JUNE 1791
After my interlude with Léon in the Tuileries gardens, the rest of the afternoon seems strangely paced. Sometimes it drags, and I squirm with anxious anticipation for the hour of our meeting. But the secretive preparations for the queen’s flight do not stop. The tasks, rushed to meet the strict deadline, tussle with the vital importance of maintaining the secret. They keep me so busy that sometimes I find an hour has passed in a flicker of moments.
The queen retires to her rooms early, pleading a headache. Her eyes gleam bright silver with purpose, and her footsteps flutter with grace and lightness. Rosy pink stains her cheeks. She looks far brighter and more animated than I’ve seen her in a long while. Frankly, it’s a good thing she’s in the privacy of her own rooms, because anyone seeing her would never believe the story of a headache. Supper is brought to her room, chicken broth with soft white bread, a suitable meal for someone feeling ill. She sends it away after eating only a few bites.
“I can’t eat,” she says restlessly to Madame Campan. “My nerves jangle too much.”
“You need your strength,” says Madame Campan, her tone mild.
“It’s just as well,” I say. “Lack of appetite fits with headache symptoms.”
“The idea occurred to me as well.” Marie Antoinette smiles at me unexpectedly. “You have served me very well, Giselle. I wanted to tell you that before I go. When we return, when Paris has grown safer and the revolution is under control, I hope you’ll return to my household. There will always be a place for you here.”
Her warm, charming smile catches me off guard, and eases some of the weight of the preparations from my shoulders. I feel myself relax a little, the way one does when sitting in the sunshine after a busy morning. I curtsy slightly. “Thank you, Your Majesty. I would like that.”
“I have something for you. Come here.” The words ring crisp and clear, an unmistakable command. When I stand directly in front of her, she reaches into a small silk bag knotted with a blue cord. The item she pulls out is small enough to be nearly disguised by her smooth fingertips, but the glitter of rubies catches the lamplight, tossing sparks of fire over the pale skin of her hand. “I would like you to have it.”
Marie Antoinette puts the brooch into my hand before I can reply. It feels cool and hard, the gold trim heavy. It’s the shape of a rose, with dozens of tiny rubies making up the petals. The whole thing is probably the size of my thumb. For her, it is a small thing, hardly more than a trifle. For me, it is a rich gift, and an honorable one too. I balance it on my fingertips, resting it gently, and look to her in surprise.
“Are you certain? Your Majesty, I have no need for anything.”
She laughs at my expression and that I have thoughtlessly questioned her. The sound reminds me of delicate wind chimes. I’ve never heard her laugh like that. She’s always been reserved, detached, and the gaiety bubbling from her lips like champagne makes her seem like a different person, a younger one. The pending flight from Paris has imbued her with hope, and it has changed her. I wonder if this is her true self.
“Yes. You’re taking a risk, helping me. I want to reward you. The work of this night may extend into the future. It seems right that I give you something that may help you then.” Her mouth still softens in a faint smile, but a serious glint forms in her eyes.
Having a sudden, disconcerting notion that the brooch is also meant to buy my continued silence, I feel my cheeks grow warm. I meet her eyes steadily. “I will guard this secret, Your Majesty.”
She nods as regally as if she wore a crown and held a scepter, instead of sitting in a chair near the bed with her hair half-unpinned, a trunk near her feet. When she doesn’t argue or seek elaboration on my words, I know I interpreted correctly.
“Take care of yourself, Giselle,” she says. “May God protect you.”
“And you, Your Majesty.” I hesitate, feeling inadequate for this rather formal farewell. “I hope—Have a safe journey. I will pray for you and the children. I wish you luck.”
Her hand moves, and for a startling second, I think she is going to grasp my own. She is a queen, though, accustomed to remaining a step higher than most other people, born of noble blood. She nods in a way that reminds me of a blessing instead, and gives me a serene smile. “Thank you, Giselle.”
Madame Campan’s farewell is warmer and less confusing, and also less final. “Perhaps we will see each other in Paris on occasion.” I think she wants to have someone to reminisce about the queen with, counting the days until they are reunited. “I may follow her to Montmédy later. If it’s safe, if she’ll be there long enough. She’ll send for me if I’m needed.”
