"You must have something, petite mere," her brother's persistent entreaties eventually broke into Marguerite's thoughts. She seemed to be studying the flames in the fireplace, but her gaze was locked somewhere in the middle distance. When she dragged her eyes, which were red and prickly after a morning of bitter tears, to look at her brother, she saw that he was holding a cup in his extended hands.

"Chocolat," he explained, although she could smell the sweet aroma for herself. "I could go out and get something stronger, if you would prefer -"

She forced a smiled at his worried ministrations, "No, this is better, merci, Armand."

"I thought it would be like when we were younger, Margot, and you would always bring chocolat to comfort me," he began, studying his sister's tired features; "and it seemed to work for everything, too – for childish scrapes, when I should really have known better, for when Aunt Marie would punish us … for mal à la coeur …"

Marguerite turned back to the fire, unable to meet his eyes. "So long ago," she sighed.

There was a third presence in the room: the heavy weight of the unspoken words on both their minds, which Armand dared not ask of, and which Marguerite would not share. This was the day after his sister's wedding, and Armand's heart ached to know what had happened to make her seek shelter in her old rooms, but he forced himself to be patient enough to wait.

"Your journey here was uneventful?" He asked. "There has been some trouble – it is getting more and more dangerous to walk the streets, it seems."

Marguerite clutched the warm cup between her hands, letting the rising steam caress her face with its aroma of childhood memories. "Yes," she agreed distantly, and then, realising what Armand had been asking, "That is to say, no – I was not confronted by anybody."

He laughed bitterly, and added, more to himself, "I suspect everyone is still at the Place de Carrousel, that would explain why it is so quiet –"

Marguerite started, splashing hot liquid over the rim of the cup in her hands.

"Oh, chérie –" Armand gasped, taking the rest of the drink from her, " – let me get something to treat your dress – and your hands, it is not too hot? –"

"Ça ne fait rien," she cut in. "Were you there this morning, Armand? At the Place? Did you see?"

"Margot –"

"Armand, did you see?"

He had been on the point of rising to help her clean away the spilled chocolate; now he slumped back onto the seat beside her. "Yes, I saw. But Margot, sweet one, I have told you – none of this is your fault! These are the times we live in, and we both know that the Marquis was guilty. He was a traitor, Marguerite."

She buried her face in her hands. "I tried," she mumbled, "I tried to stop it."

Armand was caught briefly between his own political beliefs, influenced by the dedicated, passionate personalities at the head of the revolution, and his love for his sister. She had tried to save the Marquis de St Cyr, a nobleman who would have delivered his country to the Austrians to escape justice. He took a deep breath, and then said, "Margot, you couldn't have prevented this."

"I could have held my tongue," she said bitterly, dropping her hands. Her eyelids were red and swollen, with dark shadows beneath her sad eyes.

"Then somebody else would have told the tribunal, and the Marquis would still have perished this morning," he replied, a little cruelly.

"The Marquis and his family," she corrected, absently twisting the bright gold band around her finger.

Armand frowned. "How did you know they had all been - ?"

"I asked to be told, if nothing more could be done, if it became inevitable. A friend brought a message to Sir Percy's …" Marguerite faltered as she spoke her husband's name, and glanced at the ring beneath her fingertips; " … to the apartment. This morning."

Her brother gasped. "But – does that mean Sir Percy knows?"

Marguerite's mouth twisted into a cruel sneer. "He knew already."

Armand thought he understood now. "But you explained what happened – how you had been used, how –"

"There is nothing to explain," she concluded.

"You must tell him!" Armand pleaded, seeking her hands. "Tell him that your foolish brother once fell in love –" His breath suddenly caught in his throat, cutting off his words.

Marguerite glanced at her brother, noticing the pained expression on his face.

"Armand?" She prompted.

"Angéle wasn't at the Place with her family," he told her softly. "That is why I attended – I care little for making such a public spectacle out of death, only I thought this time it seemed appropriate that I should be there to witness the end of it all. But she wasn't there."

Marguerite stared at him, her tired mind a little slow to understand the relevance of what he was telling her. Angéle St Cyr, the Marquis' young daughter, whom Armand had once been smitten with. St Cyr's violent correction of her brother's misguided infatuation had been what fuelled Marguerite's vindictive and hasty denunciation of the Marquis. And now Armand was telling her that Angéle had not met her family's fate after all, that the catalyst had escaped the final consequence.

Her thoughts churning with the measured relief of absolution and frustrated anger, Marguerite asked roughly, "I thought they had all had been sentenced?"

"The Marquise was Austrian – an Autrichienne, like our fair Queen –" Marguerite cringed at her brother's coarse jest, in spite of herself, " – while Angéle's brother was possessed of all his father's arrogance and brutality. I imagine they were considered to be a threat to the security of the Republic. Angéle, however …"

"Angéle is the reason - !"

