The locksmith's fear was a mirror of my own, but beneath it, I saw a flicker of something else: the thrill of a puzzle that no one else could solve.
Jean stared at the ledger, then back at my face. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. The workshop was silent except for the frantic thumping of my own heart. I had just put this kid's life on the line. If he said no, I couldn't blame him. I'd just have to find another way.
He took a deep, shaky breath. "The paper..." he whispered, his voice rough. "It has a watermark. And the ink... it is a specific shade of black. Not the common kind." He looked up at me, his fear now mixed with a craftsman's pride. "I... I have friends who work for the stationers in Paris. I can ask."
Relief washed over me, so potent it almost made my knees weak. "Discreetly," I said, my voice low and urgent. "No one can know you are asking for me. No one."
He nodded, a silent, solemn vow. "Yes, Your Majesty."
I left him there, my secret agent in a leather apron. Now came the hardest part: waiting.
The walls of the palace felt like they were closing in. Every rustle of a silk dress, every whispered conversation just out of earshot, made my skin crawl. Was Polignac watching me? Did he know I was still digging? The paranoia was a physical weight.
I had to get out. I needed air.
I escaped the main palace, making my way toward the Petit Trianon, the Queen's private estate-within-an-estate. Historically, the King wasn't even allowed here without her express invitation. Screw that. My head was on the line; I'd break whatever ridiculous protocol I needed to.
The gardens here were different. Less formal, more natural. I followed a winding path, the scent of roses heavy in the air, and that's when I saw her.
Marie Antoinette was sitting on a secluded stone bench, half-hidden by a weeping willow. She was alone. No ladies-in-waiting, no guards. She wasn't the dazzling, untouchable queen of the court. She wore a simple white dress, and her hair was down, free of powder and jewels.
She looked young. And incredibly lonely.
My first instinct was to turn and walk away. To not disturb this private moment. But something made me stop. She was staring intently at a small, gold-framed object in her hands.
I took a quiet step closer. The crunch of gravel under my shoe made her jump. Her head snapped up, her eyes wide with alarm. She fumbled with the object, trying to hide it in the folds of her dress, but it was too late. I saw what it was. A miniature portrait.
It was of an older woman with a stern, regal face and piercing eyes. I knew that face. Empress Maria Theresa of Austria. Her mother.
"Sire," she said, her voice stiff and formal as she rose to her feet.
I held up a hand. "Please. Don't."
I walked over to the bench, my footsteps feeling loud and clumsy in the quiet garden. "Are you okay?" I asked softly.
The question seemed to startle her more than my presence had. Her composure, the perfect mask of the Queen, cracked for a second. "I am fine, Sire," she insisted, her voice tight. "Merely enjoying the air."
I looked at the portrait she was now clutching in her fist. I could see a single, glistening tear track on the painted ivory.
"It's okay to miss home," I said.
The words just came out. It wasn't the King speaking. It was Alex Miller, a man ripped from his own time, his own world. I'd been in this timeline for less than a week, and I was already suffocatingly homesick for a life that didn't exist anymore. For my tiny apartment, my crappy coffee, even for the hellish glow of my computer during tax season. I got it. I truly did.
Her breath hitched. She stared at me, her blue eyes filled with a raw, unguarded emotion I'd never seen before. The real Louis, from what I'd read, was kind but emotionally clumsy. He would have offered a formal, awkward platitude. He wouldn't have understood.
But I did.
"He died," she whispered, her voice cracking. She looked down at the portrait. "My brother, Maximilian. A letter arrived this morning."
My heart sank. I knew he was one of her favorite siblings. Another piece of her home, gone forever.
Without thinking, I sat down on the bench next to her. Not too close, but not far either. I didn't say anything. There was nothing to say. I just sat there, sharing the silence with her.
After a long moment, she let out a shuddering breath. "You are... different, