Marie Antoinette, Serial Killer Read online

  “Oh, sure,” I said. “Hundreds of years of history should totally get covered up so you can wear your Jimmy Choos.”

  I’d meant it as a joke, but her sharp look stung me like a hornet.

  “They weren’t Jimmy Choos, Colette,” Pilar said, a gentle rebuke in her voice. “They were Louboutins.”

  “At least Pilar and I don’t look like we just rolled out of bed,” Hannah said hotly.

  I didn’t let the comment bother me too much. She was only angry because she’d been forced to admit she was wrong. Looking around, it was obvious that I blended in, while Pilar and Hannah stuck out like a pair of overdone poodles on a hiking trail.

  “Where are we going, anyway?” Hannah’s voice was sour.

  “To the train station,” Pilar said. “It’s not much farther.”

  Hannah rolled her eyes. “Well, I’ve got my clodhoppers on now, so that doesn’t matter.”

  I cast a glance at Hannah’s “clodhoppers,” which had probably cost four hundred dollars.

  “I think we should turn left here,” Audrey said. She was walking next to the teacher, directly in front of us.

  Madame Mitchell followed Audrey’s advice without a moment’s hesitation, which made Hannah murmur, “Loser,” under her breath. Pilar laughed, and I stayed silent — but I could tell by the way Audrey’s shoulders went rigid that she’d heard what Hannah said.

  The Saint-Michel station served both Paris’s subway and the commuter rail lines. We stopped near the antique art deco METRO sign while Madame Mitchell looked around for our tour guide.

  Someone tapped me on the shoulder, and I found myself looking into the bright-blue eyes of a guy a few years older than me.

  “Pardonnez-moi, mais c’est un groupe d’élèves étrangers qui fait une visite guidée,” he said.

  “What?” I said. “I mean … pardon?”

  His eyebrows went up in surprise. “Oh, you are with the group. I thought you were French. I was telling you that you were mixed in with a bunch of Americans.”

  I stared at him, not knowing what to say. He thought I was French! An actual French person thought I was French. He gave me a quick smile and walked over to Madame Mitchell.

  “Girls!” she said. She flapped a red handkerchief above her head. “Écoutez! Voici votre guide!”

  “That’s him? That is our hot French tour guide?” Hannah’s face fell. “I want my money back.”

  It was true that this guy looked nothing like the way you’d imagine a dashing European university student to look. I guess we’d all been hoping for Pilar’s vampire — someone tall and slim, with an angular jaw and sexy, unkempt hair. Someone pale and artistic. Someone French-looking. Our guide had tan skin and neatly groomed dark blond hair. He wore a red hoodie, a black T-shirt, and jeans. His shoes, gray Pumas, weren’t bulky white sneakers, but they weren’t exactly sleek leather oxfords, either.

  “Mesdemoiselles,” Madame Mitchell said, “Je vous présente Jules Martin.”

  Jules Martin. Only she pronounced his name Zhool Mar-tahn. Which, I had to admit, seemed a little exotic for the boy standing in front of us.

  There was nothing wrong with him, exactly. He just looked kind of … American.

  Hannah crossed her arms, disgusted. “What a waste of time.”

  “Bonjour, ladies,” Zhool said.

  “At least his accent is cute,” Pilar whispered.

  “So we’re supposed to tour Paris with our eyes closed?” Hannah replied.

  “Yes, definitely,” I said. “That’s the best way to see the city.”

  Zhool glanced over at us, and his expression made me suddenly ashamed. It was this glazed look that told me he wasn’t seeing us as people but as a stereotypical group of silly teenage girls. I half-pivoted away from my friends, but it seemed like too little, too late.

  He led us down into the station. I was nervous when I saw that we had to go underground, but soon we were in a wide-open terminal. Madame Mitchell passed out our tickets, and we all sat together on the top level of the train.

  Hannah took the window seat (another unspoken Hannah rule: if there was a window seat, she got it) and Peely sat next to her. I went to the next row back and sat down, picking up a newspaper some commuter had left behind.

