they had mutually denied for well over a year's time. Their mouths met over and over, wetly, hungrily, breathlessly, and it wasn't enough. It would never be enough. 

"Marie," he moaned into her damp hair. "God forgive me, I can't wait another minute for this," and he roughly pulled her close. His heated urgency made her gasp as she felt him pushing through the front of the rough broadcloth pants he wore. His hands seemed even larger than usual as they descended on her, as soft as roses, as insistent as his kisses. She said nothing, opening for him as he explored. His left hand on her inner thigh felt so tantalizing as he held her legs apart, stroking her with his right. 

Her response was appreciative and dreamy, a sweet feeling of rising and falling with a loving, steady hand guiding her, and she reveled in it until a sudden unexpected spasm made her whine for release. He gave in to her need, kneeling before her as reverently as if she was seated in all her royal glory. Marie watched him go to his knees and was quite suddenly overcome with self-consciousness. She felt ashamed of her bruises, the half-healed scabs and her wasted frame, but he seemed to take no notice of these things as he kissed her and listened to her unspoken desires and whispered secrets against her body, his tongue dragging sensuously and his fingers taunting. He made her endure for several minutes while he indulged his own burning lust and left her aching, sodden and hopelessly pleading.

He finally stood and paused to gauge her reaction--Marie instantly begged, her voice filled with longing. He watched her eyes travel, lingering in some places, hurriedly skimming over others, shyly rising to his face. Her own face was splotchy with a deep blush. Don't leave me like this, Gilbert. I need you, I need you inside. Please.

Then you must prepare me, Marie. He moved forward, slowly removing his breeches, standing very still as she reached out for him, her feathery touch leaving him writhing. Every slow breath, every throb of his straining nerves, every languorous blink she gave him as she used her hand, and then her mouth, was a delicious torment, one that he did not want to end. He held out as long as he could, finally relenting with a deep groan and gentle rocks of his hips as Marie accepted. They were both surprised when he continued insistently erect.

"We don't have to," he murmured, but a soft sigh and a sweet smile informed him that much to the contrary, they must. So he seated himself on the bed, letting her carefully straddle his huge legs, their bodies squirming uncontrollably with excitement, trying and missing repeatedly in their mutual impatience, until he held her steady with that huge hand at the corner of her hip and thigh, and whispered, "Wait, love," as he maneuvered her into position, entering slowly to savor her blissful gasping as--oh, ohhhh--a seed planted in the gardens of Versailles over a year ago finally bloomed into full, glorious flower as they connected at last. Oh, dearest Marie.

She saw those ugly, cursing faces again behind her closed eyelids, and she momentarily panicked, but the large gentle hand on her back reminded her who she was with, and she sank down again, her breath escaping in a contented sigh. He moved at a pace that she enjoyed, holding himself in check and listening closely to her expressions. She whimpered frequently, but just as often she moaned--for him, for herself. Outside, the sky unleashed rain and storm, and they were none the wiser as their bodies rose and fell in unison, her pulse fluttering wildly, his broad chest covered with streaks of both of their sweat as they made love. She gave him all that she had, and he took it and returned it readily--all their desire and burning passion, all the hot lusts and longing looks and wishful thinking and midnight fantasies--all present in these moments, in a shabby room on a worn-out mattress.

They slept deeply afterwards, too deeply to realize that they had been observed from the outside window. The interloper made his way inside on stealthy tread and by way of skeleton key, took in the sights of the royal referenda, neglected; the costly tea, heavily diluted and utterly ruined; the two transgressors in their altogether, unconscious and shameless. He shut the ragged curtain and slipped away again, silently, returning to Versailles.

Chapter Text

Several men were seated around a conference table, all variously busy and muttering in low voices, and likewise all falling silent as Madame Beaumont appeared before them, seemingly from nowhere. The Interior Minister quickly stood and excused himself with a curt smile that was little better than a grimace. "Carry on, gentlemen. I shall return."

They reached the king's private study together, where Louis sat surrounded by springs and tumblers and several locks in myriad stages of disassembly. Blaisdell stood by as D'Eon relayed a daily report of the city, ending with the tidbit that she had dropped in on the Queen earlier in the day and that Marie seemed ... comfortable. Neither man responded to the choice of words, although it was clear they understood the meaning. 

Blaisdell remained behind after D'Eon took her leave, and Louis remained engrossed in his project, staring straight down. "Do you wish for me to do anything regarding this situation, sire?"

"No, my lord." Louis continued to examine the mechanism in his hands closely. His voice was steady and calm as he reached for a wire brush and began to clean the internal pieces of a heavily-soiled relic. "The queen is happy at last. Do not disturb her peace." 

"Very well," Blaisdell murmured by way of assent, but he did not leave. Louis kept his eyes forward, focusing on the dirt and soot that flaked down like ash, refusing to respond even as his minister hovered. Encroaching. Invasive. Too knowing, too close.

