Her question was a loaded pistol pointed right at my head, and I had a horrible feeling she already knew the answer.
My throat went dry. My mind, usually a neat spreadsheet of logical options, was a chaotic mess of static. What was he looking for? The real Louis? Probably nothing. He was a man famous for being more interested in his dinner than his kingdom.
Saying that would get me killed.
Marie Antoinette's gaze was sharp, probing. The soft, concerned woman from a moment ago was gone, replaced by a queen who sensed something was deeply wrong. I couldn't look away. Breaking eye contact would be an admission of guilt.
My knuckles were white where I gripped the heavy ledger. Think, Miller, think. An auditor's job is to present the facts in a way that serves the client. Right now, she was the client. A very powerful, very suspicious client.
I slowly closed the book, the heavy cover thudding shut with a sound of finality. I took a breath. And I chose the only path I had: a dangerous, reckless half-truth.
"I'm looking for France," I said, my voice quiet but firm.
The confusion that washed over her face was immediate. It was exactly the reaction I'd hoped for. "France is all around us, Louis."
"No." I pushed myself out of the chair, the weight of my royal getup suddenly feeling like armor instead of a costume. I met her eyes directly, a thing I'd read the real Louis was too timid to do. "I mean the real one. The one buried under all these numbers."
I gestured to the mountain of ledgers on my desk. "These books… they aren't a kingdom. They're a patient bleeding to death. I look at them, and I don't see our country. I see… a failing business."
Her expression softened slightly, the hard suspicion replaced by bewilderment.
I pressed the advantage, the words tumbling out of me, a bizarre mix of corporate jargon and desperate sincerity. "I… I want to understand," I said, my voice dropping. "To be a better king." I took a small step closer, forcing myself not to flinch. "For you. For our children. For everyone."
God, that was cheesy. Sounded like a line from a bad political ad. Vote Louis Capet, he's fiscally responsible! But the craziest part was that it wasn't a total lie. The 'saving my own neck from the guillotine' part was just a very, very important footnote.
The single candle on my desk flickered, casting dancing shadows across her face. Her eyes, wide and uncertain, reflected the tiny flame. She didn't know what to make of me. This intense, focused man was not the indecisive, pliable husband she knew.
She stood there for a long moment, the silence stretching until my nerves were screaming. Then, she gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.
"Be careful you do not get lost in the numbers, Louis," she whispered. "They can be as treacherous as any courtier."
She turned and left without another word, leaving me alone in the flickering darkness. The air in the room still seemed to crackle with her presence.
I hadn't fooled her. Not completely. But I had thrown her off balance. I'd bought myself a little bit of time. And right now, time was the only currency that mattered.
The next morning, the sun rose on a new man. The terrified castaway was gone. In his place was Alex Miller, Senior Auditor, and I had a case to crack.
I couldn't just march up to the Duc de Polignac and demand to know if he was robbing the country blind. An accusation like that, without ironclad proof, would be my death sentence. No, I had to be smarter than that. I had to use the system against itself.
I needed an expert. Someone who lived and breathed dusty old documents.
I summoned a junior minister, a nervous young man who looked like he was barely out of his teens.
"I require the services of the Royal Archivist," I announced, trying to make my voice sound casual, regal. "A Monsieur Lefèvre, I believe?"
"At once, Your Majesty!" the minister squeaked, bowing and scurrying away.
A few minutes later, Monsieur Lefèvre appeared. He was a small, timid man with ink stains on his fingers and a permanent stoop, as if he spent his life bowing to taller books. He looked like a mouse that had wandered into a den of lions. Perfect.
"Your Majesty," he whispered, his eyes glued to my shoes.
"Monsieur Lefèvre," I began, feigning a thoughtful air. "I have developed a sudden interest in… historical penmanship. A fascinating art."
The archivist's head bobbed up and down. "Indeed, Sire! Truly fascinating!"
"I wish to see the signed letters of patent for several of our most esteemed nobles," I continued. "Let us start with the Duc de Polignac. And the Comte d'Artois. And the Duc d'Orléans." I threw in the other two names to muddy the waters, to make it look like a random sampling. "I wish to conduct a study in calligraphy."
Lefèvre's eyes widened slightly. "A… a fascinating hobby, Your Majesty."
I don't need a confession, I thought, a grim satisfaction settling in my gut. I just need a sample. It's forensic accounting, 18th-century style. Compare the signatures. Find the match.