  As I folded it, I caught a glimpse of the headline: BRUTALITÉ! L’ASSASSINAT DE DEUX ADOS DES FAMILLES DISTINGUÉES!

  Right. The murders our van driver had mentioned. I shivered as I glanced at the photos of the two victims, Gabrielle Roux and Pierre Beauclerc. Gabrielle was gorgeous and Pierre was alluring in the way we’d hoped our tour guide would be. I squinted at their faces for a moment, trying to figure out why they looked familiar.

  Then Pilar turned around. “Comment allez-vous?” she trilled.

  “She’s bien,” Hannah said, turning around us. “What else would she be?”

  I tried to smile. “Très bien.”

  But I felt like the faces on the folded-up newspaper were watching me, all the way to Versailles.

  It was a two-block walk from the train station to the palace. Jules spent much of it walking backward, talking about the French monarchy. “Versailles was originally a hunting lodge, until King Louis the Fourteenth — the Sun King — moved the royal court and French government here in 1682.”

  “Do I have lipstick on my teeth?” Hannah asked, tugging my sleeve.

  “Of course, the monarchy was abolished during the Revolution, beginning in the year 1789, when the Jacobins stormed the palace and captured the royal family.”

  Pilar stopped for a second. “Hang on, there’s a piece of gravel in my shoe.”

  “King Louis the Sixteenth and his queen, Marie Antoinette, were both imprisoned —”

  “Have you ever been out here, Pilar?” Hannah asked.

  “No, I —”

  “Shh,” I said to them both, and they were quiet.

  “— beheaded,” Jules said. He paused. “Any questions?”

  “You don’t seriously care about all this boring stuff, do you, Colette?” Hannah sniffed. “We’re not supposed to be learning.”

  Jules went on talking, but I gave up trying to hear him. Instead, I let Pilar lean on me because her feet were already sore, and I held Hannah’s purse while she dug through it looking for her eight-hundred-dollar Bulgari sunglasses.

  But when we turned the corner and the palace came into view, even Hannah was struck dumb. It was as big as a shopping mall and covered in ornate stonework and metal accents, with wings the size of slightly smaller shopping malls on either side. In the center was a gigantic cobblestone courtyard that had once, Jules said, bustled with the activities of the royal court. Separating us from the palace grounds was a fence of gleaming yellow-gold, impossibly vivid against the pale-blue sky.

  I looked from one side to the other and thought, My family might have come here. Maybe they even walked on these same cobblestones.

  “In front of us is the main palace,” Jules said. “Behind it lie the world-famous gardens. Farther off, you will find the private residences of the king and queen, Le Grand Trianon and Le Petit Trianon. Past Le Petit Trianon —”

  His voice faded out of my mind as I tried to imagine what it would be like to cross the bumpy courtyard in a horse-drawn carriage, knowing that when the carriage stopped, there would be an army of servants to help you out … carry your things … bow down to you….

  I could practically feel the weight of a gown on my hips, a powdered wig on my head.

  “Earth to Colette,” Hannah said. “We have to go get our tickets.”

  “Right,” I said, snapping out of it.

  After we crossed through the metal detectors, Madame Mitchell gave us the okay to split up, but threatened us with certain death if we failed to meet back by the entrance at 5 p.m. on the dot.

  “Are you listening, Hannah and Pilar?” she said.

  “No,” Hannah said under her breath. But Pilar nodded and gave the teacher a thumbs-up.

  Then we were on
our own. Hannah declared that first we would walk through the main house (only she could look at this place and call it a “house”), and then we’d venture onto the grounds when the day got a bit warmer.

  The wings contained a series of rooms, one leading to the next like links on a chain. You could imagine someone spending a whole morning lounging on the brocade sofas and satin chairs as they waited for their audience with the king. The walls were covered in jewel-toned panels of silk, with huge oil paintings and carved marble busts everywhere.

  Hannah didn’t linger; she entered a room, looked around, and then started for the exit on the other side. I tried to take a few pictures, but it was hard to keep up with her pace.

  Finally, we stopped at the entrance to a grand expanse of a hallway.

