Corseted and gowned in black, I was seated downstairs waiting for my first client when a knock on the door came. Somehow, it didn't seem like the ordinary sort of knock. I heard the scurrying upstairs and realized they had seen something from the upper window. The knock sounded again. "Open, police," demanded a voice. As if I hadn't known the first time.

"Mustapha, open the door to them, but slowly." I composed myself at the table behind my gla.s.s and shrouded my face in my veil as Mustapha, resplendent in plumed turban, embroidered Turkish trousers, and purple slippers turned up at the toes, opened the latch.

"Come in," I called in a cold, distant voice, as Mustapha bowed before them. For a moment, they were taken aback. Good, I thought. Every moment's delay is a moment to the better.

"A fortune-teller-he's bound to be in this house," whispered one of the men to the red-stockinged sergeant.

"I am the Marquise de Morville, and this is my house. You are welcome here, but first I beg that you state your business." The coldness, the formality, the lack of fear slowed them. My knees were trembling. It was just as well I was sitting.

"A marquise-Shouldn't we...?"

"Every house. Desgrez's orders."

"We are searching for a fugitive. There was a disturbance last night-a third man..."

"What a pity I heard nothing. But then, it is my custom to take a heavy sleeping potion at eight o'clock every evening."

"Odd, how many residents of this neighborhood take a heavy sleeping potion at eight o'clock. Would you lift that veil, so that we may identify you?"

"Of course, Messieurs." The flattery of the t.i.tle I gave them, the curious atmosphere, the Turkish dwarf, the little drama of raising the veil, kept them staring. I could hear the intake of breath at the sight of my white, cadaverlike face. It was, as usual, gratifying.

"I take it, you wish to search my house? I appreciate your protection, Messieurs, because I am a woman alone. Alone for centuries. Any miscreant might creep in through my cellar. But you, you will preserve me from the danger."

They looked at each other and nodded, then approached me. I handed them the key to the cellar from the little purse at my waist. They went out the narrow side door and I could hear the thump of the cellar door being thrown open and the clatter of footsteps on the narrow stone stairs down into the dusty stone vault beneath the house.

"Mustapha, upstairs, and quickly. I will remain here for them when they emerge from the cellar and see if I can delay them further." Mustapha nodded and went smoothly and quietly up the staircase. I rose slowly and took a deep breath. I had a terrible headache. My stomach was on fire. A cold, shuddery feeling made me tremble. I looked down. There, in the red pattern of the Turkish carpet, I saw it. A splash of dried blood, with telltale drops leading in a little trail through the crimson vines and leaves to the stairs, where they stopped short, wiped clean from the floor. d.a.m.n. I positioned myself all cold and straight over the most visible of the telltale stains, my veil thrown back. I set my face in an impa.s.sive white mask.

"Well, Messieurs? Have you saved me, and this peaceful neighborhood?" The sergeant looked up from brushing spider webs off his cuff and gave me a hard stare.

"Upstairs," he barked. I followed slowly, abandoning the spot only when they were well ahead of me.

"Come in, Messieurs; there are no secrets here." Sylvie curtseyed in respect. I was glad we were not in hired rooms. The house of a marquise, even a false one, is searched with more respect. They prodded in the armoire among the clothes, with a bare epee. They opened the bedroom chest to find only folded blankets. They pulled out Sylvie's trundle bed from beneath the foot of the bed and searched beneath the bed hangings.

"What is that I see beneath the bed?"

"Another blanket chest, Messieurs. If you wish, I will have Gilles draw it out for you." Sylvie's eyes were round and innocent. The sergeant tapped the box with his sword. Then he waved his hand as if it were not worth the trouble.

"Look here-the servant's room-" There was a flurry as one of the men produced a bucket of b.l.o.o.d.y rags from under Gilles's bed. Sylvie rushed into the room, blushing to the roots of her boldly hennaed hair.

"My monthly-Madame has left me no time for the laundry-" The man dropped the bucket in disgust.

"Nothing here...Let's try the house at the corner..."

"I thank you for your concern, Messieurs. You have been most considerate of my china and furniture." The sergeant pocketed my financial offering so neatly, you could hardly see it vanish. I escorted them downstairs and bid them adieu standing over the b.l.o.o.d.y stain before the stairs.

By the time the door was safely closed, I was shaking all over, pains running inside my bones, deathly ill.

"Madame, they are gone; there's no need-"

"I'm sick, Sylvie-help me upstairs." As I collapsed onto the bed, I whispered, "Where is he?"

"Under the bed, doubled up in the blanket box."

"My G.o.d, pull him out; you've killed him."

"Hardly, Madame. But he is gagged, he groaned so. He refused the opium for fear that it might make him lose his self-mastery. He's a bold soul, Madame. I see now why he pleases a woman like you. I rather like him myself-"

"Don't chatter-give me my cordial and get that man out from under my bed." Shaking, I poured the last dose out of the vial. As the fire in my insides faded, I knew with a certainty that the cordial was more than a convenience. Now I had to have it; now I couldn't live without La Trianon's pharmacy; I couldn't live without the philanthropic society of La Voisin. Logic. I was as firmly in the Shadow Queen's power as La Montespan, or as my mother, with her failed, greedy dreams. G.o.d, I could hear her laugh as if she were in the room. "Little Marquise, why does it take a clever girl like you so long to figure things out?" Oh, d.a.m.n, d.a.m.n. A thousand d.a.m.ns. Gilles had drawn the chest out into the ruelle and unlatched it.

"Your laces, Madame. Your ruff." I was half undone and the ruff in its bandbox by the time Gilles and Mustapha had pulled the haggard figure to a sitting position in the open chest.