"See to it," I commanded, giving him a dismissive wave.
He bowed again and scurried out, leaving me with a profound sense of progress. I had a clear, actionable plan. I was finally fighting back.
That feeling lasted for about two hours.
Lefèvre returned, but not with the documents. He was alone, and his face was pale with sweat. He was wringing his hands so hard I thought he might snap his own fingers.
He stopped ten feet away from me and bowed. "My deepest apologies, Sire."
A cold knot formed in my stomach. "Where are the documents, Lefèvre?"
"They are… unavailable," he stammered, refusing to meet my eyes. "The Duke's records are currently under review by his own household. A matter of family legacy, they say." He swallowed. "They are inaccessible."
I felt a flash of hot, 21st-century frustration. In my world, if a CEO asked for a file, he got the file. End of story.
"Inaccessible?" I said, my voice dangerously low. "To the King of France?"
"Protocol, Sire," he whispered, his voice trembling. "It is… complicated."
Of course it was complicated. The whole damn system was designed to be complicated. Protocol. A pretty word for a brick wall built to protect the powerful. Polignac had gotten word of my request and blocked me. He hadn't just dodged the punch; he'd caught my fist mid-air.
He wasn't just a shark. He owned the whole damn aquarium. This wasn't a straight line. It was a maze, and I was running out of time.
I dismissed the terrified archivist and paced the length of my study. Direct orders wouldn't work. The nobles had a thousand ways to delay, to obstruct, to hide behind ancient rules I didn't understand. I needed another way in. A back door.
Then, something clicked in my memory. A random detail from a biography I'd read in college, a piece of trivia about the very man I was pretending to be.
Louis XVI's hobby.
Locksmithing.
The court saw it as a strange, common pastime, beneath the dignity of a king. But what does a locksmith do? He solves puzzles. He finds ways around obstacles. He opens things that are meant to stay shut.
It was perfect. A surge of inspiration, sharp and clear, cut through my frustration. I felt a strange, sudden connection to the man I'd replaced. Maybe we weren't so different after all. We were both problem-solvers.
"Stop following me," I snapped at the guards trailing me in the hall. They froze, stunned. I didn't wait for a response. I turned and strode away, navigating the gilded maze of Versailles from a map that was suddenly crystal clear in my mind.
I found the King's private workshop tucked away in a quiet corner of the palace. It was a dusty, cluttered room that smelled of oil and hot metal, a world away from the perfume and polish of the court. Metal lathes, vices, and files covered every surface. Half-finished locks and intricate metal puzzles were scattered across a heavy wooden workbench.
A young man was hunched over the bench, filing a piece of brass with intense concentration. He was built like a blacksmith, with broad shoulders and wiry arms, and his face was smudged with grease. He looked up as I entered, and his jaw dropped.
He scrambled to his feet, trying to bow and wipe his hands on his leather apron at the same time, nearly tripping over a stool. "Y-Your Majesty!"
This was him. Jean, the royal locksmith's apprentice. I'd read his name in the household staff ledger. He couldn't be more than twenty.
He was also someone completely outside the noble hierarchy. He wasn't part of the system. He was a worker. A craftsman.
Maybe, just maybe, he was someone I could trust.
"You are Jean?" I asked, my voice calm.
"Y-yes, Your Majesty!"
I walked over to the workbench, picking up a complex-looking brass lock. "I have a lock I cannot open," I said, turning it over in my hands. I looked up and met his terrified gaze. "But it is not made of metal. It is made of paper and ink."
His confusion was obvious. Good.
I had brought the ledger with me, tucked under my arm. Now, I placed it on the workbench, the rich leather looking completely out of place next to the greasy tools. The grimy, calloused hand of the locksmith's apprentice and the soft, pale hand of the King rested inches apart on the scarred wood.
I opened the book to the page with the fraudulent payments. I pointed, but not at the spidery, elegant signature. My finger landed on the blank paper beside it.
"Forget the name," I said, my voice a low command. Jean leaned in, his eyes wide. "I need to know who makes this paper. Who sells this ink. This specific blend."
I was asking him to use his skills not to pick a lock, but to trace a supply chain. To follow the conspiracy back to its source.
Jean stared at me, his eyes wide with a terrifying understanding. His mouth opened, then closed. He wasn't just being asked to fix something for the King.
He was being asked to spy. And in a place like Versailles, spying was a good way to lose your head.