“She will miss you,” I tell Madame Campan. The nervousness lurking around her hands and eyes tells me she needs to hear the words, but I know they’re true. “She relies on you.”
“Be careful tonight, Giselle,” she says to me in parting. “Don’t forget to arrange the rooms as you go.”
“I won’t. Good-bye, Madame Campan.” Impulsively, I squeeze her hand, and she pulls me into a hug. I never thought we were so close, but becoming conspirators has created a bond between us. She smells of rosewater and pats my back in a motherly fashion.
On my way through the outer chambers, I put out the candles and arrange the cushions on the chaise longues, just as I normally would before bed. I put away all the clothes and a spare pair of slippers the queen left lying out. She has so many clothes that no one will notice any are missing, at least not quickly, in spite of the fact that she packed a great deal of them. Too many, I think, but I suppose she isn’t used to traveling light.
Lastly, I say good night to the other tirewomen, who have been dismissed from waiting on the queen for the night, and sit sewing in the outer antechamber. “The queen has gone to sleep early, with her headache,” I say, yawning. “Madame Campan said you can retire for the night. I cleaned up in the inner rooms, so that’s all done.”
They wander off, pleased to put their sewing aside early. I follow, and slip into the bedroom that I used to share with Geneviève. I think it’s unlikely anyone will enter here or look for me until morning. I debate plumping the pillows under the blanket to make it look like I am asleep, and then I decide it will be less suspicious if it is left made and tidy. It will fit better if anyone asks later, since the queen will be gone from Paris, but I will not. I will simply tell the partial truth that Madame Campan sent me away for the night. This is probably the last time I will see this little bedroom in Tuileries. It seems lonely without Geneviève, and too tidy. She always left her hair ribbons strewn around. I’m glad I don’t have to spend the night in this empty room alone, and think happily of Léon.
Before I leave to meet him for our tryst, I take precautions to prevent pregnancy. I want to be able to make love to him without fearing for the future, although since our wedding is only a couple of weeks away, I suppose it wouldn’t matter drastically if we started a baby early. Still, I want to be married to him for a few months first. I want to enjoy Léon to myself for a while, and while I dream of being a mother someday, I’m only eighteen and there is no need to hurry. My own mother was twenty when she gave birth to me.
I’d asked Geneviève what to do, for I knew she and Étienne regularly met at his home. She confided about the physical delights of their relationship often to me, in private.
“Lemon juice,” she had advised briskly. “You can push half a small lemon up there, but if you can, I’d soak a scrap of soft wool in lemon juice instead. It’s easier to remove again, and you can make the lemon go farther that way. Vinegar works too, in a pinch, but lemon juice smells much nicer.”
Thinking of Geneviève and her endless practicality in all things makes me feel a pang of loss. I didn’t know her as well as I had thought, perhaps. But when I think of all the times we laughed together, sharing confidences, I know that we did have a true friendship.
Léon meets me outside the inn. Geneviève helped me find this place, too, for I’d no experience arranging lover’s liaisons. I’ve never stayed at an inn before, but I know many of them have several beds in one room, and that will not do for us, not tonight. We need a private room. A frisson of excitement rockets through my body at the thought of being alone with him in this way.
Murmuring a sweet, rather shy greeting, Léon takes my hand and presses his lips to my knuckles before holding it close to his chest, our fingers clinging together. “Can you feel how fast my heart is beating?” he whispers, laughing a little. “You look lovely, Giselle.” He touches my hair where it curls over my ears, smoothing it back.
“Thank you.” He looks handsome himself, and I tell him so. His eyes gleam as dark as midnight, but soft somehow too, like candlelight, and his sculpted mouth looks gentle, its sometimes severe lines erased by the small smile he wears. His wiry arm pulls me closer, and he presses a light kiss to my temple.
Once in our room, we explore the plain furnishings. The blanket on the bed is a pale wheat color and looks clean, to my relief. I fluff the pillows and tug the corner of the coverlet straighter. Once I realize I’m fussing to hide my apprehension, I drop the pillows again and turn to Léon with a sheepish smile on my face.
“I suppose I’m a bit nervous, though it doesn’t make sense to be. I’m happy to be here with you, my love. It feels like a gift to have our wedding night early.” I kick off my shoes and move closer to him, pulling my braid over my shoulder and unraveling the plaits. My hair spills over my shoulders in a silken heap of chestnut waves smelling of rosewater. I took care to scent it lightly, hoping it would please him.
His eyes flare with warm sparks, and he watches my movements very intently. “I always assumed we would wait until our wedding night.” The light tone does not quite hide the huskiness in his voice. “I proposed early too. It appears we’re an impatient couple.”
“Love doesn’t wait.” I smile back at him. “I love you, Léon.”
“I love you too, Giselle, very much.”
“Untie the sash of my dress?” I’m perfectly able to do it myself, but I pull my loose hair over my shoulder and present him with my back. His hands skim along the sides of my waist, and he takes a while, treating the soft blue sash of my gaulle gown far more gently than I would have. As the layered muslin loosens, the neckline drops off my shoulders. His lips brush the back of my neck, and the warmth of his breath shoots arrows of desire all through me. When his fingers curl around the collar of my dress, sliding it farther away from my skin, I help by tugging it past my hips, letting it fall to the floor. Aware that my chemise is not quite opaque, I turn slowly around to face him. Self-consciousness threatens to douse my eagerness, but then I see the heat in his eyes and I feel beautiful.
Léon swallows, his fingers hesitating over the thin material of my chemise. “I—I’ve never done this before.”
“Neither have I,” I whisper. “But I want to now, with you.”
His breath hisses faintly as he exhales shakily, and his hands tighten on me, twisting the loose fabric of my chemise, drawing me closer to him. He slides one palm up my back, between my shoulder blades, bending his face close to mine. His eyes gleam in the candlelight, his gaze as rich and hot as a cup of chocolate, and he bends his head close to mine. “I want it to be pleasurable for both of us; I don’t want to hurt you.” He twists the cloth at my waist in his fingers. “You have to tell me if I need to go slower, to be more gentle.”
Feeling a surge of tenderness for him, touched by his concern, I stroke his hair and smile at him. I think it reassures both of us. “I will. I’m not afraid, Léon. I’m looking forward to it.” Licking my lips and taking a breath to steel myself against a new burst of self-consciousness, I pull my chemise over my head, baring myself before him.
The candlelight flickers over my skin, making patterns of gold and shadow, and as Léon’s scorching gaze traces the movement, eyes roving over every inch of me, I fancy that I can feel the heat of the flame and his eyes like a tangible, feathery caress.
He kicks the cloudy heap of my white clothing aside and strips off his shirt and breeches, undressing quickly. “It’s only fair,” he says roughly.
I feel as though he read my thoughts, for while I trembled with excited anticipation under his stare, I also felt slightly at a disadvantage, since he was still clothed. Nude, his body shows tan lines at his wrists and throat, and his arms are lean, faintly sinewy. His chest is flat and hard with a sparse scattering of dusky hair, although a heavier line of it trails from his navel to his groin, which I observe with a mixture of interest, arousal, and slight fear. Everyone says that the first time is often painful for a woman, and seeing his sizable hardness makes me nervous even as it excites me.
“Your skin is perfect, Giselle.” His voice sounds jagged and throaty. “Soft as satin and pale as moonlight.” His fingertips trace the curve of my waist, sliding tentatively over the slope of my breast, circling the nipple. The sensation makes me arch closer to him, surprised by the pleasant intensity.
Hands moving to my hips, he guides me toward the bed and gently lays me down. Fanning my hair across the pillow, I settle in the middle of the mattress, opening my legs and feeling a little awkward.
“Move over, mon ange.” He nuzzles at my neck. “Oh, it feels so good to touch you.” Stretching his body beside mine, our skin brushes together, and the warmth of his body and the intimacy of the touch scatters flickers of lightning through me. He threads his fingers through my hair, stroking my neck, and moves his lips against mine in a gentle, slow kiss. I know he is excited, for his breath feels fast and shallow, and his erection presses against my bare thigh, but he holds back the kiss, keeping it light and soft until I sink my fingers into his silky dark hair, pulling him closer and searching for his tongue with mine.
Fierce now, increasingly urgent, his mouth moves over mine until dizziness spirals behind my eyes and I am making soft sighs of enjoyment that match the rhythm of his hand stroking my breast. When he at last ends the kiss, I hazily expect him to poise his body over mine, but instead he nudges at my jaw, turning my head slightly to the side so he can press his lips to my neck. He takes a long, sweet time exploring there, lingering whenever he finds a spot that makes me writhe and gasp, flicking his tongue against the sensitive skin behind my ear, grazing my earlobe with his teeth. Just when I think I can’t stand the pleasurable, but ticklish, sensations anymore, he leans over me and switches to the other side of my neck. All the while, his fingertips drift over my skin, learning the map of my body, circling in gentle, unhurried caresses. He presses soft kisses along my collarbones, moving closer to my breasts as his hands skim past my hips and along my thighs, all the way to my knee, and back up again, so slowly that my body tenses with anticipation. His mouth closes over my nipple at the same time that his fingers stroke between my thighs, and I moan with delight, squirming against him.
“Do you like that?” he whispers. His already dark eyes look almost black now, the pupils dilated with desire. “I’ll keep doing it, then … faster? Or slower?” He demonstrates both motions, flicking his tongue against my nipple, and I can’t decide yet which I like better so I just tell him not to stop.
Léon kisses me for a long time, until my breath emerges in short pants, drying my throat, and I clutch at his shoulders and tug on his hair. I never want his teasing, wonderful touches to stop, and yet I also yearn for more, start to crave the weight of his body over mine.
At last he kisses his way back up my neck. “I can’t wait anymore.” His voice rasps in my ear, making me shiver with desire. “Oh, Giselle, I want you so much.” He kisses me deeply, then coaxes my thighs farther apart with his hand. It takes a moment for us to get situated, neither of us having done this before, but then he joins his body to mine in a thrust that wrenches the breath from my lungs. It hurts. Pain sears through me, and I bite my lip hard. Léon also gasps as he enters me, only from the flutter of his eyelashes and soft mouth, I know he feels only pleasure, and I don’t want him to know he has hurt me. I keep quiet, but he sees my bitten lip and strokes my hair with one hand, murmuring breathless endearments.
It does not last long, both to my relief and faint, surprising, regret. Near the end, the stinging had begun to fade, slowly being overwhelmed by enjoyable friction. I liked watching Léon’s face suffused with desire. Seeing his pleasure, and his helplessness, gave me a powerful feeling, a sense of womanhood. I wish I could feel more of it, which seems a good sign for our next time.
“Was it all right?” Léon tucks my hair behind my ear, sounding shy. “Are you well?”
“Yes. I am fine.” I run my hand down his back, slightly damp with sweat. “And you?”
He chuffs with laughter. “I’ve never been better, I promise.” Lying down, he pulls me against his chest, curling his body around mine. I lean my head back against his chest, tucked under his chin, feeling sheltered and adored.
“I dreamed of making love to you,” he says softly. “Especially these last months. But I also dreamed of this.” He squeezes me gently, nuzzling my hair. “Of holding you close to me while we fall asleep, safe and warm and alone together in our own bed. I wanted to be the last person you saw before sleeping, and the first upon waking.”
“And now you shall be.” I twist my head around to smile at him. “I want that too.” To show him how much, I nestle more comfortably against him, enjoying the thrilling novelty of his closeness. The groan of satisfaction he makes sounds like a purr, his throat poised near my ear.
We whisper to each other, talking of our plans for the future, when Léon will be a proper watchmaker, and I’ll be creating dresses of my own design. We’ve been planning to visit Toulouse a few months after the wedding so I can meet his family, and he tells me more about them and his favorite parts of his native city while a transparent haze of moonlight stains the room. As we drift to sleep, our faces close together, I wish we could somehow share our dreams, a fanciful but sweet notion.