  “The Hall of Mirrors,” Pilar said, reading from her map.

  The room was as long as a football field, lined with gigantic mirrors, soaring arched windows, and classical statues. Hanging from the ceiling must have been forty crystal chandeliers. Thinking of the work that would have gone into creating such a place made me feel still and silent.

  It was a work of art, a masterpiece that you could actually walk right into. And once upon a time, people had lived here, walked through it as they discussed their dogs, or what they were having for dinner, or who’d looked fat in her ball gown the previous night.

  I felt a tightening in my chest, a sharp spike of intense sadness — almost like nostalgia, except it was for a life I’d never lived.

  “So,” Hannah said, suddenly turning on us, “I didn’t want to say anything before now, but I talked to my dad this morning, and everything’s settled.”

  Settled?

  I glanced at Pilar, to see if she was in on it — whatever it was. But she seemed lost, too.

  Hannah wore the beginning of an incredibly self-satisfied smile. “Next Saturday” — she paused for what felt like five minutes — “we’re coming to a party here.”

  A party? Here?

  “Whose party?” Pilar asked.

  “It’s being given by the embassy,” Hannah said. “And Dad’s friend got us on the list. Just the three of us.”

  “No way,” Pilar said. Then she gave a little hop and then a bunch of hops that ended with her arms around Hannah’s shoulders in a tight hug. “No way, no way, are you serious?”

  Hannah backed out of the embrace. “No, I’m joking. Of course I’m serious. It’s Saturday night, and it’s a costume ball, and we’re going to have a limo come and pick us up at the hotel — I mean, whatever French people consider a limo.”

  Pilar stared at her, open-mouthed.

  Hannah turned to me. “Well, Colette? You usually have something to say for yourself.”

  “It’s … it’s going to be amazing.” I was still in shock. My voice sounded like someone had let the air out of it. “I can’t believe it.”

  Hannah, gratified by my reaction, deigned to give me a warm smile.

  “And only for my besties,” she said. “Remember that. Because you guys are special.”

  Hidden in her compliment was a buried threat. Specialness, in Hannah’s eyes, was something that could be taken away as easily as it had been granted.

  One thing was for certain — I was going to spend the week on my best behavior.

  We continued through the Hall of Mirrors. Knowing we would be coming back to Versailles for a gala event made every gleaming surface glow that much brighter. My skin prickled with excitement.

  At one point, I found myself alone in a quiet stretch of the room, apart from Hannah, Pilar, and the tourist groups. I stopped and looked into the mirror, wondering how many countless people had stared into it over the centuries. I let my eyes focus on its clouded surface rather than my own face, and was overcome for a moment by a dizzy, disoriented feeling.

  A flash of movement behind my reflection brought me back to the present, and I caught a glimpse of a woman in full period costume among the crowd. Her pale-pink dress was almost ridiculous in its proportions — wide from the front and narrow from the sides. It was impeccably adorned with ruffles and bows and gathers and lace. Her hair was piled high on her head, small tendrils hanging down, with a jaunty little V-shaped hat placed in such a way that three massive white feathers arced over her right shoulder.

  “Wow,” I whispered, turning to get a better look at her.

  But when I scanned the room, she was gone.

  Then a massive wave of tourists approached like a wall of water. I could imagine the poor woman trapped in the center of the group, mobbed by people eager to add Picture with costume character to their list of French accomplishments, as if this were Disney World.

  Pilar called my name from the exit doorway, and I hurried to catch up.

  I couldn’t stop thinking about the woman as we continued through the rest of the main palace. And even though I knew Hannah would tell me to forget about her, I kept checking behind us to see if she’d reappeared.

  I was desperate to see her up close. Not just because of her clothes, which I would love to get a closer look at …

  But because of what I was almost positive I’d seen around her neck …

  A medallion, just like mine.

  The lush green grounds were as impressive as the palace itself. They stretched on as far as the eye could see. A wide gravel path ran down the center, bordered by trees whose branches were groomed into impossibly straight vertical lines. The view was broken up by spraying fountains and enormous ponds reflecting the sky.