"The queen is happy," Blaisdell said as he stood immovable, voice quiet, "but what of my king?"

Marie stood before a veritable wall of roses. 

Reds, pinks, yellows. Vibrant oranges, subdued creams, mild golds, deep burgundies, shocking violets, pastels and jewel tones surrounding a singular white--a miserable-looking specimen, its blossom tightly folded in on itself, the petals ragged and bruised. She attempted to pluck it and wear it, but beaten though it was, the rose clung to its place with surprising tenacity and could not be budged. 

While she caressed the rose wistfully, a man emerged from behind the hedge, coming towards her with cruel shears in his hands and a crueler smile on his lips. She backed away, then fled, the roses bending over to snatch at him with thorns and vines. He hacked his way through, and the scream in her ears was both his and her own, an unhallowed harmony of fear and rage. 

She ran--to where?--as a figure in olive green rushed toward her assailant. They struggled together, their arms locked, until there was a raspy sound that turned unexpectedly wet, a horrid sound of metal driving through clothing into flesh, the gurgling of a mortally wounded man crying out with his dying gasps, "Run, Marie," and oh, the blood, so much blood, a man's life pouring out to stain the royal crest and soil the dead king's clothes and pool at her frozen feet. 

And then another man appeared, a man in drab grays and browns, a man whose eyes had once regarded her with great kindness. Those eyes were inhuman now, crazed with grief and malice as they settled on the corpse. As they darted to her stricken face, the silent accusation felt as sharp as any knife. It felt as though the hatred of all France was contained within.

She watched, horrified, as the Interior Minister stepped forward and slit the assassin's throat without hesitation, and then turned back to her, his face twisted with fury, his eyes hard and unfeeling, the blade in his hand still dripping. He did not respond to her pleading voice. He hovered over her, as implacable as any avenging angel, utterly disregarding her scream for mercy, condemning her as he raised his arm again, and--ahhhhhhh! She was awake now, heart thundering.

"Are you well, dearest?" a sleepy voice asked against her ear. A thickly-muscled arm imperceptibly tightened around her waist, and she focused on that feeling of solidity until her pulse slowed somewhat. 

"It was a bad dream. Forgive me for waking you, Gilbert." 

He said nothing as he slowly ran his hand around her abdomen in circles. She marveled at his instinctive response to protect even through his own considerable exhaustion. How she must have worried him in those first miserable days! "I'm sorry for worrying you. It was just a nightmare, it wasn't real."

"Knowing it's not real is often no comfort," he murmured. "Come here, my love."

She felt considerable guilt, though those uneasy twinges soon melted away in a much more pleasant emotion as he continued to comfort her. She cast her eyes around the room, noting that it seemed darker in the room than before, though the reason for that slid past her in the immediate moment. Right now there was Lafayette and his kind eyes, his strong arms, his warm lips, and his assurances that she was safe, and nothing else at all mattered.

Her second sleep was easier, but she was awakened from it just as rudely by the sound of arguing. She opened her eyes blearily to see Gilbert's huge frame, barely dressed, blocking the door. His stance was hostile and stubborn, and he clearly had no intent of letting in the person standing outside. Marie realized with a sinking heart exactly who it must be. There was only one person who might visit her here whom Lafayette would take this much open umbrage to. She dressed herself as quickly as she could before saying in weary tones, "Monsieur Marquis de Lafayette, please let the guest in."

Lafayette regarded her silently for a heartbeat before stepping away to reveal Blaisdell, whose gaze swept across the room in a flash, taking in all of the incriminating details. But he said nothing of these observations, instead moving directly over to the teapot to correct the disaster within. 

Lafayette watched him with displeasure evident in his face. Marie caught his eye and mouthed, "Get dressed."

By the time that Blaisdell brought the refreshed tea service to the table, the mood was foul. Marie felt tension flaring from both men, both of them distrustful of the other, both looking to her for confirmation of their suspicions. She sighed into her cup. The tea, at least, was excellent this time around."To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit, Monsieur Blaisdell?"

"Oh, I am here to see how the progress of the revisions that we sent over to you are coming along. And I see that I should come back another day for that." A glare from Lafayette, a return smirk, and he continued, "And I have a message for you from the King."

"A letter?"

"He did not feel entirely comfortable committing this to writing, and I believe he was wise not to do so. But he wished to make his sentiments on this … situation … known to you."

"Blaisdell," Lafayette said in dangerous tones.

"Lafayette, please--"

"Marie, do you not yet realize that someone entered the room earlier while we slept? The curtains were open before." Another furious look. "And this bastard knows very well how to get somewhere he doesn't belong."

"My goodness, are you attempting to claim moral high ground in this? How utterly fascinating--"

"Enough," Marie said sharply, and both men fell silent. "Monsieur Blaisdell, I believe you came here to discuss my progress in reviewing and revising the documents. As you can see for yourself, I am not very forward with the matter, but I assure you I will give it my undivided attention going forward."

