Cassandra Clare - The Runaway Queen

Again, this made little difference. But what did make a difference was von

Fersen himself. It was the blue eyes and the dark hair and the passion and the obvious courage. It was the way he stood, tall and strong . . .

“Monsieur, will you stand with us?

Do we have your word, monsieur?”

It was also a very bad idea.

It was a terrible idea.

It was the worst idea he had ever heard.

It was irresistible.

“Your word, monsieur,” Axel said again.

“You have it,” Magnus said.

“Then I will come again tomorrow night and lay the plan out in front of you,” von Fersen said. “I will show you what must happen.”

“I insist we dine together,” Magnus said. “If we are to undertake this great adventure together.”

There was a momentary pause, and then Axel gave a sharp nod.

“Yes,” he said. “Yes. I agree. We will dine together.”

When von Fersen left, Magnus looked at himself in the mirror for a long time, looking for signs of madness. The actual magic involved was very simple. He could easily get himself in and out of the palace and cast a simple glamour. No one would ever know.

He shook his head. This was Paris.

Everyone knew everything, somehow.

He took a long sip of the now warm violet champagne and swished it round his mouth. Any logical doubts he had were drowned out by the beating of his heart. It had been so long since he’d felt the rush. In his mind now there was only von Fersen.

The next night, Magnus had dinner brought in, courtesy of the chef at the

Hôtel de Soubise. Magnus’s friends permitted his use of the kitchen staff and their excellent foodstuffs when he needed to set an especially fine table.

Tonight he had a delicate pigeon bisque, turbot, Rouen duckling with orange, spit-

roasted veal, green beans au jus, artichokes, and a table full of cream puffs, fruit, and tiny cakes. The meal was simple enough to arrange—getting dressed, however, was not. Absolutely nothing was right. He needed something that was flirtatious and fetching, yet businesslike and serious. And at first it seemed that the lemon-yellow coat and breeches with the purple waistcoat fit the bill precisely, but these were discarded for the lime-green waistcoat, and then the violet breeches. He settled on an entire ensemble in a simple cerulean blue, but not before he had emptied out the entire contents of his wardrobe.

Waiting was a delicious agony.

Magnus could only pace, looking out the window, waiting for von Fersen’s carriage to appear. He made countless trips to the mirror, and then to the table

Claude and Marie had so carefully laid before he’d sent them away for the evening. Axel had insisted on privacy, and Magnus was happy to oblige.

At precisely eight o’clock a carriage stopped in front of Magnus’s door, and out he stepped. Axel. He even looked up, as if he knew that Magnus would be looking down, waiting for him. He smiled a greeting, and Magnus felt a pleasant kind of sickness, a panic. . . .

He hurried down the steps to admit

Axel himself.

“I’ve dismissed my staff for the evening, as you asked,” he said, trying to regain his composure. “Do come in. Our dinner is ready for us. You’ll excuse the informality of my service.”

“Of course, monsieur,” Axel said.

But Axel did not linger over his food, or allow himself the pleasures of sipping his wine and taking in Magnus’s charms.

He launched right into the business at hand. He even had maps, which he unrolled on the sofa.

“The escape plan has been developed over several months,” he said, picking an artichoke from a silver dish. “By me, some friends of the cause, and the queen herself.”

“And the king?” Magnus asked.

“His Majesty has . . . removed himself from the situation somewhat. He is very despondent over the state of things. Her

Majesty has assumed much responsibility.”

“You seem to be very . . . fond of Her

Majesty,” Magnus noted carefully.

“She is to be admired,” Axel said, dabbing at his lips with his napkin.

“And clearly she trusts you. You must be very close.”

“She has graciously allowed me into her confidence.”

Magnus could read between the lines.

Axel didn’t kiss and tell, which made him only more attractive.

“The escape is to be made on

Sunday,” Alex went on. “The plan is simple, but exacting. We have arranged it so the guards have seen certain people leaving by certain exits at certain times.

On the night of the escape, we will substitute the family for these people.

The children will be woken at ten thirty.

The dauphin will be dressed as a young girl. He and his sister will be removed from the palace by the royal governess, the Marquise de Tourzel, and will walk to meet me at the Grand Carrousel. I will be driving the traveling carriage. We will then wait for Madame Elisabeth, sister of the king. She shall leave by the same door as the children. When His

Majesty finishes his coucher for the evening and is left alone, he will leave as well, disguised as the Chevalier de

Coigny. Her Majesty . . . will escape last.”

“Marie Antoinette will leave last ?”

“It was her decision,” von Fersen said quickly. “She is extremely courageous.

She demands to go last. If the others are discovered missing, she wishes to sacrifice herself in order to aid their escape.”

There was that frisson of passion in his voice again. But this time when he looked at Magnus, his gaze stayed there for a moment, fixed on the catlike pupils.

“So why do you want only the queen glamoured?”

“Partially it has to do with timing,”

Axel said. “The order in which people must be seen coming and going. His

Majesty will be with people right up until his coucher , and he departs instantly after that. Only Her Majesty will be alone in the palace for some time. She is also more recognizable.”

“Than the king?”

“But of course! His Majesty is not . . . a handsome man. Gazes do not linger on his face. What people recognize are his clothes, and carriage, all the external signs of his royal status. But Her

Majesty . . . her face is known. Her face is studied and drawn and painted. Her style is copied. She is beautiful, and her face has been committed to many a memory.”

“I see,” Magnus said, wanting to move away from the subject of the queen’s beauty. “And what will happen to you?”

“I will drive the carriage as far as

Bondy,” he said, his gaze still fixed on

Magnus. He continued to list details—

troop movements, stations to change the horses, things of that nature. Magnus had no interest in these details. They could not hold his attention like the way the elegant ruff of shirt fabric brushed

Axel’s chin as he spoke. The heavy plumpness of his lower lip. No king or queen or palace or work of art had anything that could compare with that lower lip.

“As for your payment . . .”

These words drew Magnus back in.

“The matter of payment is quite simple,” Magnus said. “I require no money—”

“Monsieur,” Axel said, leaning forward, “you do this as a true patriot of

France!”

“I do this,” Magnus continued calmly, “to develop our friendship. I ask only to see you again when the thing is done.”

“To see me?”

“To see you, monsieur.”

Axel’s shoulders drew back a bit, and he looked down at his plate. For a moment Magnus thought it was all for nothing, that he had made the wrong move. But then Axel looked back up, and the candlelight flickered in his blue eyes.

“Monsieur,” he said, taking Magnus’s hand across the table, “we shall be the closest of friends evermore.”