CHAPTER ELEVEN

Monsieur Marchelier returned all too soon for Margot. She'd spent the four days he was away doing all she could to gather information about the Judge. He lived outside of the city and was about two hundred and three years old, according to Cosette, the dairymaid. Not only did she not come up with much about him, but she also had no idea how she would turn him around to be on their side.

Even more bad news came in the form of her father standing in her doorway. Margot turned away from the mirror and slowed the brushing of her hair.

"Father?"

"I've had a... most interesting weekend." The spring was back in his step. He approached her and put his hands on her shoulders. He looked under his eyebrows at her in the reflection.

"Is… everything alright?" Margot was suspicious.

"More than." He smiled at her. "Margot, you have grown into a beautiful young woman."

She edged away from him "What do you want?" He held his hands up in defeat and took a step back.

"Alright, I can't get anything past you. The truth is, the Vicomte de Burgundy was very hospitable, and has said that he will do everything in his power to support our family's reputation."

"He said that?"

"Well… not in so many words, but trust me. That's what he meant."

"Huh."

"Ahh, scoff not, oh doubtful daughter." He clapped his hands and rubbed them together, gleefully.

"Why are you so happy?" Margot laughed, incredulously.

"Because, he's already showing his kindness."

"How?"

"A ball!" He looked at Margot, waiting for some exclamation of excitement. When it didn't come, he elaborated. "He and his wife and daughters are coming to Paris tonight, and tomorrow night they are holding a grand ball. He says that it is time to bury all of this bleakness and celebrate. The, uh, Captain of the Guard will be in attendance… I know he liked you."

Margot bit back a gag and rolled her eyes.

"Alright daughter, scoff if you must, but remember. We are only safe as long as our reputation withstands. It is your job to help to secure it. Marriage is your only weapon… do not brush aside an offer when it can mean the protection of your own life." His tone was serious and cautioning. Margot held his gaze for a minute before returning to brushing her hair.

Whether she liked it or not, she was going to the ball. She really didn't want to – when her mind was so wrapped up in the Court of Miracles, the last thing she wanted to do was make nice with a bunch of snobby nobility and pretend that they were actually important.

In the short couple of weeks that she had been introduced to the underground world of gypsies and politics, she had changed, drastically. She no longer felt empty or weary, and she was infinitely more confident. Gone was the meek, petulant creature. It felt to her like she had aged ten years in two weeks. It felt good.

Nevertheless, here she was in a carriage dressed up like a porcelain doll on her way to a chateau. Her dress was white with little bits of silver threaded discreetly into the gauzy fabric. It was long sleeved, and while the square neckline and laced up bodice didn't reveal everything, it wasn't trying very hard to be coy. Mimi the genius had done her hair up in an elegant, wavy up-do with a braid wrapping over her crown and gentle tendrils coming down the side of her face and the back of her neck. As the carriage pulled into the cul-de-sac in front of the chateau, she wrapped her silver shawl tighter around her, suddenly feeling self-conscious. She hadn't been in company like this since before her mother's death. It was a busy entrance; torches lit the archway that led inside, and lords and ladies were pouring in. Margot's gown was much simpler than theirs, but it had been her mothers. If she was forced to take part in a ball, she wanted to have the support of her mother there.

It was a masquerade ball, so all of the guests wore wild, colorful faces, violently protruding beaks, and sky-high feathers. Margot took her own mask – a white half mask with glittering gold waves streaking out like sunrays – from the seat next to her and secured the ribbons behind her head.

"You look beautiful." Her father looked her over and smiled, sadly. "You're the very image of your mother!" Margot gave his arm a squeeze and inwardly braced herself. The footman opened her door – it was now or never.

The chateau's ballroom was a dark, paneled room with tall windows that overlooked the courtyard. The floor was shining hard wood and all of the accents were gold and rich mahogany. Though it was high ceilinged, there was something dark and lair-like about it. Wrapping around half of the room in an L-shape was a set of stairs with a swooping banister that led up to an indoor balcony. The musicians were already playing – nothing compared to the jovial jigs of the gypsy musicians, Margot noted. This was a slow, rhythmic series of swells played on strings. Occasionally, the melody strayed into a chaotic polyphonic venture.