"Very well. I cannot ask for more than what you are able to give. But we still must discuss my secondary reason for being here--" and he gestured to Lafayette.

The following pause was awkward in the utmost. Finally, Marie attempted to stand. "Should I leave then, to allow the two of you to to talk without my interference?"

"No, you should not, as this very much involves you."

Uncertainly, Marie sat down again. 

"You should be aware that the King was not made aware of this situation just this morning. He has long been aware of the marked preference that you have for each other. ... don't be alarmed, Marie. The King does not bear either of you any ill-will. He will not put either of you to shame, particularly in light of the atrocious treatment that you have been subject to already. He has recognized that the Marquis is a source of great comfort to you, and he is not willing to remove any happiness that he has in his power to offer you, my Queen."

There was a shocked silence before Lafayette stammered, ".... His Majesty is ... is aware? ... and consents?"

Blaisdell reached for the teapot and helped himself to another cup before giving them a placid look, as if he were doing little more than explaining the menu in an unfamiliar restaurant. "You cannot have failed to notice that the King will do a great deal to keep the Queen happy. This is quite an extraordinary measure, but I think we can all agree that you are an extraordinary man. There is no one he trusts more to shield the dignity of the Crown and protect the Queen's heart than yourself, Monsieur Lafayette."

He sipped his tea slowly, to give them time to digest this piece of unexpected news, but neither seemed inclined to comment further, as if they were struggling to grasp the rationale. The minister finished his cup before standing to bid them farewell.

"Monsieur Blaisdell, please sit down," Marie said abruptly. "I ... I have questions."

Blaisdell sat. "Well?"

"Why would the King allow ..." She choked on the word for several seconds, only relaxing as Lafayette's large hand closed on her shoulder. "... us?"

"Well, why should he not? As you have seen for yourself, Marie, the King is very concerned with your happiness, and his inability to be the husband that you long for has been a source of great stress to him. Mind you, he is not going to grant you a divorce or any sort of official separation, but if this current relationship contents you, then he will also be content. As long as the two of you are discreet, he will allow it, and I also will protect you." 

"Protect us?" Lafayette said, confusion on his face.

"Yes. Your failure to attend the most recent hearings has not gone unnoticed. The Queen's complete absence is also especially noteworthy, as she was so forward in her last appearances. The timing of the two of you mutually being out is ... unfortunate. When you return to court, you should expect the malicious talk to abound. But as long as you protect His Majesty, you can count on me to bring the gossip to a halt."

"Do you intend for me to return soon, Mr. Blaisdell?" Marie asked, unknowingly touching her face.

"I had hoped that you might. We have arrived at another point of division, and I believe that you would be an ideal candidate to sway opinions back to the king's position. Both public sympathy and chivalric sentiment would lie with you, were you to make an appearance."

"The Queen is still convalescing," Lafayette said, defensively.

"And France is hemorrhaging as we speak," Blaisdell quickly rejoined in a pointed tone.

"That's enough," Marie said before the hackles could be fully raised on either side. "I will need a few days to prepare myself and I will require some of my clothes from Versailles, but I will do as you ask, for the King, for the people, and for France."

"Yes," Blaisdell echoed, "for France."

At this sentiment, Lafayette looked disgusted and asked skeptically, "Is this solely for France on your part? Forgive me for not being able to readily believe that you do not hold some self interest in this matter."

Blaisdell's mouth quirked. "And what if I do? Are we not all ultimately governed by self-interest, yourself included?"

"I ..." Lafayette paused, wondering if he ought to continue. He suspected that Blaisdell's true intent was less than altruistic, based on the rumors that still occasionally resurfaced after all this time. Goodness knew there was plenty of scurrilous gossip about Blaisdell's relationship with the king, and some of it might even be true, but regardless, whatever the truth might be, it was not his business. 

He felt Marie's soft hand atop his own now. She was looking up at him earnestly. "If the root of your question is, can Mr. Blaisdell be trusted to protect us, I assert the answer is yes. As I mentioned before, he and I have become friends, and I unreservedly trust my friends."

Lafayette's frown deepened, but he shrugged. As much as he hated to admit it, they truly would need the man's protection, both now and in future, if he and Marie were to stand any chance of remaining together. It took him several seconds more of internal struggle to nod, but he finally did, and Marie smiled warmly, exhaling audibly. "Let it be as you say, Monsieur Blaisdell. We shall rely on you."

"Thank you for the confidence, your Grace," the Interior Minister said in a deferential voice, and kissed her other, free hand with with great propriety and formality. "I will return in two days to assess your progress with revising. Is there any message you want me to take back to Versailles?"

He waited while Marie thought deeply, continuing to hold Lafayette's hand. At last she said, "Please tell the King that from the bottom of my heart, I thank him. For everything."

"I will and gladly, my dear Queen. Farewell for now," and he departed, leaving Marie and Lafayette to themselves. Lafayette took the vacant seat, shaking his head. "That exasperating man ..." 

Marie said nothing. She picked up the nearest set of draft amendments and began to read, her free hand unconsciously searching for Lafayette's. As their hands touched, folded together and held on tightly, she smiled again, allowing herself to feel happiness.

Dinners within Versailles were curious affairs. Although they were grand, communal events, they frequently felt very lonely, particularly for a man who had little interest in gossip and would have preferred to eat his meal in the presence of friends. The king kept the smile plastered on his face, eyes scanning the crowds continually for one of the few people he would have liked to actually see tonight.

He felt fingers touch his shoulder, a feather-light brush that he felt clearly despite several layers of interfering clothes, a direct contact that was scandalously impermissible, particularly in the midst of a court supper. Blaisdell appeared to his left, nominally looking over the attendees, in actuality murmuring to his monarch, "Would you like my company at present, my King?"

"Very much indeed, my lord. This event is not to my taste, but there have been some complaints that I have forgotten my royal station. I have to attend to continue showing solidarity with the nobility." He made a small gesture with his golden fork. "And yet not one of them has spoken to me all evening."

Louis wondered if he imagined it, but he felt quite certain that there had been another light settling of those fingers. "If you wish it, we may leave this gathering as soon as you please. We may make work the excuse."

Louis took the hint and escaped. He heard his advisor take command of the proceedings to make an announcement, distracting everyone from his absence, and he wondered, far from the first time, if the true solution to the country's woes was to give charge to a man such as Blaisdell who had served in the reign of Louis XIV, and simply to run away in the night. It was entirely possible that the people wouldn't even miss him. He slipped away through the softly glowing halls of Versailles, the sound of joyful noises gradually fading away to the whispery crackle of lit candles and the quiet click-click-click of his own shoes. His study was not far away. 

He soon heard the sound of swift footsteps coming up behind him, and he slowed his pace. It wasn't long at all before Blaisdell caught up to him, automatically adjusting so that they were walking together. 

"Can I tempt you away from your locks tonight, in favor of chess?"

"Of course, my lord. Will you have cognac while we play?"

"Perhaps something less potent tonight, my king. I have yet to eat my supper."

"As have I," the King murmured. At his advisor's look of surprise, he shrugged and continued, "It is difficult to take joy in gatherings where my friends are not present. I have not had much of an appetite this evening."

"Then shall we dine together?" 

A quick series of orders to the nearest passing attendants produced happy results. Scallops and cream, fresh raw oysters, green peas and pearl onions and haricots verts over wild rice made for a much more enjoyable meal than the rich food he had hardly cared to taste, and the bottle of Sauternes that appeared during the dessert course vanished quickly between their two snifters. And Louis felt that touch again, as he had felt it all through the meal--every time Blaisdell handed him a plate or a glass, every time they mutually reached for the tiny crystal shaker of expensive black pepper. It was startling how easy he felt, resting his head against the older man's shoulder as they lingered in front of a low fire nipping warm brandy, and how comfortable Blaisdell's arm felt around his shoulders. 

"I have always wanted this," he heard himself murmuring. "I acknowledge my failures as a king, but I am not a grand man. I simply want to work hard during the day, eat a good meal, and spend my night in the company of someone who enjoys my presence. Am I strange, Mr. Blaisdell? Am I asking too much?"

"Regardless of what you wish for at this point in your life, Your Majesty, you are the king, and many lives depend on your decisions, so you must not neglect your royal duty. But please remember, I am here to support you, however you may need. I will do anything you ask, my King." 

"You have told me that before," Louis sighed. 

He turned his head, realizing almost too late that Blaisdell was looking down at him. But his advisor did not shy away from the near contact. Indeed, that hand tightened on his shoulder. "And I meant it. I will do anything, Auguste."

Louis felt his face warm as the intent became clear, and he knew that Blaisdell was waiting for an answer, either an acceptance or rejection, but as usual, he could not decide. Though perhaps he would not have to. He felt fingers stealthily lifting his chin up, lips claiming his own, and one burning kiss later, decision felt meaningless. Everything felt meaningless. So beautifully, wonderfully, maddeningly meaningless.

Chapter Text

The fire in the king's chamber had burnt itself low by the time Auguste awoke, his body unexpectedly sore in several places, his hips tender from unusual handling, his lips chafed and rough. He felt terribly thirsty. 

While he edged himself to the side of the bed, he saw the movement and felt a solid weight slowly roll away from his back and--oh my--there was his senior advisor, uncovered, undressed, and unashamed, his chest slowly rising and falling in a steady rhythm. Even in his sleep, he wore a faint smirk, unconsciously pleased. 

Auguste regarded the man curiously as he swallowed the water most gratefully. Blaisdell was at least 20 years his senior, perhaps more. On a day-to-day basis, he conducted himself with gravity and decorum as he handled the increasingly difficult task of managing an insolvent country's finances. He was to all appearances, a highly competent and intelligent civil servant ... and yet here he was, in the midst of an action that was forbidden at best and absolutely ruinous at worst. There would be absolutely no explaining his presence in the king's bed if a servant were to walk in.

Auguste fretted momentarily before realizing with a slight start that there were no servants around. In fact, he had not seen any of his personal retinue since he left the banquet last night. Every small task after the close of the meal had been handled personally by Blaisdell himself, from building the fire to turning down the bed, to bringing cooling orange water to wipe off after they had ... uh. 

Auguste licked his lips nervously. He needed more water, now.

"My king?" a sleepy voice murmured, as Blaisdell lifted his head to regard his monarch. And then, in a voice lower still, but with an intangible note of command, "Come back to bed, Auguste."

"I-I ... sir, I--" He found himself stammering, stuttering. Fearful. Fearful of what they had done, fearful of how it made him feel, fearful that it might continue, but increasingly disappointed to think that ... it might not.

Blaisdell gave him a look of mild exasperation. "You're second-guessing yourself again."

"Should I not?" Auguste snapped automatically, and then, in a softened voice, "I feel certain that you are well aware of the penalties for infidelity and obscenity."

"My king. May I remind you, the country is on the verge of implosion. The king's trial for infidelity and obscenity will be but a footnote alongside the collapse and ruin of France if we falter at this juncture. We have much greater trouble in front of us than this indiscretion. Can you not allow yourself to be at peace, even for one night?" 

Blaisdell shifted on the mattress, sitting upright. Auguste immediately averted his eyes. 

"Are you afraid? Auguste, look at me--I am nude, in your bed. Can a man be more vulnerable?" He opened his arms to his younger master. "My king, I implore you. Give yourself the grace that you extend to everyone else. Come here, and embrace me."

And there it was--that compelling voice that could undo any doubt or reservation he held, more potent than the spirits they had consumed together last night. Auguste came, entranced, his plaguing doubts for once dim and distant. He allowed himself to be held closely, heard gentle words from a hard man's mouth, and willed himself to believe them. The kisses that Blaisdell placed on his forehead and mouth felt feather-soft, impossible promises that might be yet kept against all odds. The hands on his shoulders slowly moved down to his waist, then his hips. Auguste's body only made the faintest resistance--a tiny quiver of pain that evaporated into a pleading whisper of Yes, please, as Blaisdell lay him down again and conquered him completely.

The most visible marriage in Versailles splitting cleanly down the center could hardly go unnoticed, though no one who commented on it seemed to be able to qualify their opinions. All they could definitively say was the king seemed ... calmer. Less overwhelmed. Rather ... happy?

Of course there was a concerted effort to find which fortunate woman had come into the king's graces, but she was not found, and the king continued his usual duties, accompanied by his most trusted advisor, as Versailles prepared for the return of the Queen. Princess Adelaide, forever on the watch for any opportunity to wrest back even a modicum of political influence within this tottering, infirm administration, sent the King a gracious request to have her over for tea. She knew very well that her nephew did not enjoy such events; she also knew very well that he was not strong enough to tell her no.

In the early afternoon, she issued forth into his study, where he waited near one of the enormous windows that faced the gardens. Blaisdell was in the room, carefully arranging the tea service. She stopped short at the sight of the Interior Minister performing the prosaic task of setting out cream and sugar and a platter of tiny sandwich triangles. Where on earth were the servants? Had things become this dire, that cabinet members were reduced to getting their own food?

"Come in," Louis said immediately upon seeing her in the doorway.

She did, watching Blaisdell narrowly. She had never liked this man. He was a remnant of her grandfather's era, a period of great power, and due to the disorder of the current times, he appeared much more formidable and stalwart than he would have in her day. The king had gradually come to rely on him, bypassing her completely. It was a cruel twist of fate that had granted a middling noble such as Blaisdell such great political influence and left a royal princess forgotten, only regarded by the current generation as an ancient relic. It was not the first time that she felt certain that her relation to the king's father was the only reason Louis tolerated her presence at all.

Louis walked her over to the nearest sitting area and helped her into a comfortable chair. "To what do I owe the pleasure, dear aunt? I don't often see you for social calls."

"Oh, I also am frequently missing you, dear nephew, thanks to this … unwieldy referendum that your queen has been so insistent upon pushing through the government." The princess made a show of looking around. "Where is she, by the way? I certainly haven't seen her present in the assembly lately. She's not too busy celebrating early victory with that Marquis, is she?"

"Whatever could you mean, Princess?" Blaisdell was looking at her with mock incredulity. "Were you not aware that the queen has been injured, and is convalescing?"

"Oh, I see. And pray tell, what exactly is her injury? Did she get a paper cut while pretending to have some idea of what she was doing in the finance meetings? Twist her ankle while wearing another one of those extravagant gowns to go wandering around the gardens? Get hot glue from her wig stuck in her eyebrows?"

"She was beaten repeatedly over an 18 hour period by ruffians," Louis said flatly as he prepared his cup. His aunt converted her chuckling into a delicate cough, suddenly very interested in the lace handkerchief in her hand. "Well. I ..." She did not bother to finish her sentence.

"Tea, Princess?"

"Are you a footman now, Monsieur Interior Minister? Why are you handing me tea?"

"Because I'm polite," Blaisdell said, the emphasis in his tone making the princess shoot a hard look his way. Louis cleared his throat. "Aunt, you had something on your mind to discuss with me, did you not?"

"Why ... yes, I suppose I did. There is a ridiculous rumor circulating that you are ... hmmm, involved in a ... dalliance, shall we say? Of course, I know my own nephew better than to believe such a foolish tale, but I thought I had just bring it to your attention, just in case you are taking any ... unnecessary risk in your current business."

"Your concern is appreciated as always, my dear aunt." Louis said by way of a non-answer, and volunteered nothing further on the matter.

Slightly disappointed, the princess sat back and stirred her tea listlessly. She continued to make light sallies in the same vein, and she watched carefully for the king's reaction. But he was so careful in his behavior that she gathered no clues about the identity of his paramour, and she could only settle for a few rounds of court gossip before Louis excused himself to acknowledge the servant who entered the room. As they spoke in low voices, Adelaide gave another sour glance to Blaisdell, who had not budged from his place. "Will you sit, sir? Or will you continue standing post, like the lap dog I've always known you to be?"

Blaisdell smiled coldly. "It is not your lap I desire to sit in, princess."

A frigid stare. "Cease your insolence, and remember whom it is that you speak to."

"The daughter of a man who thought so little of her that he spent her inheritance on the necklace for his mistress? I am quite aware. But I do thank you for reminding me of your sad circumstances. I may pity you now, instead of simply despising you."

At that moment, the king returned. "Aunt, forgive me, but I must call an end to our chat. I have just been informed that the queen has returned to Versailles, and I must go greet her." He turned to Blaisdell to murmur, "We will talk later," and Blaisdell said, "We shall, my king," before respectfully kissing his monarch's fingers. 

It was a perfectly normal dialogue, and yet Adelaide observed all of the tiny transactions between them: the tenderness with which the Interior Minister took the king's hand, the brush of lips that lingered too long, the way the king held his breath until his subordinate released him, the mutual gaze, the step forward--seemingly to embrace--that was checked at the last moment as both men thought better of it, the hesitation and backwards glance as the king left the room and the almost-smile playing at the corners of the councilor's mouth. 

As soon as the door closed, she was alive with righteous indignation. "You filthy mongrel! It has been you all this time? You dare to pervert my nephew--your king--with your foul desires?"

"Yes," Blaisdell repeated caustically, "my king, and your nephew, neither of which you seem to ever recognize until it suits you, as per your standard. Remind me, why are you even here? And don't tell me it was for the sake of tea, because you haven't even touched it."

"You question my right to inquire after my own family? I can hardly expect any more from a man who has made it a point of pride to have absolutely no healthy attachments." She looked at him scornfully. "Perhaps I shall pay a visit to my other nephew, Rohan, and advise him that the king has someone in his cabinet leading him down the path of immorality. I feel rather confident that a man of the church--and one of your political opponents--would be interested indeed to hear of your ill behavior, Blaisdell."

"Rohan? That oaf still has any clout within the hierarchy? I would have thought that a man of the cloth making a very clumsy and transparent attempt to insert himself into the good grace of a queen would have been roundly frowned by the entire royal household upon as lacking in decorum and dignity. But as you say so frequently yourself, times have changed. Perhaps you are well aware that even a little recognition is better than being completely ignored--"

She made a sound of clear disgust, and turned to go. 

"Princess Adelaide."

She did not turn around. She was nearly at the door.

"You stay on the third floor of Versailles, do you not? I do believe that is quite a number of stairs to climb. And in such a gown, and in the shoes that you feel obligated to wear. You must have noticed that the path you normally take to your apartment has a bit of wear in the carpet? I believe you've stumbled once or twice?"

Now she paused, half-turning back, the tension in her frame apparent. "What are you saying, you senseless lout? You dare threaten me in my own house?"

"Threaten you? Never. I merely state a fact. And I think you should be well aware of the danger of falling at your age, the likelihood of you breaking a hip if you should hit the ground ... hard, and how unlikely it would be that you should recover to any sort of enjoyable degree. Indeed, should you take a ... tumble ... on the stairs, it would most likely be unpleasant, hmm."

Adelaide now looked him fully in the face, and whatever she saw, she did not care to look at for long. She turned away, swallowing hard despite herself, and left with a scornful harrumph. "You sicken me, Blaisdell. I will be on my way. God willing, we will not meet again." 

As she hastily retreated, she heard a mocking voice behind her call, "God willing. And do be careful on those stairs, Madame."