At dawn I wake first, skin suffocating from heat. My head is pillowed on his shoulder, my arm flung across his chest, fingertips tingling with limited blood flow. He wakes when I slide away from him, and stretches, throwing the coverlet off of us. The cooler air glides over my skin, raising goose bumps and revitalizing my senses.
“I like the look of you, lying on the tangled sheets,” says Léon in a sleepy growl. “I wish it was brighter in here so I could admire you better.”
“I suppose you’ll have to use other senses, and not rely only on sight,” I say, smiling lazily. “Come here and touch me.”
We make love again, and this time it is both more and less urgent. Léon moves slowly, his quick breath and darkly gleaming eyes betraying the depth of his excitement, but he seems determined to focus on my pleasure, learning from my reactions what touches I like best. It’s all new to me, too, but fire rushes through my veins, fanning my heartbeat, hurrying my breaths. The exquisite tension builds higher and tighter, coiling all through me, until I pant and cry out his name, begging him for more. I close my eyes against the burst of starlight searing through me, as bright and beautiful as the fireworks we once watched, and then Léon buries his face in my neck, shuddering with his own pleasure.
Although a bit sore and stiff, I also feel replete, almost boneless with relaxation. Pressing drowsy kisses to his shoulder, his skin warm and salty, I pull his hand across my waist again, thinking how remarkably decadent it is to lie abed like this.
Later, but still too soon for me—I don’t want to give him up yet—Léon stretches his arms above his head, yawning. “I suppose we have to get up soon. Lord knows I don’t want to.” He grins at me. “Good thing we shall be married soon. One night with you isn’t enough. I want a lifetime of them.”
“I do too.”
“Do you have to be back at Tuileries soon, or do you have the day off?”
“I have the day off.” I hesitate. I know I have to tell him my employment is over, at least for now, but reluctance slows my speech. I trace the length of his fingers with mine, stalling. “I have the next day off too, and the one after that.… all of them, in fact, for the foreseeable future.”
He sits up on his elbow, thin brows arching in surprise. “You do?”
“Yes. I’m finished at Tuileries, at least for now. I can start working on my own dress creations instead. It’s sooner than planned, but just the same as we always talked about.”
He lies flat on his back, squeezing my hand in his. “I’m happy to hear it. You know I think you’ll be good at it, and if you are ready, who am I to argue? I confess, though, I didn’t expect you to leave your post until we were married. You’re full of surprises.”
The gentle amusement in his eyes makes something crack around my heart. For an endless moment, I wonder if I can keep the secret of the queen’s flight and never tell him of my role in it. I know it’s impossible, though. Soon the news of her disappearance will spread throughout the country, and everyone will know what day she left, including Léon. He isn’t a fool, and I love him too much to treat him so.
Still, it’s not easy to speak. I fidget with a wrinkle of the bedsheet, looking away from his eyes. “My post is no longer available. I mean—you see,” I stammer helplessly. Perhaps I ought to have told him earlier, but Madame Campan had instilled the absolute necessity for secrecy of the plan deep into my bones. I couldn’t tell Léon before, but now that I can, it doesn’t make it simpler.
“Are you trying to say that you were dismissed?” He rolls onto his side, facing me, sounding faintly outraged. “That’s nonsense; you were one of the best workers. I know it. Unless—the spying?” He chews on his lower lip, worried for me, in case I have been suspected. “Tell me, Giselle.”
“No, it isn’t that.” I take a deep breath, and to my horror, it sounds shaky. “I gave up spying a while ago. I should have said something—you’re the first I’ve told. For what I am about to say next, you are also the first person to hear it. Maybe one of the first people in all of Paris to know.”
“Secrets from the palace?” He sits up, grinning, folding his arms across his bare chest. “It must be shocking—you seem nervous. You can tell me anything.”
I hope to God it is true. “The queen trusted me, and so did Madame Campan. They trusted me to help them with a—a scheme.”
His smile fades into a serious expression. He listens intently, brow furrowed.
