A sequel and prequel of You Are Still Left With Your Hands from Marguerite's POV, giving her a last name, explaining the events that led to the infamous(ly vague) ship mission, giving insight into its consequences, and, of course, making room for Marguerite/Milady.
WARNINGS: Suicide attempt, implied hospitalization, physical and mental abuse, stalking, harrassment, physical threathening, implied sex.
Here I Lie, Alone
… and I'd promise you anything for another shot at life
The door falls shut with a pang, and Marguerite flinches, bile rising in her mouth, bitter taste mingling with hot copper, and she can't breathe, she just can't breathe, because her chest is dead, her entire body is dead, deadness consumes her wholly despite the terror biting viciously at her insides. An overall tension – that feels like a form of postmortem rigidity – kept her in place, kept her upright, head high, unshaken, even as he stroke her across the face, even as he pulled her close to his face at her hair, and the smell of stale cigarettes and expensive perfume took her breath away. Now the tension breaks out of her body, slowly at first, like a dam breaking in slow motion, and then all at once. Marguerite's legs can't hold up her weight, her eyes can't hold the tears, her lips can't hold spit and blood and sobs back anymore.
That's how she finds herself on the floor, shaking, crying, unable to stop. Her head is spinning, her face stings, and dread cowers above her like a vulture about to rip dead flesh from her body. She's cold, so cold, and she knows it's ridiculous because Argentinean spring sun falls through the windows, but she can't help it. Covering her face with both hands she stays on the floor. (It's not like she has a choice in that matter, anyway.)
Rochefort's voice sounds through her head, sickeningly sweet, and the ghost of his hands lingers on her body, his parting words burned painfully deep into her mind: You're mine as long as you're useful to me, and as it seems you are indeed a remarkably useful asset. Oh, don't look at me like that, dearest Marguerite, no need to fret. You won't have to do long without me, I promise you I will be back. Sooner than you think. That's when he winked at her, the tug of a cruel smile at the corners of his mouth, and turned around to leave.
Marguerite wants to throw up, but the urge isn't strong enough, and she wants to scream, but her voice is gone. The next minutes are a series of stolen, gulped down breaths, relentless shaking, sobs and whimpering. She'd done everything he had asked of her. She had lied, deceived, played her part to perfection. She had left the country, the continent even, on his orders. Temporarily, she'd told herself and knew that she was lying. But she had done it to save her reputation.
Now he's back. And he won't let her go. Through tear-veiled eyes she looks at the wall with the photographs of the babies she had helped get born, one of the few memories she'd taken with her from France, and knows she can't lose that; her job, her calling, her life. But she can't be a piece in Rochefort's plans again, either.
A desperate smile blooms on her lips, her body rocks even harder now, but Marguerite knows there's only one way to make sure that she won't be used again.
When Rochefort comes back he can grow grey hairs figuring out how to make use of a dead woman.
[five months earlier]
"I'm begging you, Marguerite." Anna is close to tears, and she looks terrified, desperate, too thin to have given birth just a couple of weeks ago. It's the fear eating at her, wearing her out, not letting her sleep or eat properly. She still smiles, a caricature of a smile really, when her husband is around, but not even he's buying it anymore. And now he demands a paternity test. And Anna, young brilliant unhappily married Anna, who'd confessed her one-nightstand and the resulting pregnancy to her during the heights of labor, won't be able to keep up the construct of carefully spun lies that hide her child's true heritage.
"He said that if the child isn't his he will arrange an accident. He said accidents happen, and that it's the punishment for women who whore around. He will-"Anna's bottom lip trembles violently. "He will kill my son, Marguerite. Please, I'm. I don't know what to do. You are my only confidant here. I beg you… Don't let him kill my baby."
Louis Junior is asleep in Marguerite's arms, his tiny body soft and warm against her chest, and she feels betrayed, torn, heart beating too fast, because she shouldn't be put into that situation. Not when she'd agreed to stay longer than usual after the birth, privately employed by a household of political ambition, against her better judgment, against her gut feeling, for the sake of the young mother and her son. She looks Anna in the eye, and calmly, lowly says: "I don't work these labs, so I can't manipulate the results. I don't know what you expect me to do."
