The servant corridors were always cold, even in spring, and tonight the chill clung to Marie's skin like a second shift. She stood by the washbasins, scrubbing the Queen's handkerchiefs in silence. Her hands, raw and red, moved automatically—but her thoughts were far away.
The Duke.
The garden.
His voice, his gaze.
His smile.
And the rose on her pillow.
She hadn't spoken of it, not even to Léonie. Something in her warned against it—as if saying it aloud would summon more shadows.
Then, footsteps. Quick, urgent. Familiar.
"Marie," Léonie's voice hissed from the hall. She emerged from the darkness like a ghost in gray. Her hair was unbound beneath her cap, and her face was pale with fear.
"What is it?" Marie asked, drying her hands.
Léonie grabbed her wrist. "We need to talk. Not here."
---
They slipped into the linen storage room, a tight space lit only by a stub of candle. Shelves of folded sheets loomed around them like silent witnesses.
Léonie shut the door and turned, her voice low and shaking. "I heard them. The Marquise. The Duchess. The Comte d'Artois. They're plotting something. About you. About the Duke."
Marie's blood ran cold. "What did they say?"
"They're going to frame you," she whispered. "They want to ruin you, Marie. A letter, a lie—something they can twist into scandal. Something that will stain your name beyond repair."
Marie stared at her, heart pounding. "But why?"
"Because he looked at you," Léonie said fiercely. "Because he saw you—and not them."
A silence fell between them, thick with fear and truth.
Marie's voice trembled. "What should I do?"
Léonie took her hands. "Stay quiet. Keep your head down. Speak to no one. Not even him."
Marie looked away. The thought of avoiding the Duke—of pretending their shared moments meant nothing—made something ache deep inside her.
"I don't know if I can," she whispered.
Léonie's grip tightened. "You must. This is Versailles, Marie. Love is not enough."
Outside the door, footsteps passed—slow, deliberate.
Someone was listening.
.....