Finding out your brother wants to steal your crown is annoying; finding out he paid someone to throw a rock at your son is a death sentence.
I stood outside the ornate double doors of the Comte de Provence's chambers in the Tuileries. My hand was resting on the handle, but I wasn't opening it yet. I was letting the cold, hard rage settle in my chest.
For weeks, I had treated Provence like a political rival. A nuisance. Someone to be managed. I thought he was playing a game of thrones.
But the ledger Jean found changed everything. The signature authorizing the payments to the agitators. The date of the payment matching the day the rock crashed into the nursery.
He wasn't playing a game. He was trying to kill my family.
"Stay here," I told the guards. "Let no one in. Let no one out."
I didn't bring soldiers with me. I didn't need them. I brought the ledger.
I threw the doors open.
The room was warm, smelling of lavender and roasted meat. Provence was sitting at a small table near the fire, a linen napkin tucked into his collar. He was carving a slice of roast duck, a glass of red wine catching the firelight.
He looked up, unbothered. "Brother," he drawled, popping a piece of duck into his mouth. "To what do I owe the pleasure? Have you come to apologize for the accommodations?"
I didn't say a word. I walked across the room.
When I reached the table, I didn't stop. I grabbed the edge of the linen tablecloth and yanked.
It was a violent, ugly sound. Crystal shattered against the floorboards. The roast duck slid off the platter, splashing greasy gravy across the expensive silk rug. The wine bottle exploded against the fireplace, hissing as the liquid hit the coals.
Provence jumped back, his chair scraping loudly. "Are you mad?!" he shouted, wiping wine from his sleeve. "This is a civilized house!"
"Civilized?" I laughed, a harsh, barking sound. "You paid a man twenty livres to throw a jagged rock into a nursery. Is that civilized, brother?"
I threw the ledger onto the mess of broken glass and food. It landed open, the page with his signature staring up at us.
"I know," I said, my voice dropping to a lethal whisper. "I know you paid the agitators. I know you orchestrated the riot at the gates. I know you tried to hurt my son."
Provence looked at the ledger, then back at me. For a second, I saw fear. Then, the mask slipped back into place. He sneered.
"You're paranoid, Louis. The stress is getting to you. That is a forgery. Planted by your Jacobin friends to divide us."
He stepped over the broken glass, regaining his arrogance. "You have no proof. And even if you did, what will you do? I am a Prince of the Blood. I am the heir to the throne after your sickly boy. You cannot touch me."
He really believed it. He thought the old rules still applied. He thought his blood was a shield I couldn't break.
"You used your personal funds to pay for treason," I said, ignoring his denial. "You used the allowance I gave you to hire assassins."
I walked to the door and opened it. "Fournier!"
The butcher stomped in, followed by four of his biggest, meanest National Guardsmen. They looked at the ruined dinner, then at the terrified Prince. They grinned.
"Strip this room," I ordered.
"What?" Provence gasped.
"Everything," I said. "The furniture. The tapestries. The clothes. The silver. It is all assets of the Crown. And since you have proven you cannot be trusted with money, I am seizing it."
Fournier didn't wait. He grabbed a velvet chair and tossed it into the hall. His men started tearing down the heavy curtains. One of them grabbed the silver candlesticks from the mantle.
"You can't do this!" Provence screamed, grabbing my arm. "I am your brother!"
I shoved him off. "You ceased to be my brother the moment you targeted my child."
"Where am I supposed to sleep?" he wailed as his feather bed was dragged out the door.
"You won't be sleeping here," I said.
I turned to De La Tour, who was waiting in the hall. "The carriage is ready?"
"Yes, Your Majesty. Iron bars installed."
"Carriage?" Provence's face went white. "Where are you taking me?"
I stepped close to him. "You are too dangerous to keep in the palace. You have too many friends here. Too many spies."
"Where?" he whispered.
"The Temple Tower," I said.
His knees buckled. The Temple was a grim, medieval fortress on the edge of Paris. It wasn't a palace. It was a dungeon.
"No servants," I listed, ticking off the conditions on my fingers. "No letters. No wine. No visitors. Just four stone walls and a guard who doesn't speak a word of French. You will have a lot of time to think about your investments."
"You're killing me!" he screamed. He lunged at me, his hands clawing for my face.
De La Tour moved faster. He grabbed Provence's arms, pinning them behind his back. The Prince struggled, kicking and spitting, all dignity gone.
"Get him out of my sight," I said, turning my back.
As they dragged him down the hallway, his screams echoed off the stone walls.
"You think you've won?!" he shrieked, his voice cracking. "You think you're safe?! You're broke, Louis! The money is worthless! You're the King of nothing! It's all going to burn!"
The doors slammed shut, cutting off his voice.
I stood alone in the empty, wrecked room. The fire was dying in the hearth. The smell of spilled wine and roast duck was nauseating.
I didn't feel triumphant. I felt sick. I felt like I had just cut off my own limb to save the body.
The door opened softly. Marie stepped in.
She looked at the shattered glass, the bare walls, the stain on the rug. She looked at me, standing amidst the wreckage of my family.
"Is he gone?" she asked quietly.
I nodded. "He's gone."
"Will he come back?"
"No," I said. "He won't hurt us again."
She crossed the room and wrapped her arms around me. I stood rigid for a moment, then melted into her embrace. But as I held her, I felt a layer of grime on my soul that wouldn't wash off. I had become the jailer of my own blood.
Jean appeared at the door a moment later. He looked pale, holding a newspaper in his hand.
"Your Majesty," he said, his voice hesitant. "I'm sorry to disturb you. But... the Prince was shouting something as they took him away. About the money."
"He was ranting, Jean," I said, pulling away from Marie.
"I don't think so, sir."
Jean walked over and handed me the paper. It was a radical broadsheet, the ink still wet.
The headline screamed across the page in jagged block letters.
ASSIGNATS COLLAPSE. BREAD PRICES DOUBLE OVERNIGHT.
I stared at the words. The paper money—the currency I had backed with the Church lands, the financial foundation of my new government—was failing.
Provence's final curse hadn't been a threat. It had been a spoiler. The political war was over, but the economic war had just begun. And I was already losing.