MV02 Death Wears a Crown by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro, Bill Fawcett Page A

one more night—at Argenteuil or Colombes, perhaps—before they came at last to Paris.
    Paris , Victoire thought. Home .

THE VERNETS lived beyond the fashionable quarter of Paris on a cul-de-sac that backed onto a tannery that now served as livery-and-smithy. Their house was narrow and tall, built two hundred years before, like the rest of them in this area, the rooms small and drafty. The ceiling in the kitchen—a woefully old-fashioned chamber—was patched with damp that no amount of reslating the roof could entirely banish. The staircases leaned and creaked treacherously whenever anyone climbed them.
    Odette Pilier, the widow who served as the Vernets’ housekeeper, met her employer at the door, her black dress covered by a blue apron and her cap askew over chestnut curls. “Good Lord and His saints, thank Heaven you’re back again,” she cried as she flung open the door for her.
    The porter bearing her luggage stood in the street, his small pushcart laden with Victoire’s chests. “I’ll set these on the step,” he said, and went about his task quickly, for he knew he could expect little in the way of favors from someone living in such a house.
    Victoire handed him his money and a small doucement, all the while listening to Odette catalogue the various domestic catastrophes that had occurred in her absence. She waved her housekeeper into silence. “Let me sort this out first, and then we will tend to your troubles, Odette.”
    The afternoon was overcast and stuffy, and the sour scent of drains and old mortar combined to make the street seem more dreary than it was. The work of the blacksmith at his forge sounded like ancient, discordant bells.
    “Ah, Madame Vernet, I am so relieved to have you home,” Odette sighed. She was only three years older than Victoire, but seemed more, and not just for her widow’s black: as a young woman left with no money when her sergeant husband had been killed in battle, she had been forced to come to terms with the world in a way that made her timorous and reserved beyond her years.
    “Will you lend me a hand?” Victoire asked as she went to retrieve her luggage. “Between the two of us I’m certain we can manage.”
    Odette flung up her hands. “You could have had the porter tend to it.”
    “And he would have charged me for every stair he climbed, and every time he climbed them,” said Victoire. “This trip has already been too expensive.” She tugged at one of the leather handles on the case. “Help me, will you?”
    “If it is necessary,” said Odette, capitulating. She came down the stairs and took the other end of the case.
    Inten minutes the two women had tugged and dragged Victoire’s luggage into the house, and now the cases were standing in the door to the living room.
    “We might as well unpack them here. Half my clothes need washing, and the rest will have to be aired.” Victoire looked around the shabby room and did her best not to show the disappointment the room often inspired in her. “The cases will need to be stored again, but it will be easier when they are empty.”
    “You look very tired,” said Odette, scrutinizing her employer. “You are not having more ... trouble, are you?”
    “No,” said Victoire. “In fact, I think I am much recovered from my miscarriage. But you are correct. I am tired. And I am ill-at-ease.” She sank down into her favorite chair and proceeded to tell Odette about her night at the Vigne et Tonneau.
    Odette blessed herself and exclaimed in dismay when Victoire described how she had shot the thief.
    “At least,” she added conscientiously, “I think I did. If nothing else, I scared him off.” She bit her lower lip. “But I haven’t been able to sleep since that night.”
    “You must have a care, Madame,” said Odette. “It is very bad to keep awake in that fashion. You must let me prepare a tisane for you, something that will soothe you.”
    “Yes, thank you,” said Victoire at once, “but first