Their heir was dead. Oscar was dead. They'd lost all respect and support from their people. And now, they were set to die.
"I'm so sorry," she whispers, clinging to her husband's coat. "If I hadn't been so foolish none of this would have happened."
He's grown accustomed to her eccentricities, had to help clean up all the messes created by her careless spending, even turned a blind eye to rumors surrounding her and Count Fersen. But in spite of everything he still loves her and can't bring himself to let her shoulder all the blame.
"It is my fault as well," he says, "for not being a better king. If only I'd been stronger..."
Fersen's attempt to save them was all for naught. The executioner's blade awaits them and their surviving children. She remembers the day they were married, the day he became king, the day she became the most beloved woman in all of France, and how suddenly everything went wrong, so fast.
Just like the night the old king died, they cling to each other like frightened children. But this time, instead of cheering for their new king, the people are calling for the queen's head on a silver plate.