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Alexandre adjusted his mask, surveying the crowd of courtiers that had assembled for the Masquerade. It was supposed to be a celebration, but with the Queen Dowager’s condition and the Spanish Ambassador leaving so quickly, the festivities had taken a somber turn. The fountains of wine and lively music could barely provide the diversion they were intended to serve, not for him or for anyone else.
He scanned the partially obscured faces, taking note of who was with whom. He recognized most of the higher nobility, the inner circle. It was his job to recognize details, and a person’s identity rested in the details. The way they walked, the way they moved their hands, the colors and fashions they favored, the company they kept. No one who got near the King was unknown to him.
The lesser nobility was more of a mystery. He recognized a few faces despite the lavish costumes, but most people were too unfamiliar to him to identify from a distance. He should probably try, wasn’t that the point of his absurd attire? Did he not don this ostentatious mask so that he could mix and mingle? Blend seamlessly among the courtiers?
This was originally the job he had planned for her when he brought her to court as his pawn, but he could manage on his own. His new role as Intendant of Versailles allowed him more access than before and his disguise would grant him anonymity while doing so. It was brilliant, perfect, simple.
So why were his feet firmly planted in place, on the periphery, where he always stood?
He reached to adjust his mask again and stopped, he needed to look comfortable. He needed to look like he belonged. He schooled his expression and controlled his breathing, settling his twitching fingers by coolly adjusting his cuffs. The red and gold had seemed like a good idea when he commissioned the mask, those being his favorite colors. He typically refrained from wearing them, preferring instead to indulge in the rich hues in the otherwise humble decor of his room, but a courtier needed to stand out to fit in. His typical somber grays and nondescript blacks would not do.
As he worked up the courage to step out of the dark fringes and into the lavish brightness of the ball, he saw her. No mask would hide her identity from him, he could recognize her just from the graceful curve of her neck and the way she moved in a crowd. Despite her small frame, she had a presence that demanded attention. Seas of people would part just to let her through, and yet she moved with a quiet, humble grace. If Alexandre spent his life moving along the edges or keeping to the King’s shadow, she had no such restrictions. She could operate in the shadows or the light of day, while he had no choice.
Until now.
He moved towards her, weaving through the crowd, the servants, the decorations, with a refined elegance that informed all of his movements. Agile and quick, he was by her arm before she even noticed him approach. Grabbing a chalice but not dipping it in wine, he simply stood beside her and waited for her to turn around.
It only took her a moment to notice his tall frame positioned between her and the fountains of wine. She wasn’t one to remain aloof, she always knew who was in her vicinity, she was always keenly aware of what was happening around her. With a slight nod and a polite “Monsieur,” she dismissed him as a stranger. While their games of cat and mouse had evolved, he was thrilled to have the upper hand, to have fooled her for even a moment.
He cleared his throat. A sound she had heard from him on countless occasions. He knew she would recognize the timbre and the tone, she wouldn’t mistake him for a stranger twice.
Her look of wonder was worth it all, the mask, the discomfort, the unease. She was difficult to surprise, like himself she was always on her toes, always expecting the unexpected. He felt pride swell in his chest, felt genuinely please with her reaction, but he didn’t let his emotions show on his face. He leaned casually back, cocking and eyebrow, daring her to comment.
“Monsieur, I hardly recognized you! You clean up well.” She said, with one hand clasped to her chest, exaggerating her surprise. She wasn’t going to let him revel in his tiny triumph, she was going to spin their exchange, flip it over and turn it around so that she could direct it. She always had to be in charge, always had to come out on top. She had that in common with Alexandre and fortunately for both of them he enjoyed competition.
“Mademoiselle, perhaps your rather large, overly ornate mask is obscuring your vision? I can assure you I look as fine as I always do.” He adjusted his cuff again, giving off an air of nonchalance when in reality he was keeping his hands from fidgeting. He dusted imaginary lent from his sleeve and met her gaze again, knowing his eyes were intense and cold as ever. “You’ve been busy.”
She nodded at the statement, understanding that it was not a question, that no response was required. She examined her hand, looking casual, seeming indifferent. “I had a few loose ends to… tie up.”