Anna steps closer and touches her shoulder. "But you know people. You'll find a way. Please help me. Please. Help him."
And this is it. This is how Marguerite Beaulieu, renowned pediatric nurse, trusted midwife, a woman of stellar reputation, risks it all - and loses everything.
"You're awake."
Awake? Is there an awake status in death? Or… oh. Oh no. You're alive, says another voice, a sarcastic voice, what a well-executed suicide, congratulations, Miss Trained-Medical-Professional, but at least you tried, I'll give you that. If the voice reminds her of someone, it's a remnant of a memory long forgotten, but her brain twists it in a way that the voice is Rochefort's. Fear rushes through her mind.
"You're shaking, I'll call a doctor."
Her first impulse is to shake her head, but she can't. Marguerite's eyelids feel too heavy to lift, yet she opens her eyes for a glance at the person who spoke. It's too bright to make out a face, too white, but the background noise is familiar. She's in a hospital room. "Sorry," she whispers and isn't sure if her voice carries the word or if it's nothing but a dying mumbling to the observer's ears. Everything feels… dull. Her senses, the pain, the sounds of her surroundings, and the only way she notices herself crying is because her sight gets even blurrier.
"Hey, it's going to be ok. I'm just glad I arrived when I did."
Suddenly Marguerite knows who the person talking to her is, and guilt crushes her under a merciless fist. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry."
Alice takes her right hand, it must be the hand that isn't attached to multiple tubes, and lightly kisses her palm. "I'll be back in a second, alright?"
No, nothing is alright. Alice leaves and Marguerite wishes she'd succeeded and was dead. She's too exhausted to cry vocally, so she just stares and waits, tears slipping down her cheeks in silence.
When Alice returns Marguerite pretends to be asleep.
[five months earlier]
It's the night of Louis Junior's baptism party (a pompous event with half of Paris' most influential people invited, and unofficially the celebration of Louis Senior's testified fatherhood of the child), and it's also the last night Marguerite works for the family. At last, a return to normal life, far away from the ruthless intrigues of the powerful. She's not made for such a life, she knows that now.
Anna has offered her a very generous check - a "parting gift" as she's put it -, but Marguerite has politely refused. She doesn't want payment for breaking the law, for deceiving and manipulating, or a bribe for keeping it a secret. All she wanted was to ensure little Louis' safety, and oh, isn't it a weakness of the heart to love another woman's son so deeply? She's too soft and too kind, of that she is aware. Maybe her intentions were pure, though, since nobody's noticed her intervening with the results. Yet, a small treacherous voice adds.
Marguerite closes her suitcase with a last look at the framed picture of Anna and her new-born son. Certainly, this is a time she will remember for the rest of her life. She breathes out and checks the room; tidy, painted in warm colors, a crib beneath the bed, expensive-looking curtains. Her former almost-home. The new nanny already introduced herself a good week ago, a young woman with perfect manners, and she's to move in the next morning. Marguerite can't help but feel a little sad about leaving, actually leaving.
Suddenly someone enters her room, and her head snaps into the direction of the stranger – a well-dressed man with blond hair and a neatly trimmed beard, certainly one of the guests -, and when he doesn't leave immediately, she says: "This is a private room. The party takes place downstairs."
The man smiles in response. "Oh, I'm aware of that, Miss Beaulieu."
There's something about the way he says it, about the way his eyes devour her that his smile can't mask. A shiver rolls down her spine, she takes a step back, instinctively, all while telling herself that people know who she is and that she's not in danger. (Her body, though, doesn't believe her a second.)
"I hate to be impolite, but have we been introduced before?", she asks with a smile that hopefully doesn't look as forced as it is.
"No, we have not. But if you must know I'm Jean de Rochefort, a friend of our most gracious hostess. More importantly, though, is that I know what you did. I could crash this little party with this knowledge, don't you think?"
"I have no idea what you are talking about."
"Mhmm. Of course you don't, dearest Marguerite." He smiles even broader now, and the smile turns into a fanged grin that sends her heart into a sickening run. "This crime that you didn't commit of course could be your downfall, unless you are willing to grant me your… how shall I put it? Unrestricted services. In exchange I will neither break my silence nor your neck."
"Get out now now or I will call security." She's surprised at how cold and fearless her voice sounds.
"Tsk tsk tsk. So rude." Rochefort winks at her, turning the door knob around. "Be ready for my return and be ready to assist. Otherwise you will regret it, and wouldn't that be a shame with a face such as yours? If you'll excuse me now, lady Marguerite, I have a party to attend."
Marguerite swallows heavily, not moving, and then finally the door clicks and he is gone, and she starts hyperventilating. Actions have consequences, you silly girl, a voice chides her, what did you expect?
The tears find her like that Rochefort found her; unprepared, unwelcomed, intrusive. She stumbles to her bed, the new nanny's bed, and buries her face in the pillow. It turns hot and moist in no time.
Indeed, what did she expect?
"Are you sure you don't want to come back with me?" Alice's face is lined with worry, and her fingers are restless, picking at the skin of her thumbs. She tries to smile, but it doesn't quite work in her favor. Marguerite feels guilty knowing that she caused this behavior, that Alice has been the one to find her; lying on the floor, not breathing, alone, cold, as good as dead.
"I'm sorry I ruined your holidays," she says softly, but what she means is I'm sorry I forgot you were visiting when I tried to kill myself, because really? Alice saved her, sitting by her bed like an unyielding guardian angel during the past two weeks, and what she got in return was… a trauma.
"That's your concern? My holiday?" Alice looks troubled, her expression shifting from worry to incomprehension to anger to pity. "You should reconsider your decision. Return to Paris with me. Please. Please, Marguerite. Don't make me leave you like that."
"I love you, but I can't come with you. And you really have to go now or you will miss your flight."
Alice's tears seem inevitable, but to Marguerite's surprise a grim determination settles in her eyes. "If you don't check in with me every day… I will have you declared insane and drag you back to Paris whether you want to or not. And don't you dare test me on this. Don't you dare." She kisses her brow, cool hands on her cheeks. "I love you."
She pulls Alice down into an embrace, her heart breaking a little more with each passing second, tears flooding her eyes, a tremor sneaking into her voice. "I don't deserve a friend such as you."
"You do, and I'll always be your friend. Don't doubt that, ok?"
Marguerite is inclined to believe her, then, but only for as long as Alice's embrace lasts. After that, and after she has waved her goodbye and reminded her to text and left the room, left her, there's nothing left. Nothing but a simple truth: It will be either her or Rochefort.
[four months earlier]
Don't look away, don't look away, don't look away, focus, for heaven's sake, focus already… Marguerite keeps her head up, holding her opposite's gaze, not even daring to blink too often. She has her hands folded in her lap, back straight, almost painfully so, the strain in her shoulders turning into a dull ache. She's so tense that she thinks her muscles must be tearing any second. They don't.
The man she's talking to, Aramis, looks serious, but his eyes are kind and his voice is calm and he reassures her that he will help her. Marguerite's heart stops dead in its tracks every time she remembers that she's the bait and that he's the prey. She wonders if he knows Rochefort personally, knows that he's the hunter, if he saw through her act and identified it as foul play. A part of her hopes that Aramis doesn't believe her, but the better part of her needs him to believe.
She's told him a wild tale about her former employer, a certain Louis Roy, yes, the one running for president, framing her for the theft of several paintings. Yes, he sold them himself, and, to give him her unqualified opinion as a nurse, she thinks that he needs the money to finance the end spurt of his campaign. No, she never gave him a reason to blame her for such a thing, she just makes a convenient victim. (Somewhere in Paris, Rochefort laughs.) Oh, she has the name of a cargo ship, given to her by Roy's wife, who was informed of her situation by coincidence. Could he please investigate her case?