There must have been nearly a hundred guests there, but the main players were clearly marked.

The Vicomte was an older, dignified looking man. He was very pleasant, but Margot had always found him a little bit obnoxious. The sort of man who often had a red face and was telling personal stories at a little too high a decibel.

His wife, a much younger woman, was equally enthusiastic. Round, kind-faced, and buxom, she was a fierce talker and an excellent joke teller. The two of them were standing ten feet apart, surrounded by men and women respectively, hanging on their every word. The two of them had matching gold and silver masks with bells and tassles hanging from the horns.

Margot also saw, to her dismay, the Captain of the Guard. He was at the far end of the room, up a couple of steps, talking to two other guards. Of course, he was wearing all black. Margot bristled and quickly ducked behind her father to eliminate any chance of him seeing her, even at a distance.

Her father was currently speaking to some lord or another about the new explorations going on across Europe. He didn't introduce Margot, so she slipped away and began to weave through the crowd. Suddenly, there was a brassy call.

"Mar-got!" Only one girl said her name just like that… every single time… Margot spun around and saw the source.

"Noelle!" She slapped a tight smile on her face and moved through the crowd to Noelle DeLeauvre. She was absolutely tiny, at least compared to Margot. Noelle was about 5'2, a full six inches shorter than Margot, but she had a certain quality that had the power to make people feel small. She had delicate, diamond-blonde hair that was styled in an Italian, Botticelli-esque way, and emerald-green, intelligent eyes peeping out from a very small pink mask. As Margot looked down at her, she felt an all-too-familiar feeling creeping up. In finishing school, where they had met, Noelle had always been popular and attentive, but something about her presence could cripple the most secure person into a dithering, awkward teenager. Here, she was surrounded by three other girls Margot recognized from school.

"What are you doing here? I thought your father had you locked up!"

"I'm an escaped convict," Margot said with a completely straight face. Noelle's turned aghast.

"Real-ly?" Margot only had time to raise her eyebrows before another girl, a stunning brunette who was called Lisette joined them.

"Noelle, it's true!" The girls giggled and began craning their necks.

"Have I missed something?" Asked Margot.

"Oh, my dear Mar-got," Noelle grabbed Margot's wrist, excitedly. "A prince is here."

"What?"

"He's a prince! Of… Italy, or Spain, or… somewhere!"

"Italy, Noelle!" Lisette smiled, coquettishly. "And he's eligible, I hear!"

One of the other girls, a tall, skinny, dark haired girl, hissed, "Not so loud, Lisette! The men will hear you!"

Margot rolled her eyes – she didn't like this. All she wanted to do was go to the Court of Miracles and be with the people that really made her feel like herself.

"May I?" Suddenly, there was a gruff, deep voice behind her. It caught her so off guard that she jumped and wheeled around, only to come face to face with the Captain of the Guard. The sight was so unpleasant that an actual little noise of disgust escaped her lips before she slapped a hand over them.

"Captain, how… nice…" she stammered, at a loss, her eyes frantically searching for some sort of lifeline behind his burly shoulder. His hair was slicked back into a ponytail and stubble coated his chin. He had chosen not to wear a mask. Despite his large and menacing impression, he could have been considered decent looking in another universe.

Now, he was too close for comfort. She could feel his hot breath on her. He did not elaborate, but he had a sort of closed-lipped smile and a hand extended toward her.

"Oh!" She realized he wanted her to dance with him. No. Absolutely not. Never in a million years, you greasy, ugly, brutish lout – "Thank you, Captain, but I cannot leave my friends." Wow. It took a lot of face muscles to smile through that one. He shrugged in a seemingly friendly but underneath threatening way.

"I'm sure they wouldn't mind."

"Mar-got!" Noelle whispered, giving her a push from behind. She stopped before his outstretched hand touched her.

"Alright!" She conceded through gritted teeth, and hesitantly took his hand. It was rough and calloused, like an old shoe.

Before she knew it she was being "escorted" to the area where couples were dancing.