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I mean, maybe I’ve got it all wrong.
Maybe I’m acting paranoid, which caused me to misread all the signs.
Maybe Elodie really is responsible, but rather than intending it as a threat, she meant it as an inside joke—a nodding wink, a knowing roll of the eyes from one female to another.
A tangible reminder to not get too carried away by the grandeur of this place and time.
To never allow myself to forget that as exciting as it may seem, back here in 1745 it was perfectly acceptable to portrayDeceitas a woman—as though history’s long list of Judases and Brutuses were some sort of anomaly.
I skirt my way down the Allée Royale, before crossing over to the collection of Four Seasons fountains, where I go in search of theFontaine de Saturne,an allegory of winter that, according to the book, is located on the Allée de l’Hiver which, according to my rudimentary grasp of French, makes sense.
Between these stiff, ill-fitting shoes and the ungainly pannier that makes it hard to move quickly with any semblance of grace, I forge an awkward shuffle toward my destination, intent on moving purposely, without attracting any unwanted attention, all the while wishing there was a horse grazing nearby so I could finally put all those equestrian lessons to use and gallop the rest of the way.
Though the main event is happening inside the palace, the grounds are far from empty. So I do my best to keep my head down until I reach an area where no one has ventured, then I break into an all-out, gut-busting run.
When I pass the Girandole Grove, an area easily recognizable from the alcove of trelliswork that surrounds it, I push my legs harder, faster.
When I hear the steady drumbeat of gushing water, I know it shouldn’t be too much longer.
After skirting around a towering wall of hedges, the Fountain of Saturn pops into view, and I pause long enough to clutch at my knees, steady my breath, and ask the obvious question:Now what?
