The Conspiracy of Us (The Conspiracy of Us 1)

“I can assure you Luc is just as excited about the nuptials as you are.” Elodie tugged a little harder than necessary on a piece of hair before securing it with a bobby pin.

“Can’t we put it off until we can talk about it?”

“No.”

“Because it’s fate?” I said sarcastically. “Our fates are mapped together, as the mandate says.”

“Do you know what a fate map is in biology?” Elodie twisted half of my hair up and set to curling the other half. “It’s a map of which cells in an embryo should develop into which specific adult tissues. But what they should develop into isn’t necessarily what they actually do develop into. They can be manipulated, or change on their own, and end up as something completely different from what they were fated for.”

I turned to stare at her. That was a strange thing to say.

She wrenched my head forward again, her honey-dark eyes still trained on my hair. “I’ve always loved science,” she said sweetly.

So she was just torturing me. I sat in silence while she finished. Another maid handed her a cascade of white lace, and Elodie draped it over her arm.

“Amazing that you managed to keep your eye color a secret,” she said, smoothing the lace with her fingers. “And now, only the Dauphins and a few of their staff members know. Good thing you have this to cover your eyes.” She affixed the white fabric in my dark hair with a comb. “Your father wouldn’t be the only one who was angry if the Dauphins’ plan was unveiled. If anyone else at the wedding saw your eyes before the union was official . . . it would be a riot.”

I glanced up sharply. That was it.

I watched Elodie, who kept her eyes trained on my hair. Maybe she wanted me to make a scene so Monsieur Dauphin would have an excuse to kill me.

Elodie stood me up from my chair. There, staring back at me from the mirror, was a bride.

“Doesn’t it seem wrong to you that a girl has this much power but has no say in what happens to her?” I said, still staring at my reflection. This couldn’t be where the past few days—really, my whole life—had led. “This is so Middle Ages.”

“Oh, cherie, it’s much older than that.” Elodie worked her fingers under the veil and to the back of my dress. “Now let’s make sure this is tight enough.”

She undid the corset strings and I started to protest, but rather than pulling them tighter, she let them out enough for me to breathe. I looked at her in the mirror again, and she continued to avoid my eyes.

Could she actually be helping me? Why?

“There,” she said. “Now don’t do anything to muss yourself up before the guards arrive to take you to the church. And take this.” She pressed a large black umbrella into my hand. “It’s raining, but don’t be sad. Rain on your wedding day’s said to be good luck.”

CHAPTER 40

No one told me where the wedding was being held, but I should have guessed. The drive to Notre-Dame felt like the longest few minutes of my life. I barely even noticed the lights reflecting off the Seine or the golden glow of the ornate bridges arching over it, radiant against the dusk. When we got out of the car, the Dauphins’ guards stayed far enough away to accommodate my umbrella as I sloshed through puddles. The bottom of my dress would be ruined, but it wasn’t like I cared.

From across the square, a rowdy group of tourists laughed and catcalled at us. I thought for a second about yelling for help, but I knew it’d be a bad idea.

I hugged the handle of Elodie’s umbrella to my chest, trying to let the rush of raindrops on its canopy drown out the rushing in my head. And then, I felt a click. Where the handle had been smooth a second earlier, now it wasn’t. A thin ribbon of shining metal protruded from it.

I worked at it with my fingers, drawing the thing the rest of the way out.

A knife.

A small, thin blade, about four inches long, its handle part of the umbrella handle.

Whether it was because Luc was Elodie’s best friend and she didn’t want him to have to do this, or because she’d rather see me gone from France altogether, I wasn’t going to say no. I was so much smaller than the guards that my umbrella hid me, so I was able to work the little knife down the bodice of my dress, under my arm. Its tip dug into my side, but it should be okay if I stood very straight.

Now I had to figure out when to use it.

Maybe that little bit of subterfuge opened my eyes, because all of a sudden, I noticed a phone on the belt of the guard in front of me. I didn’t know my father’s phone number, but I might be able to call the Order, just in case Stellan hadn’t. Plus, I could try my mom again.

I waited until we stepped up on a curb, then cried out and fell into the guard, careful to stay upright enough not to stab myself. As he whipped around, I pulled his phone out of its holder and stuffed it under my arm. “Sorry,” I said, standing back up. “I tripped.”

The guard scowled, but didn’t say anything. I worked the phone down the other side of my bodice.

As we got to Notre-Dame, I remembered Jack telling me that the left-hand door, with the triangle over it, represented the Circle watching over the common people. I sniffed. Unlike yesterday, when tourists had flowed in and out of the main entrance, only that left door was open now. We stepped inside.

After the thundering rain on the umbrella, the inside of Notre – Dame was silent and as echoey as a cave. Tall candles lined the entrance, their flames casting elongated shadows, and dozens of chandeliers bathed the soaring archways along the nave in warm light. When my ears had adjusted, I heard the whispers of the crowd and saw the occasional head turn to sneak a glance at us. I let myself hope for one second that my father had heard about this surprise wedding and showed up to stop it, but no outraged Saxons ran toward us. How ironic. The fact that he actually did care enough about me to search for me meant he wouldn’t be here when I needed him.

The guards deposited me in a small room near the entrance to wait. I locked the door and pulled out the phone, dialing the Order’s number.

All I got was dead air. No signal. I cursed under my breath.

My gaze darted around the room. One small window, high up on the wall. A confessional booth. That was it.

I shoved back my veil and searched the room for something to climb on. There was a rickety stool in one corner, but it wasn’t very tall. I pulled open the door of the confessional booth and found a chair. I dragged it across the room, climbed up, and tried to grab the windowsill.