Aramis looks at her intently. "We will save your reputation, Miss Beaulieu." A smile flickers across his face. "And if Roy's reputation gets ruined in the course of doing so and he has to withdraw his candidature… then that's collateral damage, don't you agree?"
"Thank you," she says, softly. Tension will surely kill her if she can't get out, but she can't rush this part and risk ruining it. For a second she considers telling Aramis the truth, about Louis Junior and Rochefort, about being his puppet, but Rochefort has eyes and ears everywhere. She wouldn't even get out alive, probably. And so she stays silent.
"Please, take this." He extends his hand, a cross on a chain in his palm, catching the light, and it looks too heavy to be worn comfortably, too ugly to be considered fashionable, and maybe that is its purpose: To be burden and reminder at once. She takes it with numb fingers, and Aramis winks at her. "For credibility."
Don't look away. "I will keep it safe." I'm sorry. "Thank you."
"Don't worry, it's my job." He smiles in a way that she can't, real and confident, easy. "And I happen to be very good at my job."
Don't look away. She tries to mirror his smile, but fails. "So I've been told."
"You likely damaged your kidneys permanently with that overdose," the doctor, a dark woman looking at her from above the rim of her glasses, says. "But that's not an acute problem, it will manifest itself when you're older. Other than that… you're well, Miss Beaulieu. Physically at least. I have no choice but to sign your discharge, even though I urge you to commit yourself to a facility for further stationary treatment."
Marguerite hints a nod. "Thank you, doctor. When can I leave?"
The doctor keeps her neutral expression, shaking her head and sighing internally at her supposed stubbornness; if she even cares that much. "Tomorrow morning. By then your papers will be ready, too."
"I understand. Thank you."
"Good luck, Miss Beaulieu." You will need it, is what her tone implies.
I know, Marguerite thinks and watches her leave, uncertain whether to feel relieved or anxious in the light of her nearing freedom. She closes her eyes, trying to imagine herself taking a stand against Rochefort.
It's the first time she laughs since her suicide attempt.
[four months earlier]
'The deed is done. It is time for you to leave Paris, lady Marguerite, and fast at that. Beautiful Buenos Aires is waiting for your arrival. You will find the ticket and the address of your new apartment in this envelope. You will travel with light luggage only, but don't worry, I secured you a wardrobe and had several sets of clothes brought there already that I think will suit you perfectly. Bon voyage, I can't wait for our timely reunion. R.'
The letter almost slips from Marguerite's hand, tears forcing themselves into her eyes, hot, desperate, guilty, and she exhales shakily. All she hopes, all she dares hope for is that Rochefort left her enough time to get a prescription for sleeping pills before her departure.
The next day, in line for check-in at the airport that feels too crowded, too busy, too loud, she holds on to her bags and clenches her teeth and tries to calm her racing pulse. Anxiety drills into the core of her body, into her bones, and waves of panic ripple through her mind.
She will have to get the pills once she arrives in Argentina.
She did it. She bought a gun. A fake one, popular among property masters if one chose to believe the store owner, because there's no way she will actually kill someone, not even by shooting them, but maybe it's enough to scare a potential attacker away. The gun was an impulsive purchase after the nurse informed her of a call by her sister shortly before her release from hospital. What the nurse didn't know, what Marguerite didn't tell her, is that her sister doesn't even know that she's not in Paris anymore, so the caller had to be someone else. One of Rochefort's agents. There's no other explanation. (And even if there was one, her hypervigilance wouldn't allow considering another version.)
Marguerite procrastinates going back to her apartment by walking aimlessly through the streets, until it gets late, dawn breaking, and it's too dangerous to stay out on her own. She quickly texts Alice ('Got out of hospital, just arrived at home. I'll be in touch later. Love you.'), and follows the stairs up to her apartment. It would be bitter irony if she got murdered now, wouldn't it?
