Murderous Endeavour

CHAPTER TWELVE

When Diana had imagined attending a ball at Versailles, she’d imagined strolling the gardens, taking in the fountains, entering gilded halls and rooms of opulence she’d never before seen in her life. But a part of her had also been worried about being that awkward, invisible wallflower of a teenage girl at prom who sat on the bleachers and never got asked to dance.

She didn’t have to worry.

From the moment she stepped out of the tent, people were in a jovial, festive mood, calling Bonsuir to her. The smiles were endless. The warm summer air was charged with electricity. Each costume was more ornate than the next, and people really seemed to be getting into the parts they were playing. They were clearly just as excited as she was to be there, and it showed.

As she walked down a long straight path through the gardens, admiring a reflection pond surrounded by bright red flowers she didn’t know the name of, a young waiter came by with a silver tray of champagne flutes. “Pour vous, mademoiselle?”

“Yes, thank you,” she said, taking the closest one. The boy was young enough to be her son, but he had those horn-rimmed glasses, just like Stéphane had had. Thirty years ago, on this very day, if she’d have said yes to his invitation, it would have been the beginning of something. He’d said that the ball would kick off their lives together in France.

Now, she felt like she was kicking something else off. Yes, alone, and that made it more frightening, despite her age. But there was far more excitement bubbling in her chest—now . . . and she hadn’t even had a sip of her champagne. It felt important, like the beginning of something big and life-altering.

She sipped from the flute and looked around, wondering if Stéphane did, indeed, come to this every year, and if he was here now. Perhaps with his wife and family, but perhaps not. That waiter, with his lanky build and shaggy light-brown hair half in and half out of his collar, could’ve been his son too.

It was all silly, though. Of course, it was a long time ago. But wouldn’t it have been funny if just as she’d thought about him, again and again, he’d come to the ball every year, hoping to finally see her too?

She laughed as she sipped more champagne, and the bubbles went up her nose, making her want to sneeze. Things like that only happened in fairy tales and Hallmark movies.

Stop being silly, she scolded herself. You’ve seen this place a million times—in pictures. Now you are here. Enjoy it. Take it all in. Make this night absolutely unforgettable . . .

A young man in a Napoleon costume with a tricorn hat and fake medals and finery—he was certainly as short as the general—and a troupe of his officers sidled down the path toward her. If it weren’t for the period costumes, she would’ve thought they were college frat brothers. They were each carrying big mugs of what must’ve been draft beer. “Hey, mademoiselle!” the man called, whistling at her. He sang, badly, “I’m finally facing my Waterloo.”

She rolled her eyes, even though something about his silliness was charming.

He jogged toward her. “Take a picture with us? S'il vous plait?”

She nodded and crossed over that path to them, then realized she hadn’t yet taken any pictures with her own phone. She got in the center of the men and smiled as they snapped picture after picture. She handed them her phone, and they took pictures for her too. “You sound British?” she said to Napoleon.

He nodded, “That’s right. Me and mates just come over here for this party. You American?”

“Yes. I’ve always wanted to go to this, ever since I first heard of it a long time ago. It took me a while to get here, though.”