Charles d'Éon de Beaumont

The beat of my heart lags exactly half a beat behind the minuet. Silks rustle. A hundred candles reflect off the parquet of the Winter Palace, turning the hall into a boiling lake of liquid gold. The air smells of burnt sugar, violet powder, and stale sweat—the true aroma of the Russian court.

Elizabeth Petrovna sits on the throne. When the master of ceremonies calls out, "Mademoiselle Lia de Beaumont!" I step forward. The heel of my satin slipper treacherously sinks into the wax. I barely keep my balance.

I curtsy. The Queen's fingers linger on my chin longer than is proper. She looks straight into my eyes, and for a moment it seems as if my entire Burgundian legend has crumbled to dust. But Elizabeth nods graciously and turns away.

Men flock to my golden halo of hair like flies to molasses.

"Ah, how fresh... From France itself? " whispers the elderly Prince Golitsyn, stepping on my foot in a country dance.

“You would have emerged from the morgue more gracefully, Your Excellency,” I think, forcing a smile and allowing him to lead me in the dance.

I retreat to the column, pretending to fan myself. And then a shadow appears in front of me.

He doesn't wear a wig. No beauty spots or gold embroidery screaming wealth. Just dull, dark green velvet, military-style. He smells of wet snow and something spicy—definitely not French perfume.

He says nothing, looking down at me, and his gaze undresses me far more effectively than Prince Golitsyn's sweaty palms ever did. A genuine chill runs down my spine—the pure, primal thrill of a hunter who has become the hunted for the first time.

He slowly raises his right hand. A completely masculine gesture, devoid of courtly affectation. The outstretched hand signifies an invitation. To what? To dance? To conversation? To my death?

My mind frantically scans his face. Not a single one of De Broglie's ciphers contained such a description. Danger.

I should refuse. But instead, I silently place my trembling palm in his.