"Well, well," he whispered as they drew my second-best handkerchief from his mouth. "This is certainly a new way to enter a woman's ruelle. But I fear the quality of my conversation will not undermine the ever-glorious reputation of the Hotel de Rambouillet. Oh, d.a.m.n. I see you've emptied the cordial bottle, Athena."

"Madame has been taken ill suddenly," sniffed Sylvie. D'Urbec had both hands clutched at his side, where the wound had burst open again under the bandages. The blood was running from between his fingers, and his face had turned gray. But his eyes were still fixed on me.

"You skipped your usual dose today, didn't you?"

"None of your business, d'Urbec." I picked my head up from the pillow and glared at him. But my face was sticky with tears and smeared white powder. Another fierce impression, ruined. When would I ever learn to do things right? "Sylvie, get him the brandy. And don't let him drip into my chest like that." My hairpins and veil were strewn across the bed, my dress was half undone and the stays of the steel corset undone. My mouth tasted bitter. I had made a fool of myself in front of a stranger. And not just any stranger. A d.a.m.ned libelliste.

"If you write about this, d'Urbec, I swear, I'll kill you," I whispered.

"It would hardly be the way for me to repay your a.s.sumption of the risks of hospitality, now, would it?" he answered in a low voice. "Credit me with some manners, even if I have turned to writing libelles in my current state of...er, financial embarra.s.sment. Besides," he added, "I am not actually in a position to remove myself from your chest, let alone rush to the printer's. And you must face facts, Athena. The neighbors are watching the house. They will count every guest and every carriage. A police reward always arouses neighborly concern. Until I am capable of walking out of here after dark, you have an unwelcome house guest."

"D'Urbec, you planned it this way, I swear." I sighed, as he was lifted out of the chest and I gave orders to Sylvie to have Madame's network smuggle a mattress and surgeon's supplies into the back of the house under cover of darkness.

"Planned, but as usual, I have overshot the mark," I thought I heard him whisper as they carried him into the servant's room.

"So, Mademoiselle, it has happened at last. I imagine that accounts for your diminished income. I suppose you're buying him gifts on the sly." The Shadow Queen shifted in her big armchair. The faded morning light had made its way through the little window in her study. I could hear the pots and pans clattering in the kitchen and, somewhere, the howl of a baby. She had not yet dressed for the day. The turban over her hair and the painted India-cotton dressing gown lent her an exotic air. Her big gray tom leaped onto the back of her chair, then climbed precariously onto her shoulder. As she pushed him off, I could see that, without her stays, her figure was definitely beginning to spread. But her black eyes were still as sharp as a pair of drills.

"It's hardly at last, because he's not a lover, and so far I've bought him nothing but food and medicine. And I can't really throw him out. I a.s.sure you, the only time he doesn't make me furious with annoyance is when he's asleep. The house is too small for an extra mouth. Especially one that talks as much as his."

"And now you're trying to mislead me by denouncing him. Don't think I am so stupid I can be deceived. First Marie-Marguerite, then you. At least I've led her to something a little more profitable than a pastry maker. Her new magician gives me hope for the future. But to move the lowest of the low right in with you-a libelliste, a galerien, and support him...Believe me, you could do better, much better, if guided by me. Well, enjoy yourself, and when you tire of his parasitism, come to me and I'll find you someone who's an improvement, who will make your fortune. In the meantime, don't try to deduct his expenses out of mine." La Voisin shut her big ledger with a snap. "And if you get pregnant," she added, "my standard fee applies. I am displeased with this d'Urbec, but I suppose I must wait until he bores you."

I was well aware that behind all this charade of tolerance lay the fear of the police. An untried stranger had stumbled into her network. If we quarreled, if he left, if I grew enraged with her and love made me throw aside all caution, or if the neighbors saw him-anything could lead to the police torturer and the unraveling of her hidden kingdom. But she was a cat who had made a career of walking on eggs. I couldn't help admiring the brilliance of her control: her contrived smile, her little tantrum, her show of maternal resignation. I glanced up at the cupboards in her cabinet, where the shelves of neatly labeled poisons lay behind locked doors. Now was not the time. I needed her help with d'Urbec. When I'd sent him off in one piece, I'd face the new battle. Besides, I had to be certain of what was still only a suspicion before I could think about what to do. She knew how to wait. Now I'd learn how, myself. Smile, Genevieve; she mustn't suspect what you know.

"The problem just now is hardly one of pregnancy. He has gone bad in the last two days. Gilles says we need a surgeon. Is there one of us...?"

"Several. Let's see...Dubois, no. Hmm. Chauvet, I think, would be best. Most of ours specialize in helping people out of this world, not into it, and it would be dreadfully hard to dispose of a body at your house. Your garden is too narrow; the neighbors can see into it. If you bury him in the cellar, the flies will rise into your reception parlor, and that's always so suspicious. Your clients would be bound to think the worst-that's the way they always are. No, Chauvet. Better that d'Urbec should get well and leave you for another woman."

The surgeon came after the theatre hour, dressed as a dandy, with his a.s.sistant in the livery of a valet. A perfect touch. He looked like a customer. Upstairs, he stripped off his coat and good shirt, putting on a heavy ap.r.o.n. He looked at the fevered figure on the mattress and prodded at the wound.

"As I thought," he announced. "It must be opened and the abscess drained to the outside. These illegal dueling wounds-always the same story," he sniffed. Then he looked around. "Has your kitchen a table big enough to accommodate a man, Madame?"

"I believe so, Monsieur."