VERSAILLES || h.s.

XVIII

"—and don't come back, or I'll 'ave your bloody cock chopped off!" Margaret screeched, balling her fists at the young servant who had arrived to deliver a new gown for the Lady Beauchamp. He had taken the liberty of peeking into the Lady's bathing chamber whilst the vociferous handmaid's back was turned, and had received a verbal lashing from Margaret.
"Your concern is appreciated," Odete said, "but there will be no amputating of manhoods in my presence."
"'E's a scumbag, that one. Caught 'im peepin' on the servant girls this morn' in the baths," the handmaid huffed, fluffing the gown the Lady was expected to wear.

She had been invited to dine with the Principe Constantini, and he had offered her a gorgeous gown as a favour. The garment was the colour of honey mustard, embroidered with pearls and swirls of gold thread. It cascaded in waves of satin and lace, and slipped through the fingers like water, capturing the light and reflecting it in shades that resembled the flame of a candle. It was truly a masterpiece; art that one might wear, so as to become the magnum opus themselves.

Odete slipped into the gown with Margaret's assistance as the sun lowered itself into the trees outside, and the moon awoke to illuminate the sky with her diamond-like stars. The Lady of Mallard's chestnut-toned locks were pinned into an elegant updo, and a necklace of yellow sapphires glittered on her collarbones.
"M'Lady," Margaret gasped quietly, "never 'ave I envisioned such a pure depiction of the sun at night."
"Thank you, Margaret. You are very kind," the Lady smiled softly.

She observed herself in the mirror and sighed. Undoubtedly, she looked magnificent. Even she was stunned by the sheer beauty of the dress draped over her body – it had surely cost a fortune. Lorenzo had been much too kind. But she did not feel what she should have upon receiving such a sublime gift from such a handsome bachelor. There should have been butterflies fluttering in her stomach, and her cheeks should have been hurting from smiling. Instead, there was nothing. Not a quickening of her heartbeat, nor a rush of giddiness. Why? Was something... wrong with her? Mayhap she was still recovering from the Duke of Kalgenfurt. Or perhaps, she was still shaken about Bernard's sudden and secret murder.

Her grey eyes observed her reflection pensively. Her fingers traced the trail of one of the golden swirls on her skirt. This would be any girl's dream, she told herself. So why is it that I feel nothing? The two murders swirled around in her head as she twiddled her thumbs. They shared nothing in common, she mused. Nothing. Unless... there was one thing that linked them! They were both—

"Come now, M'Lady. The Prince awaits," her handmaid called from the door, reeling her back into reality. Odete wrung her hands together, feeling suddenly apprehensive.
"Am I doing the right thing?" she asked the lowly woman abruptly. Margaret blinked.
"I—I... Whatever does M'Lady mean?" she asked, knitting her brows. "Is everything well?"
"I don't know," Odete sighed heavily. "I have a feeling, it is strange. A sense of dread; foreboding."
The maid placed a hand on hers. "M'Lady, it is a meal with the Principe. It shall be a marvellous evening."

The Lady Beauchamp stepped out of her chambers uncertainly. She glanced at the door as it shut; a sickening feeling chilled her bones, and she wondered if this would be her last time seeing it.

•

"She has received the gown?" Lorenzo asked the servant boy in fluent French, discarding his Italian facade. The boy nodded. "Good. Dismissed."
The boy scurried off, and Lorenzo turned to the Duke of Eden. Beside him sat the Lady van Vliet.
"How are you, Sofie, darling?" Lorenzo asked, feigning concern. In reality, he did not care less about the girl. She could fling herself into the lake and drown and he would not bat an eye.

Sofie's golden hair was dull and matted, and her crystal-blue eyes were red and swollen. Her gown was loosely tied and simply decorated, and tracks of hot tears stained her powdered face. She sniffled as another tear rolled down her cheek.
"I hate him," she whispered. "I wish he'd never laid his eyes on me."
Lorenzo turned away so that she would not see him roll his eyes. Then he faced her once more.