I sprinted down the Grand Gallery.
The Tuileries was a maze of gold leaf and rotting wood, a palace that smelled of history and mildew. Servants pressed themselves against the walls as I passed, their eyes wide. They knew something was wrong. Fear is contagious; it travels faster than cholera.
I reached the Queen's apartments. The guards at the door hesitated.
"Open it!" I roared.
They scrambled to unlock the double doors. I burst in.
It was chaos.
Trunks were thrown open on the floor. Silk dresses, priceless lace, and children's toys were scattered everywhere. It looked like the aftermath of a looting.
Marie Antoinette was in the center of the storm.
She wasn't wearing her court finery. She was in a simple gray traveling dress, her hair unpowdered and pulled back in a messy bun. She was shoving a heavy jewelry box into a leather valise.
Her hands were shaking so badly she dropped a diamond necklace. It clattered onto the parquet floor.
"Marie!" I shouted.
She spun around. Her face was pale, her eyes red-rimmed and wild. She looked like a trapped animal.
"They know, Louis!" she screamed. "Leopold wrote to me! The letter is in the gazettes!"
She grabbed the valise, clutching it to her chest like a shield.
"We have to go," she panted. "Now. Tonight. The carriage is ready. Fersen said—"
"Fersen?" I cut her off. "You contacted Fersen?"
Axel von Fersen. The Swedish count. Her friend. Her… confidant. The man who had been urging us to flee for months.
"He has a route!" she cried. "To the border. To Montmédy. We can be there in two days!"
"No," I said.
I walked toward her. She took a step back.
"We cannot stay here!" she shrieked, her voice cracking with hysteria. "They will come tonight! They will kill the children! They know we are traitors!"
"We are not traitors!"
"We are to them!" she threw the valise onto the bed. "You wrote to my brother! You promised him loyalty! And now Danton knows!"
She grabbed my lapels, shaking me. She was strong, fueled by pure terror.
"Louis, please. For the Dauphin. We have to run."
I grabbed her wrists. I held them tight.
"Listen to me," I said, my voice low and hard. "If we get in that carriage, we are dead."
"We are dead if we stay!"
"No!" I shook her. "Think, Marie! The roads are watched. Every village has a National Guard unit. Every postmaster has our portraits. We won't make it ten miles."
I looked deep into her eyes. I needed her to see me. Not the King. Me. The man who had saved her son from the poison.
"If we run, we admit guilt," I said. "We become fugitives. They will drag us back in chains. And then there is no spin. No negotiation. Just the trial."
She slumped in my grip. The fight drained out of her. She started to sob, harsh, jagged sounds.
"What do we do?" she whispered. "We are trapped in a glass cage."
I pulled her into my arms. She buried her face in my shoulder, weeping. I stroked her hair, staring over her head at the chaotic room.
I felt like a monster. I was about to lie to her. Again.
I couldn't tell her about Danton's ultimatum. I couldn't tell her that tomorrow at noon, I was going to stand in front of the Assembly and declare her family enemies of the state. If she knew that, she would break.
"I handled Danton," I lied. "He believes it was a trick. A trap for Provence."
She pulled back, wiping her eyes. "He believes you?"
"He needs me," I said. "For now."
"But the people..."
"I will speak to the Assembly tomorrow," I said. "I will denounce the invasion. I will show them I am the King of the French, not a puppet of Austria."
I cupped her face. Her skin was cold.
"Unpack the bags, Marie. Put the diamonds away. Tonight, we dine with the children. We open the curtains. We let them see us."
"See us?"
"Fear hides," I said. "Power is visible. If they see us eating soup, they won't believe we are packing to leave."
She took a shuddering breath. She nodded.
"Okay," she whispered. "Okay."
I kissed her forehead. It was the kiss of Judas, and I knew it.
"I have to check the perimeter," I said.
I left the room before my guilt could choke me.
I needed air.
I stepped out onto the balcony of the Solar—my private study. The cool night air hit my sweat-drenched shirt.
Below, in the Cour Carrée, the National Guard was changing shift.
Usually, it was a precise, rhythmic ceremony. Boots stamping in unison. Orders barked crisp and clear.
Tonight, it was a brawl.
I leaned over the stone railing.
Two groups of soldiers were shouting at each other.
On the left, the "Blues"—Lafayette's bourgeois boys. Shopkeepers, lawyers, men in clean uniforms who wanted a constitutional monarchy.
On the right, the "Sans-culottes"—Fournier's butchers. Men with pikes, dirty red caps, and rough wool trousers. They were the muscle I had hired to protect the palace.