The door isn't locked. Maybe it hasn't been locked since she's been brought to hospital…? No, Alice has come back to pick up some of her clothes, and it's not like Alice to be so careless and not lock up behind her.
"Goddamn you," Marguerite whispers, stepping into the narrow hallway, and braces herself for an intruder. There's nothing out of the ordinary, not at first glance at least, but it smells like cigarette smoke. Rochefort's face instantly comes to her mind, and her mouth turns dry and sour. She takes the gun and leaves the bag by the door, forcing herself to walk straight into the living room without betraying her fear by checking every other room first.
Her heart almost stops when she notices a person sitting on her couch, smoke fans rising above their head, face unrecognizably shadowed by the semi-darkness of the room. "You're her." A woman's voice, calm and cold.
Marguerite fights against the urge to look away, to turn around and run, run, and the gun in her hand is useless, held by weak fingers, ridiculous, pathetic, not at all threatening. "He sent you," is all she can say before her voice breaks.
"And what if he did?" The stranger gets up, suddenly, a hawk swooping down on its prey, and a blade flashes in the setting sun. Marguerite drops the gun with a voiceless scream, stumbling back, instincts screaming to get out now!, before it's too late, before she's dead on the floor, again, fucking again, and she'd laugh if it wouldn't end with her spraying her own blood from a slit throat, gurgling, bubbling, painting the stranger's face red and wet.
"He said you were the most dignified woman he ever met. But all I see is a wretched coward who brought a toy gun to a knife fight. After all you did I expected you to be better prepared."
"Kill me if you must, but tell Rochefort to fuck himself," she spits out. Her voice is thin, she's shaking, cold dread holding her close, almost like death's embrace, she remembers, but somehow she feels light, free now. Her gaze falls on the gun on the floor before it finds the blade in the stranger's hands again. She smiles desperately.
At least she can tell whoever is to judge her after death that she didn't become a murderer.
[four months earlier]
She sits on the floor in an empty room in an empty apartment. Everything's gone, she has given it all away for free - the clothes, the shoes, the furniture, the stuff meant for everyday use, even the towels -, and now she's left with an omnipresent nothing, naked walls surrounding her, a naked light bulb hanging from the naked ceiling, swinging slightly, spreading unsteady light.
Nothing reminds of Rochefort anymore. (Nothing but her sorry self.)
Marguerite lets herself fall back, the sharp pain of her head hitting the floor distracting her only for a moment, and continues to stare into the light. Black and white dots jump in front of her, and her eyes start to water. A terrible, terrible realization settles inside her: This is it. This is her life now.
What's left of it, anyway.
Marguerite doesn't dare to move, sitting with her hands folded in her lap, and her muscles hurt from tension. It feels like she's been in this position a million times already, like this is fate's preferred way of seeing her. Opposite of her sits the stranger, who's introduced herself as Camille de la Chapelle, ("That's what my passport says, and if it's good enough for the state it's good enough for you."), rolling a burning cigarette between her fingers, never once taking her eyes off her.
"So if I understand your little story correctly, you claim that you baited my team for a mission that you didn't know about in detail. You also claim that there is a man called Jean de Rochefort, who blackmailed you into baiting my team in the first place. You claim that he is our rival, that he is the alleged mastermind of the plan that got one member of my team killed." The way Camille puts an emphasis on my team makes Marguerite shiver uncomfortably, like the words are as sharp as her blade, still visible beneath her on the couch. "Did I forget something? No?"
Marguerite badly wants to break eye contact, but that would probably be her death sentence, branding her as liar whose story is nothing but a vain attempt to get away with her life. She swallows down bitterness and fear, and says softly: "I'm sorry. About your loss."
Camille's face is set in stone, but her finger twitches. "I advise you not to apologize again or I will end this farce."
"I understand." I'm sorry. She wants to ask about Aramis and make sure her lying didn't get him killed, but she doesn't have the courage in her, not in the light of Camille's unpredictable reaction to her expression of sympathy.