She let the statement hang in the air between them, not entirely banal, but not exactly insinuating anything. Not directly. It was Alexandre’s turn to be surprised. He didn’t know exactly what she had been up to since he last spoke to her. It was only yesterday that she brought the Dauphin back to Versailles and she had been in constant motion ever since. He had wanted to help but was resolved to step back, trusting her to take control of her own schemes, feeling secure in the knowledge that they were fighting for the same king.
Still, his curiosity consumed him. He hummed slightly, rapping his long fingers against the crook of his elbow, waiting. He kept his stare frigid, icy. He knew how to make her squirm. He said her name low, commanding, like she was a child with her hand caught in the cookie jar. He bit the insides of his cheeks to keeps his lips from quirking.
She smiled, sweetly. Innocence sparkling in her eyes. “What?” and then, smoothing her hair down her shoulders, exposing the swell of her chest to her best advantage she offhandedly remarked “It’s been handled.”
Her gaze drifted to the side, as if scanning the crowd for someone more interesting. It was an act, a ploy not to draw attention to their conversation. He also suspected it was her way of keeping the upper hand. She knew he didn’t like to be ignored, but two could play at that game. He shuffled his feet slightly and shifted his eyes to look at some imaginary point in the distance. He exhaled, letting a sigh escape that sounded bored. He could feel her gaze shift back to him, could see from his peripheral vision that her head was tilted up, trying to bring his attention back to her. He smiled and she glared back.
“Are you going to explain the costume?” Her voice carried a false annoyance that barely masked her curiosity.
“It’s a Masquerade, is it not?” His voice was lower, huskier than he intended. He wanted to keep this conversation private from meddlesome ears, but it was more than that. She affected everything about him, even his voice. He knew it became lower, quieter when she was near. It was a resonance he saved just for her, rough yet soft, deep and smooth and cool without his usual detachment. He cleared his throat again, straightening the buttons of his top coat.
“It is and yet I wonder if dressing for a masquerade is something you do?”
“If the Intendant of Versailles watches plays, surely he dresses for masquerades?” He looked at her through his ornate mask, his grin wide and slightly lopsided. He wondered if his mask framed his eyes the way her masked framed hers. Her identity was n’t obscured, it was enhanced. Nothing could hide her beauty. He kept his stare fixed on her so as not to betray his wandering thoughts.
“That is not what I asked” Her grin was knowing, she had parried and now she had struck. He felt his skin heat and was happy that his mask covered his cheeks and that his hair covered his ears. He moved so that he was no longer facing her but standing beside her, giving himself a reprieve from her perceptive stare. He studied the crowd. No one was paying them any attention, from the outside their exchange seemed nothing but ordinary. He took a deep breath and felt his blush subside.
“Reconnaissance.”
Her head snapped to the side, looking up at him with scrutiny. “What?”
He signed and shot her a look of warning. She eased back into her casual demeanor seamlessly, nobody noticed her momentary breach of cool indifference. He scanned the crowd once more before dipping his head slightly, enough for his hair to gently brush her cheek. Keeping his voice low, but above a whisper, he explained “I need to move about freely tonight. As someone other than…” he trailed off, not knowing how to complete the sentence.
Luckily she understood. She knew that even with his new position, he could not easily move in certain circles, he didn’t have the access she did. What’s more, his loyalty to the King was it’s own brand. No matter his skills at investigation, no one would let anything slip in his presence no matter how hard he tried to steer the conversation. Guards were always up when he entered the room. Since he no longer had a pawn to use as proxy, he had to wear a disguise.
She considered him for a moment. He pretended not to notice her scrutiny, instead surveying the crowd. He kept his eyes trained on the dancing, willing himself not to look at her, knowing that even behind the mask her eyebrow was arched and her eyes two disapproving slits. Her mouth, stained red from cosmetics and looking like ripe fruit, in a straight line. Thin, tense, captious.