"Traitor lover!" one of the butchers screamed. He shoved a Blue.
"Anarchist scum!" the Blue shouted back. "Go back to the gutter!"
"The King sold us out!" the butcher yelled, waving a copy of a newspaper. "He's Austrian! And you're guarding an Austrian spy!"
"Stand down!" an officer roared, stepping between them.
It didn't help. A fist flew. Then a musket butt.
The courtyard erupted into a scuffle. Men who were supposed to be dying for me were punching each other in the face over whether I was a hero or a villain.
I stepped back into the shadows.
My shield was cracking. The coalition I had built—the delicate balance between the middle class and the mob—was disintegrating because of that damn letter.
If Danton gave the word, the butchers downstairs wouldn't protect the doors. They would open them.
I retreated into the Solar and locked the balcony doors. I drew the heavy velvet curtains.
I was alone.
I looked around the room. This was my sanctuary. The only place I allowed myself to be Alex Miller, not Louis XVI.
This was where I wrote the letter.
I sat at my desk. I replayed the memory.
Three weeks ago. Late at night. I wrote the draft. I sealed it with the ring I kept in the secret drawer. I gave it directly to the courier, a man Jean trusted with his life.
How did it get out?
Jean said the courier hadn't been caught. He had arrived in Vienna.
So the leak wasn't on the road.
I stood up and started tearing the room apart.
I pulled books off the shelves. I checked the spines for hidden notes. I ran my hands under the desk, feeling for a loose plank.
Nothing.
I checked the window latches. Locked. The only key was on my belt.
I went to the fireplace.
It was cold. The maids hadn't laid a fire yet for the evening. A pile of gray ash sat in the grate.
I crouched down. I poked through the ash with a poker.
Burnt paper. Old drafts. Nothing unusual.
Then I saw it.
A speck of white that wasn't ash.
I reached in and pinched it between my thumb and forefinger.
It was a scrap of fabric.
I brought it to the lamp.
It was lace. Expensive, intricate Valenciennes lace. The kind used on the cuffs of a high-ranking nobleman's shirt.
It was singed on one side.
Someone had stood here, by the fire. They had burned something—maybe a copy of the letter? Maybe a note?
And a piece of their cuff had caught an ember. They had torn it off and left it in the ash.
I stared at the lace.
Servants didn't wear Valenciennes. Guards didn't wear it. Jean didn't wear it.
Only a courtier. A prince.
But who? Provence was in prison. Artois was in Germany.
Who else had access? Who else could walk past the guards without question?
A chill crawled up my spine.
A knock at the door.
I jumped, dropping the lace. I snatched it up and shoved it into my pocket.
"Who is it?" I called out. My hand hovered over the letter opener again.
"It is family, Louis," a voice said.
Smooth. Cultured. Rich like dark chocolate.
My blood ran cold.
I knew that voice.
I walked to the door and unlocked it.
Standing in the hallway, leaning casually against the doorframe, was Philippe, the Duc d'Orléans.
My cousin.
The richest man in France. The Grand Master of the Masonic lodges. The man who had renamed himself "Philippe Égalité" to please the mob.
He was smiling. It was a dazzling, predatory smile.
He was wearing a magnificent dark blue coat.
And on his right wrist, the intricate lace cuff was torn. A jagged, blackened edge where the fabric was missing.
I looked at his wrist. Then at his eyes.
He saw me look. He didn't flinch. He didn't hide it.
He widened his smile.
"May I come in, cousin?" he asked. "I heard there was a bit of a... PR crisis. I thought I might offer my services."
He stepped into the room without waiting for an answer. He smelled of lavender and ambition.
He walked to the desk and picked up the German newspaper.
"Sloppy," he tutted. "Writing to Leopold? That's old thinking, Louis. The power isn't in Vienna anymore."
He turned to me. His eyes were dead, shiny buttons.
"The power is in the street. And I own the street."
It wasn't a spy. It wasn't a mistake.
It was a hostile takeover. And the new CEO was standing in my office, wearing the evidence on his sleeve.
"You leaked it," I whispered.
Philippe shrugged. "I accelerated the truth. You are unfit, Louis. You are a relic. France needs a modern leader."
He sat in my chair. My chair.
"Abdicate," he said softly. "Do it tomorrow. Name me Regent for your son. And I will make Danton go away. I will make the letter disappear."
He leaned back, resting his torn cuff on the velvet armrest.
"Or stay," he said. "And watch them burn this palace to the ground with you inside it."
I touched the scrap of lace in my pocket.
The enemy wasn't at the gates. He was sitting at my desk.