I knot the blanket into my fists and take a long, slow breath, which doesn’t succeed in calming me. The confession spills out of me more rapidly than I intended. “The king and queen fled Tuileries for a royalist fortress in Montmédy, and I helped them.”
Silence reigns, and after a few heartbeats echoing in my ears, I timidly peek up at Léon.
“Fled?” His voice grates over the word, turning it into something harsh. “They ran away from their responsibilities? Like children? Like cowards?”
“Not exactly. They don’t feel safe here, surrounded by enemies. The queen has had multiple attempts on her life. I believe they desire to return France to peace, but from the safety of a place surrounded by loyal protectors. It’s not a brave choice, perhaps, but she was so afraid.… Marie Antoinette thought she would die if she stayed here.”
“Running away is as craven as it is foolish,” says Léon flatly. His eyes have gone that way too, as dark and inscrutable as onyx. “It’s desertion—soldiers can be executed for this sort of thing, but I suppose they think they’re untouchable. This just proves they have never understood the cause of the revolution, the desperate need for change. They never will understand it, I see now. They cannot possibly grasp it, blinded as they are by their luxurious surroundings, ruined by their selfishness.”
“Maybe.” I squirm with misery. “I can’t presume to know what they think. All I know is that I was asked to help, and I did. I couldn’t refuse.”
“I’m not sure it’s as simple as that,” says Léon slowly. Even though he sits in bed in what should be a relaxed pose, the blankets pulled around his hips, he seems taut, ready to move at any moment. His face reminds me of a hawk again, fierce and angry. “You had a choice, Giselle.”
“Not much of one,” I say. “The queen was my employer and my sovereign. I could have been dismissed, punished, even arrested for refusing. Don’t assign nonexistent power to me in this, Léon.” My pride grasps at this excuse, feeble because I wanted to help her, wasn’t forced to. I’d known it would be difficult to tell Léon, that my actions contradicted his beliefs, but I hoped that he would understand my sympathies. His harsh reaction leaves me feeling small.
“The power is changing.” His voice is very soft but not at all gentle. “Even the king and queen know that, or they wouldn’t have fled like scared puppies. There are plenty of high-ranking people who support the revolution, who could have used the information of a planned flight to prevent it, to further the new constitution and new ideas.” He pauses. “Your uncle certainly has the connections. It wouldn’t have been hard for you to find someone to tell. You had just the right person sitting across from you at the Sunday supper table.”
“I swore I would keep it a secret. I keep my word, once given.” I shoot a stubborn glare at him. “It wasn’t easy, Léon.”
“I just don’t understand why you would support the monarchs in this.” Confusion blurs his features, and he twists the blankets too, wrenching them away from me without noticing. “You know how bad things are, and you’ve been spying on the queen for months. This sudden loyalty doesn’t make sense to me. I can’t suddenly change my whole opinion, even though it seems like you did. I need time to think about it.” He swings out of bed and reaches for his discarded breeches, lying in a heap on the floor.
I pull my shift over my head, viciously tugging the sleeves straight. One of the seams loosens with a tearing sound, but I’m too angry to care. I sit down on the edge of the rumpled bed and begin rolling my stockings up past my ankles. “Take all the time you need.” My voice sounds wire-tight. “But I didn’t change my whole opinion overnight. Give me some credit, please.”
He whirls around, fingers automatically finishing fastening his pants. His eyes flare with fresh outrage. Bare-chested, his hair standing messily on end, and a scowl marking his face, he looks like some kind of barbarian warrior. If my feelings weren’t smarting, I might have found it appealing.
“When did you change your opinion, then? You certainly didn’t indicate it to me, and I thought we knew each other very well.” He hesitates. “You promised to be honest with me, an oath you made on your own.”
“I wanted to tell you,” I say helplessly. “But I couldn’t—it wasn’t safe until they had actually slipped away in the night. I had to keep the secret until then, Léon. Don’t you see?”