"Hypothetically speaking, if this Rochefort is real, and if you were his victim too, I wonder what he has on you to put you under so much pressure. I checked your apartment when I arrived. There's no surveillance, no bugs, nothing. Isn't it odd that he trusts his power over you in such an unrestricted manner? Isn't it risky, stupid even for a man of his alleged caliber?" Her tongue flicks across her lip, she smiles and it's a stab wound. "Tell me, and I will choose to believe you for as long as you speak."
Marguerite nods, because honestly?, it doesn't matter anyway. Her life is in Camille's hands and Camille's hands seem anything but merciful. She sets her shoulders straight – they hurt, everything hurts -, and says: "I manipulated a paternity test in favour of my client at that time." She vaguely gestures to the hallway. "There's a picture of her with her son whose father will never find out he's not his own now. I did it for the child, so he would not be harmed."
Camille makes a disgusted noise. "Is there anyone who can prove this story of yours?"
"My client and Rochefort."
"Such reliable sources. Who is this mysterious client of yours? I'm not willing to drag every bit of information out of you. You're wasting my time. Talk, and do so properly, or die."
"My client was Anna Roy and the baby in question was Louis Roy Junior."
"You. You are shameless." Camille laughs, a bitter hateful sound, and she takes the knife. "If Roy's son was a bastard and Rochefort knew about it, why would he blackmail you? You're a goddamn midwife, how can you be more important to him than Anna fucking Roy?"
"I don't know. I- I don't know. I never questioned it."
"You never question anything, do you? You just take it as given. You saw him straight in the eye and didn't even have the decency to drop a hint that it was a fucking trap."
"I don't know what you're talking about, I'm sorr-"
"Don't you dare." Camille is upon her before she can react, blade pressed against her throat, her breath hot against her ear, and she's shaking, just like herself, and Marguerite sobs, because she doesn't want to die like this, not when every word she said was true. Her heart beats so hard that her chest will explode, and she's about to beg for her life when her phone vibrates.
Later, Marguerite will remember this as the night Rochefort accidently saved her life.
[a month earlier]
She picks up a French newspaper the day after the elections. On the cover a brightly smiling Roy family looks at her, Louis, newly elected president of France, throwing his and Anna's joint hands in the air, celebrating, triumphing, the perfect couple with their perfect son in their perfect luck, suited oh so perfectly to lead France.
Marguerite neatly folds the page and puts it in the nearest trash.
'Tomorrow 9am, coffee shop across the street. Be there. R.'
Camille has put the knife away. It's a start Marguerite supposes, absently touching her neck, and watching Camille from the corner of her eye.
"R. This could be anyone," she hisses, and the fury in her eyes has spread to her body, leaving her restlessly pacing the living room. "It could be Rochefort. A Rochefort. Your lover, your brother, someone with the same name and yet not the one you claim him to be."
"I told you the truth."
"You will meet him tomorrow. I'll be there too. And if you lied, I will put you down. Your gun may have been fake, but mine is real I can assure you that."
Marguerite nods, thinking that maybe she won't need to kill Rochefort. Maybe she has found someone else to do it for her. An unlikely… alliance between two mistrusting parties with one purpose only: No more Rochefort.
It's a nice thought, and for a moment she even lets herself believe it could be true.
If only…
Rochefort's future plans for her are simple enough: Blackmail Anna using her son's safety as leverage to make her influence Louis in a way Rochefort sees fit. Pretending it's her, Marguerite, who acts on her own behalf. Not to ruin Rochefort's friendship with Anne. (You're obsessed with her, she catches herself thinking, facing Rochefort across a coffee table, his killer's eyes feverish whenever he says Anna's name.)
It makes sense, now. Not using Anna right away, giving her a test object, namely Aramis to prove her qualities, her loyalty, all while getting rid of a so-called business rival, and then sending her back once the Roys' power is at its peak. To have France's president at his disposal… The thought alone turns Marguerite's stomach.
