The tapestry muffled the sounds of the world outside—footsteps, shouted orders, the distant clatter of a silver tray dropped in surprise.
Marie pressed her palm against her mouth to steady her breathing. Her body trembled from the run, from the terror that still clung to her like cobwebs. But beneath the trembling was something sharper.
Rage.
They had tried to ruin her. They had twisted the truth so easily, planted lies with the elegance of lace and poison. And the court—so quick to believe it. So ready to cast her aside like a blemish on the polished perfection of Versailles.
But Marie had survived the streets of Rouen before the palace. She had scrubbed blood from the floor of a noblewoman's birthing room. She had seen rats gnaw through silk.
She would not break.
---
After the echo of footsteps faded, she slipped from the alcove. Her hair was damp, her face flushed, but her eyes were clear now—sharpened by fear, not ruled by it.
She could not stay hidden for long. If she was caught, it would be worse. They would say fleeing proved her guilt. That she had stolen. That she was a spy.
I need a plan.
The first thing she needed was to disappear—truly disappear. Not into a corner, but into the palace itself. Blend with the nameless. Fade into the many.
So she went down.
Past the main floor. Past the wine cellars. Into the underbelly of Versailles, where soot darkened the ceilings and servants no longer curtsied. Here, there were no powdered wigs or damask gowns. Only the forgotten, and the invisible.
She found a friend—an old scullery boy she had once helped when he burned his hand on a soup pot.
"Can you help me?" she asked, her voice low, urgent.
He looked at her, startled. Then nodded.
---
Hours later, she wore a simple cook's shift, hair tucked beneath a cap. Her fine apron, with the Queen's crest embroidered in gold, was buried deep in a basket of old uniforms.
She was no longer Marie the chambermaid. She was no one. And she intended to stay that way—until she could uncover the truth.
---
That night, hidden in a disused storage room near the stables, she sat beneath a broken window and pieced the puzzle together.
They wanted her gone.
Not just out of favor. Erased.
Why?
Because the Duke had looked at her. Because he had felt something—and they had seen it.
She closed her eyes, her fist tightening around a broken comb she had kept as a reminder. Let them think she was cornered.
Let them believe she was weak.
She would not go quietly.
Not anymore.
---