  Hannah, Pilar, and I stopped for lunch at a little open-air restaurant next to the reflecting pool. I ordered a ham-and-brie baguette, creamy cheese and salty ham sandwiched between two pieces of bread so crusty they scraped the roof of my mouth. As we ate, we saw the rest of our group pass by us and start down the side road that led to the Grand and Petit Trianons — the king and queen’s private residences.

  “I’m gonna hit the ladies’ room,” Hannah said.

  Pilar stood up, too. And then they waited for me, as if we were chained together.

  “I actually need to ask Madame Mitchell something,” I said. “I’m going to try to catch them, okay? Then I’ll double back.”

  “They must be halfway there by now,” Hannah said. “Just wait for us at the Grand Trianon.”

  “Okay,” I said, although that wasn’t even where I wanted to go. “But what if I don’t find you?”

  “I’m going to pee my pants,” Pilar said. “I think I drank too much coffee.”

  Hannah looked exasperated. “Colette, we’ll either see you there or we won’t. Now, if you’ll excuse us, Pilar needs to potty.”

  I nodded and started down the path, trying to look like I was rushing to find our teacher.

  But as soon as Hannah and Peely were out of sight, I slowed down and felt a small, triumphant glow.

  Because I wasn’t trying to catch up with anybody. I was just trying to get away from my friends. Managing to do so with Hannah’s express permission was like a bonus.

  I couldn’t explain why, but I wanted to be alone.

  And now I had the whole afternoon to myself.

  I followed the long, tree-lined path toward Le Petit Trianon. The building was beautiful, but it was small and boxy and almost plain. I mean, certainly not small relative to where I now lived, but to people like Hannah and Pilar, this place might not be completely awe-inspiring.

  Inside, I got the same impression. Compared to the all-out opulence of the main palace, it felt cozy and intimate. There was still plenty of grandeur — plaster carvings on the walls, floors of checkerboard marble tile, and a chandelier hanging above the grand staircase — but also a vibe of privacy and closeness. You could see how a person would feel more at home here, like she had her own little space.

  There were hardly any tourists, so I had time to linger, stopping in each doorway to look around before wandering into the next room. The air was still, but there was an underlying energy. It felt quiet … but not empty.


  Kings and queens walked here, I thought, looking over what had once been a billiards room. As I turned to move on, I caught a flash out of the corner of my eye — a shape moving outside the window.

  I peered through the glass but saw nothing except a flock of sheep grazing on a distant pasture and a pair of old ladies wandering down a winding dirt path.

  But I could have sworn I’d seen a pale-pink dress.

  As I stepped back from the window, I noticed that it had an elaborate metal handle with a lock.

  And carved on the lock was the same spiky flower that was cut out of the key in my medallion. Checking the other windows revealed that each one had the same fancy lock, and on each lock was the same flower carving.

  I felt my throat tighten almost imperceptibly.

  I headed upstairs, following a path through a series of little rooms — dining rooms, game rooms, music rooms — and stopping at the queen’s bedroom.

  Every piece of fabric — the curtains on the windows, the bedspread, the drapes around the bed, and even the chairs — featured a white background with tiny sprays of little blue flowers, each petal ending in a delicately spiked fork.

  It wasn’t exactly the same as the design on the medallion — it was missing the key. But the flower being featured so prominently definitely raised my curiosity. Had the Iselin family — my family — had some real connection to the royals?

  A door to my left led to a small, square room with walls of light blue, decorated with white carvings like the frosting on a cake. There didn’t seem to be any windows, but on each wall was a large gold-rimmed mirror.

  I stepped into the room and saw myself reflected a million times. I spun in a slow circle, taking in the smell of polished wood and that hard-to-pin-down scent that just meant “old.” As I completed my turn and glanced at my reflection, I froze.

  The face in the mirror wasn’t my own.

  The eyes were set a little wider, there was a widow’s peak in the center of the forehead, and the lips were fuller. I was so captivated by the odd sight that I hardly had time to realize that it wasn’t just the face that was different — none of what was reflected was me, unless I’d somehow changed into a floor-length black dress.