She stood at the threshold, a porcelain doll in silk and pearls. The corset bit into her ribs with every shallow breath, and the plumes of her gown whispered against the parquet floor like a warning.

Before her stretched a gauntlet of eyes. A thousand courtiers lined the gallery in escalating rows of powdered wigs and jeweled fans—watching, waiting, cataloging. Somewhere in that glittering crowd, a woman laughed too loudly, and the sound skittered across the mirrors like a stone across ice.

Behind her, the distant rumble of the Paris crowd was barely more than a memory. A hunger. A threat she could not yet name.

The silence was a thousand held breaths.