“And what are you hoping to discover, Monsieur?” she said, from the side of her mouth, dipping her head in a way that both looked demure and served the purpose of concealing her face more. He moved his head slightly, watching her from the corner of his eyes, waiting for her to put the pieces together. He couldn’t see her eyes from his position, especially with her mask blocking the view, but he knew she was looking up and to the left, the way she often did when she was thinking. She had been busy this evening, but surely she did not forget…
She grabbed his hand and yanked him down so that his ear was closer to her mouth. He couldn’t see her, but she knew she was smiling. “The Ambassador?” she whispered, her voice barely audible. He pretended to be disgruntled, straightening and brushing off his arm as if she had soiled his sleeve with her nearness. He could still feel her touch on his skin, even though she had removed her hand almost immediately after grabbing it. He looked at her with feigned disdain, fixing her with his sneer that would make most whither, but seem to make her flourish.
He hummed softly and nodded his head almost imperceptibly. She caught on and seemed to buzz with the excitement of a new task. She joined him in scanning the crowd, he could practically hear her thoughts racing as she calculated her next steps. As much as he enjoyed being near her, he knew he needed to get to work and they would be far more efficient if they split up. He was about to suggest as much when the music changed and her hand shot out, delicately bent at the wrist. He glanced at it skeptically.
“Aren’t you going to ask me to dance, Monsieur?”
He felt his upper lip curl up, wondering what kind of ridiculousness she was hinting, until he recognized her faux innocence and understood her meaning. The best way for them to mix inconspicuously with the rest of the party goers was to act like them. They needed to get into the middle of it all, they needed to dance. Besides, if he could pull off a courtly dance like he suspected he could, his disguise would have veritas. No one would suspect him as anything less than nobility if he performed the season’s latest dances flawlessly.
Still, he hesitated. He’d never danced at court before and dancing with her… He wasn’t sure if this would be a step too far. Yes, this was a rouse, a part of their job, but no amount of rationality was going to stop his heart from trying to beat out of his chest.
“Unless you don’t think you can…”
Oh, now she has done it . He could never back down from a challenge. She knew it, which was why she was smiling triumphantly at him as he begrudgingly took her hand and led her to the dance floor. Her fingers were soft and warm in his calloused hand. He could feel the lightening bolt go through his hand and up his arm straight to his heart. His breath was caught in his lungs, only escaping with a forced shuddering breath that blew the feathers of his mask. They joined the rows of courtiers, each dancing in pairs. He stilled his nerves with another breath, summoning his cool demeanor to cloak him again. As he bowed to her, he reminded himself that this was not real, that he was not Alexandre Bontemps, that this was not a fantasy come to life. This was a role he was playing, part of their spy games. As he took her hand again, his feet smoothly recreating the steps he had committed to memory, he reminded himself that this was not for pleasure. This was important, this was for the King.
This wasn’t dancing, this was duty.
She spun deftly under his arm, their fingers twining to accommodate the movements. The lightening continued to travel down his skin through her touch. Her fingers held their place in his hand through the intricate steps and twirls. He had been wrapped around her fingers all year, and now to hold them in his hand, to feel the softness of her skin, to experience their warmth, had him as enrapt as he was wrapped.
He was so focused on her hands and on his steps that he hadn’t looked at her, but when the movements had them facing each other again, he saw the bemusement on her face. Bemusement with a mix of mild astonishment.
They grabbed each others hands, stepping forward. Their faces were only inches apart. That knowing smiled spread across her face again, splitting it in half in a way that both annoyed him and charmed him. Sh e spun in time with the music, the shorter length or her arms keeping their bodies close. She was relaxed, her body performing the movements automatically. Alexandre leaned towards her, as far as the strict etiquette of the dance would allow, and asked simply “Are you surprised?”
He twisted under her arm, their fingers still entwined. He caught her twinkling expression and knew he’d walked into her trap.
“Not at all, Monsieur. You watched my lessons so intently .”
He laughed, he had to. “ No one makes it in Versailles without learning to dance.” While she was correct, he had picked up this season’s dances by watching her lessons, that wasn’t the whole story. In King Louis XIV’s court, dancing was not just a social diversion, it was politics, it was strategy. King Louis kept his courtiers minds filled with dance steps so they could not be filled with thoughts of uprising. He kept his court docile with dance. Alexandre was not a participant but an informant, a keen observer. He knew the intricacies of every dance because he had to, it was his job to make sure the courtiers were always striving for the King’s attention and never for his throne.
They were side by side now, moving their feet and hands to the music in precise steps. He cautioned a glance at her only to see her deep in thought. She was on to something, but what? What had he said?