He flinches as though I slapped him. The dark fire fades from his eyes as the tension drains out of his shoulders. Sorrow flickers across his face, and then he guards his expression, straightening once more, ready to walk away. “You didn’t trust me? Giselle, I’d do anything for you. I would have helped you, even, if I could, though God knows I can’t condone the king deserting his own countrymen. But I can’t control him, not any more than you can, and my loyalty is for you first. I would have helped you,” he repeated.
My voice scrapes my throat. “It wasn’t my secret to share. I wanted to trust you—I did trust you, always—but I had no power to share it until last night, until they were safely away—”
“Last night?” He strides forward and takes my wrists in his hands, pulling me roughly to my feet. His eyes stare into mine, shadowy and probing. “They fled last night—Giselle, that’s why you had the night away from the palace? That’s why you were free to arrange this?” He casts a pained look at the bed.
“Madame Campan said I shouldn’t be there, for my protection. I saw an opportunity to spend the night with you, and I took it. I wanted you—I thought you wanted me, too.” I stare at the floor, unable to meet his gaze any longer. “You seemed happy enough last night for us to be together.”
We stand close enough that his breath hisses across the sensitive skin of my neck, and that somehow makes the words more tangible, makes them hurt more. “Last night I thought I was your lover, not your convenient alibi. Last night felt right—as if I unlocked a new part of my life with you, and our time together was going to be glorious. But it was a sham.”
I dig my nails into his arms, clinging too tightly. “It wasn’t! I felt like you were my husband already. I love you, Léon.”
“Do you?” he asks. “You lied to me because you thought you couldn’t trust me. Even though, if I were to betray your secret and blow open the whole escape plot, you’d be implicated and most likely punished. I wouldn’t do that to you, and if you thought it was a risk, you must not know me at all.”
“I never thought you would betray me.” Tears streak down my face in hot bursts, salting my lips. “I didn’t think of it much at all, I confess. I got caught up in the secrecy, and I shouldn’t have.”
Our fingers are still wrapped around each other’s wrists. I’ve left nail marks in his arms, and he squeezes my bones together. He seems to realize, because his lashes flicker, veiling his eyes, and he slowly loosens his fingers. He pushes me away until I sit on the bed again.
“I don’t think we should get married.”
I stare at him in shock. My tears halt, but the burning in my eyes seems to double, scorching down my throat and into my lungs, squeezing tight. Inside, I am begging him to forgive me, to please understand, not to leave me. The words lock inside me, emerging only as a strangled gasp.
“I don’t know if I can move past this.” Léon looks older all of a sudden, with shadows smudged along his skin under his eyes and cheekbones. “I always knew I felt more strongly about the revolution than you, and I accepted that. But you helped the opposite cause and used me while you did it. This tainted our love—I know you didn’t mean it to, but it did. I can hardly describe how I feel, but I know it would be a mistake for us to wed now. We wouldn’t be happy.” His voice twists with sorrow and bitterness. “I’m sorry, Giselle.”
He pulls his shirt over his head, crams his feet into his boots, and snatches up his coat, all the while avoiding looking directly at me. Even in my haze of shattered dreams, I see that his skin has grown very pale, and he bites his lip while his eyes glitter, with fury or tears, I can’t tell.
Léon pauses before opening the door, and for a hollow heartbeat, I think he will turn around and say that we will see each other, that this isn’t over. Instead he visibly steels himself, spine stiffening, and slips out the door quickly and quietly.
It takes me a long time to get dressed. My body seems to have turned to stone, a statue of shocked sorrow and horrible self-guilt, because I made mistakes and they cost me my love. Once I thaw my fingers and manage to move again, I can’t flee the room quickly enough, escaping the reminders of our night together, the tousled sheets, the two indents in the pillow, the faint scent of him lingering in the room.
I walk around for hours, afraid to go home and face reality, the consequences of my actions. At some point, people begin shouting about the noticeable absence of the monarchs, outraged and baffled. It acts as my cue. Hating the sunshine, for it feels like the day should be full of thunderstorms, I go home and tell my parents of my role in the plot and of my broken engagement.
The following days pass very slowly. I almost feel I can count the passing of each wretched moment by the pain in my head, throbbing with each pulse of my wounded heart.