The king encountered a host of servants on his way to the royal carriage, but no queen, and by the way he actually found a coachman to tell him what was going on, she had completely vanished from the area. It took a few rounds of inquiry, but eventually he pieced together that Marie had refused to return to her open, airy rooms, instead preferring that the staff find her a small, enclosed space with very little outside light. Louis wondered if it had been a good idea for her to return at all, reflecting guiltily that she had most likely come back due to his request. He had not considered her needs sufficiently, he reflected helplessly, and sighed.

But when he finally found her in a tight room, covering the walls with her watercolors, a smile crept to his face as he instantly understood her logic. She had simply been searching for a space that resembled the one she had just been obliged to leave. If she needed for her surroundings to remain familiar, so be it. He quietly tapped on the nearest wall to get her attention, and she looked up, startled.

"Oh, Auguste! Dear Auguste!" she said happily, and set her paintings down as the king entered her crowded chamber. They embraced with mutual enthusiasm, not as lovers, but as dear friends nonetheless. She reveled in the sweet feel of his solid arms, and he could not keep the smile from his face as she held him tightly, her genuine pleasure evident. They parted after a time, Marie pulling back slowly, her head lowered. Louis followed her with his eyes, but she did not meet them. After a moment's reflection, he recalled why.

"Let me look at you, my queen," he said, reminding her forcefully that he had not yet seen the extent of the beating she had taken. 

"My king, I would prefer--"

"Marie, I beg you. Not as your king, but as your husband, and even more so, as your friend who cares about you." He placed gentle hands on the sides of her face, and after a further moment of reluctance, she gave in and lifted her face to his gaze. She did not look into his eyes.The sharp gasp she heard wounded her directly in the heart. 

"Oh, Marie. I knew, but ... I didn't know, at all. And to think I pitied them ... I've let you down yet again, haven't I."

She gave him a reassuring smile. "All is well, my king. Much good has come of it, not the least of which is how much closer you and I have become."

Louis blushed. It was quite true; the correspondence between the two of them had increased exponentially while Marie was out of Versailles. It was almost as if the distance had given them more incentive to actually speak to each other. His letters had been kind and tender, slowly showing her the emotions and heart that he had always hidden away to preserve the royal dignity. But now that they were free to admit that they were human, frail and fallible, the words flowed easily. A steady correspondence between the two had slowly unraveled a hidden cache of fears and wrongs, but along with the painful confessions came long-desired forgiveness and understanding, and the hearts that were previously so distant gradually drew close once more. It was a shame, indeed, that it had taken this extremity to heal them, but they had at last learned to love and cherish what remained between them.

As Marie backed out of his arms, she jostled a side table, and a small stack of papers showered to the floor. They both knelt to pick the correspondence up at the same time and bumped heads. They burst into laughter at their mutual clumsiness, though the joy momentarily dimmed as they both saw the muddy footprint at the corner--Lafayette's letter, which she still had not opened. Marie carefully put it into a box, which she set on the highest shelf that she could reach.

"I will read it one day," she said, in a tone that seemed almost embarrassed. "At this time I prefer that it remain as it is."

"It saved your life," the king said, and she nodded. He handed her the other letters quietly, and Marie set about sorting them out. "I suppose I don't need to read it in any case. I feel very certain I already know what it says."

"Yes, it seems rather apparent, does it not." Louis smiled good-naturedly, and Marie returned his smile gratefully. They continued on tidying in companionable silence for several more minutes before Louis spoke again.

"I have a surprise for you," he said, and Marie paused to look at him. 

"Have you, my king? Of what sort?"

"it is a surprise, dearest. You'll see it in the morning, before you are re-introduced to the assembly."

She set the items in her hands down on the nearest surface. "My king, have mercy on my insatiable curiosity ... might I see it today?"

Louis smiled. "Well ... I very much wanted to see your pleasure tomorrow, but if it pleases you more I to see it now, you shall." 

He took her hand and led her from her small chamber, he in his royal robes and she in a simple, white sheath, and they walked through the maze of Versailles together, Marie looking around at the hallways, trying not to reflect on the memories inevitably seeping back in, and Louis looking more assertive than he had in years. There were whispers, stares. Who is that on the King's arm? Is that the woman he's having an affair with? But why does she look so familiar? ... Oh, my god! Is that ... the Queen?

"I forgot that people haven't seen us be affectionate in public here either," Marie sighed.

"You've also forgotten that people in here haven't seen your face since ... that day," Louis pointed out, and Marie started. She had forgotten that. She leaned in closer to him, and resisted the urge to lower her head. She might be beaten, but she would not allow herself to look defeated.