Marguerite bit down on her lip: Angéle is the reason that my husband cannot trust me, she had been about to say. The first hours of her new life with Percy had been marred by the ghosts of the arrogant Marquis and his self-serving family, even before she had been certain of their fate. She had spent the time in prayer, hoping even as she feared the worst that the spiteful clan could yet be saved; Percy had seemingly spent it trying to trick his new bride into confessing what he had already condemned her for.

And now Armand was thinking of Angéle, who was apparently safe. "Are you hoping to find her, to go to her?" She asked bitterly.

"Of course not!"

"Do you think that anything can bring these people to their knees, Armand?" Marguerite blindly lashed out at her brother, even as she thought of him as her one true remaining ally. "I doubt you would find a trace of humility, of fear, in the glorious Angéle, even if you knew where she was hiding! She would strike you for daring to pity her!"

"Or rather strike me for being the brother of – !" Armand bit down on his lip, as he met Marguerite's tearful blue eyes. He could see the hurt and vulnerability in that gaze, and instantly regretted the venom in his words. Like her, he had aimed his anger at the nearest target, and he thought he could understand her irrationality. "Margot, I'm sorry, forgive me."

"Forgive you the truth?" Marguerite scoffed, and then continued softly, almost to herself: "But why, Armand, if he knew and disapproved of my actions so, why did he marry me?" Her brother watched her distractedly loosening and replacing the wedding ring on her finger. "When did he first hear the rumours? Did he know then what the tribunal of the Assembly would do about the St Cyrs, Armand? Did he know all along that I had sent them to their deaths? Mon Dieu!"

Her fragile composure broken completely, Marguerite sank into her brother's arms as her body was shaken by silent sobs. In spite of her leading role in the whole drama, she was forced to admit to herself that she didn't understand the direction of the play. She didn't know what had made her husband's attitude towards her change so suddenly. If it was because her words had brought the Marquis to the attention of the authorities, then she didn't know whether Percy was merely taking a moral stance, or if he was personally involved. She wasn't aware that he knew the St Cyrs, but then both men had moved in the same circles. And how had Percy learned of their fate? Marguerite had used her circle of friends and useful acquaintances to keep her informed, and to try and intervene, if possible. Of course, there was always gossip, but she and Percy had barely been apart since the eve of their wedding. She was, however, asking herself the wrong questions – it didn't matter how he had learned of what she had done, but only if there was a future left for them now that he did.

Marguerite broke free from her brother's protective embrace. She rose, and moved on trembling legs to the gilt-edged mirror hung above the mantelpiece. Her appearance was quite startling, and Marguerite thought that, if she were to appear before her devoted audience at the Theatre in her present state, they would think her masked for a part in a provincial troupe! The bloodshot whites of her eyes and the purple shadows beneath them made the fluid blue of her irises appear unnaturally bright and feverish. Her skin, usually so clear, was still blemished with heated emotion, and her cheeks were streaked with tears. She began to reset some of her curls by twisting strands of her auburn hair tightly around a finger, and then she smoothed back the damp hair on her brow.

She was about to ask Armand for a basin of water to soothe her flushed skin, when she realised what she was doing – making herself presentable. But for whom?

Marguerite turned, and found Armand regarding her from the couch with rapt attention. "What am I going to do, Armand?"

"Talk to him, Margot," came the weary reply.

"He doesn't want to listen," she argued.

"Why would he marry you, Marguerite, only to turn against you so easily?"

"I don't know," she mumbled, missing the appeal to logic in her brother's challenge.

"He loves you!" Armand stood up. "This is all some ridiculous misunderstanding, I'm sure. Go to him, petite mere, and you will see."

"I cannot," Marguerite told him resolutely.

"Did he tell you to leave?"

"No," she answered quickly, "but it was the only thing I could do –"

" – to preserve your pride," Armand finished for her. "Yes, I know you, Margot – you were challenged, and spoke in the heat of the moment. You ran away from yourself."

"Laisse-moi tranquille!" Marguerite snapped. "I see I came to the wrong person."

"Where else would you go, Marguerite? Who knows you like I do?"

She sighed. He was right, and that was the problem: nobody knew her very well. All her life, she had maintained a respectable distance, allowing only her brother to see the player behind the role, and even he was not allowed into her deepest confidence. It was not a conscious barrier; she had just never needed anybody enough. Only now was she facing the consequences of living her life on the surface: marriage to a man she really knew nothing about.

She couldn't even admit to herself that she loved Percy – a career on the stage had taught her that words and gestures meant little. She was in love with the pure ideal of love, and this she thought she had found in her English baronet. But perhaps instead of awaking from a deep sleep to marry her prince, like Perrault's La Belle au Bois dormant, Marguerite had unwittingly become Molière's Agnès, too inexperienced to realise that she could not just follow her heart.

Percy had been utterly under her spell, captivated by her beauty and her brave words. But other men had been drawn by her large blue eyes and radiant hair, only to have the door politely closed on their compliments and bouquets. And when Percy had succeeded, Marguerite's own words had become the undoing of her happiness.