"I heard of your… unfortunate accident with the pills. I hope this won't happen again, lady Marguerite, I'd hate to bring such sad news to your friend Alice."
"It won't," she hurries to say, turning her eyes away from him, looking at the table, feeling tears welling up. "It won't happen again."
"Good girl." Rochefort pats her hand. "I will arrange your return to Paris within the month."
Marguerite nods, and Rochefort gets up, leaving money for the bill on the table. "À bientôt."
He goes, and minutes pass in which Marguerite presses the palms on her hands in front of her face, tears falling freely, sobs coming and going quietly, and she loses tracks of her thoughts and feelings, until a familiar voice softly says: "I believe you now."
"I will track him down."
"To what end?"
A contemptuous snort, then dead-seriousness. "A bloody one."
She moves in. Marguerite is scared how natural it feels to share living space with the woman who tried to kill her. Drastic times demand drastic measures, she tells herself, and, it's only for the time being.
But maybe… maybe she doesn't mind Rochefort's temporary reprieve as much as she should.
"I can look like that," Camille says, studying Anna's photo with a raised eyebrow. She puts it away and lights a cigarette, crossing her legs, leaning back into the couch. "Is her demeanor as sweet as her looks?"
"Sometimes." Marguerite shrugs one-sidedly. "She's young and she acts like it." A moment of silence. "Could you- Can you please not smoke in here? It smells like." She ignores the cold sensation dripping down her back. "Please. Just. Smoke on the balcony."
Camille watches her, then suddenly puts out the cigarette and shakes her head, something akin to a smile on her lips. "You are a weird woman."
(She doesn't smoke in Marguerite's presence ever again.)
She finds Camille standing in front of the photo wall, head tilted, expression unreadable. She doesn't tear her gaze away from the pictures as she says: "You haven't worked since Rochefort made you leave Paris."
Marguerite isn't sure if it's a question or a statement, so she doesn't reply.
"I think…" Camille turns her head and finds her eyes, her face softening. "I would care for a story or two. About your work. If you don't mind."
And just like that, Camille overthrows their dynamic as reluctant allies and makes it complicated.
Marguerite wipes the steam from the bathroom mirror and takes the towel off of her hair. She looks old, way older than just five months ago, but her reflection doesn't send her into a crying fit anymore. She has accepted it, like she has accepted so many things.
Untangling wet strands of hair, she makes a mental note to text Alice later, to tell her she's fine and ask about yesterday's date. Alice moving on from her husband's death – or rather the scarring the cold marriage left on her - gives her a strange kind of hope. Maybe she will move on too, one day. If Camille succeeds in killing Rochefort, if he didn't take precautions and ruins her post-mortem, if Anna doesn't change her mind and decides to eliminate her as potential danger, if she can overcome everything that's happened.
If, if, if…
She sighs and puts on a loose summer dress, deciding to let her hair dry in the warm air. The sun feels comfortable on her skin, and Marguerite closes her eyes, breathing in and out, before she gets up and texts Alice. ('Thank you. Thank you for everything.' quickly followed by 'This is not a farewell note, this is me expressing honest gratitude. Anyway. Tell me about last night?')
The front door slamming shut makes her cringe and almost drop the phone, pulse jumping, but she hears the clicking of heels, and knows it must be Camille. She lays it aside and leaves the balcony, surprised to find Camille throwing the oversized hat along with other things into the corner of the bedroom. She basically rips off her sunglasses, and throws them away too, freshly bleached hair messily standing away from her head, and she spins around to face her. There are tears in her eyes.
"Milady. Not Camille," she says and clenches her fists.
"Okay." Marguerite steps closer, and cautiously touches her arm. "Milady."
It's unexpected and it isn't, but Milady takes her face into her hands and kisses her. She tastes like cigarettes and coffee, and she feels desperate and lonely, something her apparent fury isn't able to mask, and Marguerite can't deny her affection and warmth, she can't, she won't, and hasn't she longed for this too? Slowly burning under the surface, stolen thoughts, tension that wasn't caused by anxiety or panic or dread, no tension between them, never acted upon yet always present.
