Enchantress of Paris by Marci Jefferson

toilette to other women. Go when they are at leisure, for cards and music. That is when Louis visits.” He quietly appraised me. I crossed my arms so he would not see the shadows of my nipples under my thin silks. “You look lovely.”
    I wanted to jump into bed and tie the curtains closed. I tried to jest. “Even without my jeweled bodice and diamonds in my hair?”
    He smiled a little. “Proof of true beauty.”
    I didn’t know what to say. No one had ever called me beautiful.
    He took a step toward me. “Make the king love you, and he might do more than share secrets.”
    I leaned back. I couldn’t imagine King Louis loving me. “More?”
    â€œWhat do men do when they love deeply?”
    â€œYour Eminence, bedding the king didn’t serve Olympia well—”
    â€œOlympia lusts too much. She gave herself too readily. But you fled when the king’s interest was piqued. Let him think he must own you before he can bed you.”
    â€œOwn me? If you mean marriage—”
    He held up his hand. “Do not speak of it. Just be the prey.”
    He slipped out, and I was too dazed to go after him. The candle finally died, and I stood alone in the dark. God help me, I laughed! I clapped my hands across my mouth, but the thought of the king marrying me was nonsense. D’Argencourt had failed without aspiring so far. And she would be in a convent by dawn. I am doomed.
    *   *   *
    I rose at midmorning and found a slip of foolscap on my pillow.
    If a man who once waged war against me wishes to return to my king’s favor, that man must first pay me homage, and an attempt to circumvent me by way of the queen will lead to his destruction.
    It was Mazarin’s writing. An assignment. I ripped up the paper and threw the pieces into the cold fireplace. “Light it,” I said to Moréna.
    â€œBut it’s a beautiful spring day.”
    I didn’t even understand the note, but I wanted no visible trace of my uncle’s command over me. “Tell my driver I go this evening to the queen’s.”
    *   *   *
    The sentinels at the queen’s apartments admitted me without hesitation. My new high-heeled mules click-clicked on marble floors as I moved past pillars and sculptures in the vestibule, the anteroom, and into the salon where the queen mother played cards with three other women. I curtsied before her table. She nodded without looking up, and I took my place standing between a window and a candelabra.
    My Martinozzi cousin Princess de Conti approached, gold hair shining in the window’s evening light. “D’Argencourt departed for the convent at Chaillot.”
    â€œPoor girl.”
    â€œThe court is abuzz, wondering if Mazarin did it on your account.”
    I laughed and hoped it sounded convincing. “I imagine I’ll be following in d’Argencourt’s wake soon.”
    â€œLook,” she said, gesturing to a man carrying papers. “Here is the new secretary our uncle appointed for the queen. You know what happened to that older secretary who served her faithfully for decades?”
    I watched the new man present himself to the queen. “What happened to him?”
    â€œOur uncle happened to him,” she said.
    â€œHe must not have been trustworthy if our uncle dismissed him.”
    She shrugged. “He dismisses anyone he can’t control. Be wary.”
    I glanced at her.
    â€œHe’s using you. And you are not one to be controlled.”
    When we’d first come to Paris, right after her wedding to the Prince de Conti, we’d danced in a ballet, The Marriage of Peleus and Thetis. She’d played a goddess, and I’d played a musical muse. From backstage I couldn’t see the king dancing as Apollo. She ordered me to stay behind a backdrop while she looked for Conti. But I’d climbed up the cranks and pulleys of mechanical clouds to get a