A Drop of Night(16)

The footsteps approach the second floor—the iron snap of hobnails on the staircase, echoing up into the gallery. When they reach the library, Delphine cannot stop herself. A noise escapes her throat, high and piercing, like a kitten’s mew. It is impossible not to hear. The handle to the library rattles. Fists begin to pound viciously at the doors. I watch the wood splinter around the hinges. When no one goes to unlock them, the doors are kicked down.

Two men rush in, clad in Father’s colors, red and gold. Guards. One of them is ancient, weathered like the figurehead of a ship. The other is hardly older than I am, his face chiseled, a strand of dark hair fallen from under his hat, stuck in a curl to his forehead. Both are dripping sweat, breathless.

“Madame Célestine,” the younger one says. “Mesdemoiselles.” He nods quickly to my sisters and me. “They are coming.”

Mama sits up in her chair, wide-eyed and frozen, like a rabbit before the butchering. Delphine clings to her, burying her face in Mama’s side and watching the guards keenly out of the corner of her eye. Bernadette and Charlotte look on from the sofa, their arms wrapped around each other, the lace of their sleeves trembling, though their bodies seem motionless.

I stand. “Are you sure?” My voice is weak; I clear my throat. “Father said they would not come here. He said he had made an agreement, a pact with the Assemblée nationale that we would be left alone.”

The old guard speaks, his voice gruff and sticky. I am afraid he is going to spit on our floor: “If you wish, my lady, step outside and inform them of this agreement. Six hundred fishwives from Paris are coming through the park as we speak. I am sure they would be thrilled to meet you.”

The old guard’s face is scarred and pitted with age and disease. He is making no turns toward civility. In that case neither will I.

“What of the delivery road at the back of the kitchens?” I say. “Did you come on horseback? Can you drive a carriage?”

The guards exchange glances. “Mademoiselle, you misunderstand,” the young one says. “We are not from the estates. The marquis sent us; we are from. . .”

From below. From the palace. That means it is too late for carriages, too late to flee. Father will not be spared from the revolution. His bribes did not work.

I turn to Mama, but she is already standing, her petal mouth pinched. “I will not go,” she says before I can even speak. “Aurélie, I will not!” She leans down over Delphine, strokes her cheeks and her dress, almost frantically. “Do not ask me to, Aurélie, do not ask me—”

A rumble is growing outside. The sun is almost gone, the last shades of bronze fading behind the poplars. I hear them approaching now, shouts and singing, rough voices drifting in the quiet of the park.

I cross the distance between us, snatch her hand, and drag her toward the door.

“I am not asking you, Mother. We will not die here. I will not, and I will not allow you to, either. Hurry.”



Our dishes are removed again. Tiny finger bowls of lavender water arrive, followed by perfect, rose-colored orbs of pomegranate sorbet in martini glasses.

I’m just finishing mine, slipping my spoon along the edge of the glass, when one of the waiters returns. He’s carrying a tray of crystal water glasses on small pewter coasters. The coasters have pills on them, dark red and glimmering, like droplets of blood. The waiter sets one coaster down in front of each of us. Whispers out. I catch a glimpse of a tattoo on his neck, a black swirl disappearing under his collar.

I pick up one of the pills. Watch the air bubble in its center shift. “What’s this?”

Dorf reaches for his coaster, puts his palm to his mouth, and throws back his head. Swallows. “The palace is one hundred feet below the earth’s crust,” Dorf says, dabbing his mouth with his napkin. “These are to avoid symptoms of pressure sickness.”

Except his coaster was empty. I know it was. The waiter brought six glasses. Six coasters. One of them didn’t have any pills. Dorf’s.

My skin goes cold. “That’s ridiculous,” I say. Try to keep the tremor out of my voice. “Our bodies will start digesting these right away. The effects will wear off in our sleep.”

Dorf’s gaze falls on me, and for the first time I see annoyance in those calm gray eyes. He doesn’t say anything. Lilly’s gaze darts between us. Did she see what I saw?

But Hayden’s already picking up his pills. “Bottoms up,” he says, and downs them. I stare at him, watch the straight-razor angle of his jaw work as he swallows. I kind of expect him to sprout claws, fur, horns, maybe fall off his chair and start writhing on the floor. He doesn’t. He pounds his chest twice and grins at me, as if he’s somehow proving me stupid.

Is he?

Lilly and Jules both pick up their pills. Glance at each other. Jules swallows his and Lilly, not wanting to be left behind, follows suit. Dorf smiles at me again, that sickening you’re-a-joke smirk. “See?” he says. “Nobody died.”

At the edge of my vision I see Will looking at his pills philosophically. Does he at least sense anything off?

Guess not. He downs his pills, too.

I stare at the one resting in my palm. Red-dark-red-dark. And suddenly the pill looks like a puncture, blood blooming out of my skin.

No. I’m not overreacting. This is not smart. I grab the other pill and shove my chair back. The legs screech against the floor.