"Milady," she breathes against her mouth, "Milady."
Her lips against hers, then lower, on her throat, feeling the rush of her heart, hands wandering, and she makes a sound, they both do, she thinks at least, and the dress is loose enough to step out of it without much effort, she forgot to put on underwear, but who cares, all the better, and she helps Milady to unzip hers, and she pushes her onto the bed, goes down on her knees, still in heels, not seeming to care the least.
"Marguerite," she breathes against her thighs, and Marguerite touches the crown of her head, slightly, softly, as Milady pulls her legs apart. "Marguerite."
"I was pregnant."
"I tried to kill myself."
"I lost my partner on that ship."
"I wish I was someone else."
When did it get so easy to give away their secrets?
"Please take care," Marguerite tells Milady who is about to get dressed.
It's the day. The day where she will lure Rochefort into a hotel room and kill him there, avenging the death of her lover. She has rehearsed her impression of Anna to the point where it became uncomfortable for Marguerite to talk to her ("I used to be an actress, a long time ago."), so she deems herself ready for the hunt. The kill.
"However this ends, I promise he won't be able to harass you again."
Marguerite doesn't cry when she leaves, but she cries when Milady comes back and shows her the blood-stained blade of her knife. She embraces her softly, not daring to be too bold, and whispers into her neck: "I'm glad you're alive and he's dead."
Milady is very still, and so she just hugs her for a long time without saying anything.
Lying beneath the woman who killed Rochefort, pressed close to her body, feeling her chest rising, hearing her breathing, knowing she's safe, safe from him, Marguerite falls asleep. It's the first night in months she sleeps through without nightmares.
"You have to leave," Marguerite says, because she knows, she feels how uneasy and restless Milady has been the past days. "You have to leave, and I have to let you go."
Milady looks different with short hair, dyed back to a dark color, a shade darker than her natural one, but she feels the same. Marguerite kisses her, wishing she could draw the moment out, knowing the sentiment mirrored in her. Breaking the kiss is harder than expected.
Milady whispers: "Tu me manques."
"I'll miss you too." She swallows her tears. "Wait, I have. I have something. Wait."
Milady walking out of her life with Aramis' cross feels right, and she tells herself that, time and time again, even though her heart aches and she feels like she's lost a part of herself. She's alone, maybe she's lonely, but she's free.
This is how Marguerite finds a way to move on, too.
[fifteen months later]
The letter arrives in a red envelope, simple and unremarkable if it wasn't for the color. It's still early, so she's in no rush, taking a sip of tea before sitting down to open it. Sunlight falls through the window of her office, it's not completely silent, the noise from the street spilling in, but it's peaceful nonetheless.
Marguerite opens the envelope, and there's not only a letter, but also a pendant inside in which she finds a delicate dried flower in a light blue color. A forget-me-not if she's not mistaken. Her heart rate picks up speed. With shaking fingers – shaking with anticipation, not fear -, she unfolds the piece of paper and sees that it's only a few lines long. Reading it, she bites her bottom lip.
Could it really be…?
She puts a hand above her mouth, a small laughter of relief escaping her, eyes swimming in tears.
She picks up the phone and types in Milady's number.
('Marguerite, my dear heart. It's been too long and I miss you still. I should've contacted you earlier, but I hope you can forgive me when I promise you that I won't repeat my mistake. You're back in Paris? For good, dare I hope? I'll leave you my number and address in the post-scriptum, please call or write - whichever you prefer. I may be in need of your skills in roughly five months, if that is more likely to move you to give in to my plea than just me missing you for selfish reasons. You are in my thoughts, always. Milady.')
Notes: [Small clarification: I split canon Anne into two characters, Anna Roy and Anne (of Austria), hence no tagging of the latter.] Hope you enjoyed!