No one makes it in Versailles without learning to dance…
That was it. Whoever intimidated the Ambassador had the time for schemes, they weren’t consumed with keeping up with the intricacies of etiquette
or fleeting fashions. The person they were looking for existed on the edges, kept to the
fringes.
He caught her eye and could tell she had come to the same conclusion. He nodded at her, imperceptibly, and her eyes shifted to scan the crowd behind him. He did the same, taking note of those who weren’t watching the dance or indulging in wine. His eyes moved swiftly across the masks and costumes, looking for ones that were less elaborate, less fashionable. It was hard to keep pace with the lively music and observe the crowd, all while remembering the steps. He felt his frustration mounting, his jaw tightening, his body stiffening. He knew it wasn’t going to be easy, but he was not used to failure and so far the evening was half gone and he had nothing to show for it.
He felt a tender squeeze in his hand.
Maybe he did have something to show for it.
She was peering up at him, anxious and dismayed. She didn’t like failure, either, but she coped with it better than he did. She squeezed him again, this time offering a smile. He felt her touch everywhere, felt her smile warm him inside and out. They had the rest of the night ahead of them, they had more dances. Now that they had an idea, they could work together. He squeezed her hand back and was delighted to see a blush spread across her cheeks, how simple it was to move to the music as one with hands clasped. It reminded him of the night they spent together, ephemeral but beautiful. Something that could only endure in memories. He wished that he could dance with her as himself, and not as a masked man, not as a false courtier, not as the King’s spy.
As the song came to a close, the ir bodies came together in a final pose, chests heaving from the exertion and skin reddened by their proximity. It wouldn’t be proper to kiss her, not in front of everyone, not without her permission. He allowed himself a soft brush of skin, the back of his hand on her cheek bone. Her eyes closed intuitively, as if expecting more. He saw her red lips part and lost his nerve, breaking the embrace in time to see a servant calling the crowd to attention.
He only half listened to the rehearsed speech, feeling panic and confusion rise in his throat. It was time to unmask, to reveal oneself for the rest of the evening. Wasn’t it too early for that? Didn’t he have more time to carry out his plan?
Didn’t he have more time with her?
He caught her eye, expecting to see the same dread mirrored in her own eyes, but instead she was reaching for his mask. She wasn’t afraid to be revealed, not to him, not to anyone. Of course she did not understand the implications of unmasking for him. She was intelligent, but she could not grasp how much he did not belong in court, did not belong next to her, did not belong in these clothes or on the dance floor. It did not matter if he was the Governor of Versailles, it did not matter the power and influence he had or that he was the right hand of the King. He was an outsider, a fraud, and he could not be exposed.
He caught her wrist on the way to until the silken ribbons of his mask. Her expression soured, but she nodded. He kept a hold of her wrist a moment longer than he needed, stroking his thumb across the sensitive skin, trying to console her ire. She was exasperated but resigned. Headstrong, but rational, he could always count on his little thief.
He slipped away, a friend of hers easily taking his place as if he had not been there at all. The night was effectively over, he tore off his mask and shoved it in his pocket. He retreated to the shadows where he was comfortable, where he belonged. Wine drenched memories of this evening will forget the mysterious stranger or replace him entirely with a known courtier. No one will know that he danced among them, no on e but her. From his place on the periphery, he imagined what it would have been like if he had allowed her to take off him mask. To feel her fingers in his hair, tangling the ribbons. To watch her lips part in expectation of seeing his bare face again. To hear her say something like There you are and to reply, with his fingers tracing her chin Here I am.
He imagine taking her mask off, feeling the silken strands of her hair as he removed her face covering. To see her eyes again clearly, unobstructed. To know that he was the one that got to reveal her, who got to see her first. For them to laugh together at the ridiculousness of it all, yet feel comforted by the fact that they chose each other, that they alone knew each other. That the physical masks were symbolic for more, for something else.
He could never truly be unmasked, not for her, not for anyone. He signed, annoyed with himself and angry at his situation. He searched the crowd for her again, keeping his gaze cool and indifferent. She was at the center of everything, of course. He tried to look away before she caught him, but she was too quick. Even from a distance he could see the mischief in her eye, a spark, an idea.
She wasn’t done with him yet.