Louis took her to Leonard's workspace, a small parlor devoid of furniture, devoted solely to bolts of fabric and dress forms, sketches and scribbles on myriad pieces of paper pinned to the wall. One entire wall was nothing but drapery opened strategically to focus the available light dramatically on a single corner of the room. There, in this place of honor, stood a dress--an absolutely magnificent piece of work made of satin and leather, both heavily worked and textured to be equally silken and soft. Marie walked over to it in awe, timidly reaching out to touch the elaborate, royal purple folds of the heavy top skirt. She fingered the gold trim, caressed the lace petticoat, and stared with wide eyes at the gentle gray padded bodice. It did not seem as though it could be made for her; how could she, with all of her bruises and frailty on display, wear such a majestic thing in public?

"Oh, noooo--darling, who managed to come in here? I told you, no one sees the sacred space until--" The anxious bustling sound of Leonard storming out from the back of his fitting area stopped short as he squealed, "--Marie! My love--" 

He kissed both of her cheeks twice before stopping to look at her and dramatically raising his hand to his forehead. "Oh my sweet lord in heaven and all the saints! They told me that you looked a little different, but they didn't mention you had lost weight! My goodness, that dress won't fit you at all now, will it! We must make immediate alterations--oh, mon Dieu, I will have to work through the night! Assistant! Out here, immediately!"

And the assistant came rushing out, arms around a catastrophe of a sewing basket which she promptly dropped on the floor as soon as she saw the reason for Leonard's shrieking. The two women ran towards each other, heedless of the scattered needles, the razor-sharp scissors, the king's laughter, and the dressmaker's scolding, and Marie laughed until she cried to see her dear Gabrielle safe and sound.

It took Leonard a full hour of fitting and refitting until he was sufficiently pleased with his revisions, and with a cheerful "Don't be a stranger, darling! Come see me regularly!" he let the queen continue on her way.

Louis continued to walk her about the palace, still arm-in-arm, whispers frantically buzzing behind hands and fans as they passed by. The wags had plenty to say, especially in light of the various rumors regarding their respective fidelity, and as they strolled, eyes followed, ceaselessly watching. At one point, Marie turned back in time to see a royal blue coat, almost concealed, but not quite. She turned around again, cheeks pink despite her efforts to remain emotionless. When Louis next spoke again, his question caught her by surprise.

"... He's good to you, I presume?"

"Yes, very," Marie said automatically before remembering whom she was speaking with. She cursed her inattention; she ought to have been more circumspect, more vague; at the very least she ought to have feigned ignorance or responded less knowingly--

Louis gently patted her hand as if he sensed her distress. "My dear, I did not ask you that question to entrap you. I genuinely wanted to know. You seem quite happy despite all."

"You do as well," Marie returned. She felt slightly calmer for his reassurance. "A good deal happier, in fact. Perhaps I may be too forward to ask, but has something pleasant also happened to you recently?" 

Louis shrugged with one eyebrow. "Perhaps I feel the weight lifted from my shoulders, by more capable hands." 

He escorted her through the nearest exit, to effect an escape into the gardens. They strolled through the manicured lanes, past the lush beds of sparkling lilies and the delicate lavender stems. and had proceeded into the magnolia grove before Marie dared to ask what her king might mean by such a statement. Louis smiled, his genial face for once free of the subtle worry lines that so often pulled at the corners of his eyes and creased his mouth. "I have … just made a fruitful connection, in the same way that you have."

Marie looked up at him, the question on her lips unspoken. He continued forward, still smiling. "You already know who it is. Think about who spends the most time near me."

They went on in silence for several more steps before Marie murmured, "So that was it? You have allowed me to be in a relationship with Lafayette, because ..." She fell silent again.

"Because it pleased you," Louis said gently, "and because I could not take away any source of happiness from you, least of all something as precious as love. And now that I know for myself how sweet this feels, I will be even less likely to deny it to you. Do not make yourself uneasy, Marie. This is new territory for me as well, but I will navigate it at your side. We will do as we must during the day, regardless of who we take to our beds in the night."

It was the first time that their mutual wrong had been stated so plainly, but Louis did not seem agitated, upset, or wavering. Indeed, he seemed surprisingly resolute. Faced with his confidence, Marie found herself nodding. The moral aspect of all of this was something that they would have to resolve for the future, but knowing that Louis intended to make this work out for their mutual benefit felt so inspiring that she wanted to believe that it truly might.

"Now, my dear queen. I have a great deal to do between tonight and tomorrow, as do you. I will leave you now, but I will be glad to see you in the morning at the meal. Welcome home, Marie." He embraced her warmly once again, a comforting and tender gesture that made her flush with pleasure. 

She watched him return by the shortest path back to the palace, where another figure in somber gray soon joined him, and she could not help but smile at the irony. The retreat arranged by the Interior Minister that was meant to help them shore up their marriage had only driven them further apart--but regardless, they were both much happier for it, and the future might see their conjugal happiness grow and mature further if they allowed it. But for now, they were content; he, now free to be the friend to her that she had craved all along, and she, no longer a weakly-rooted transplant from Austria, but the Queen of France coming into her own, finally blooming.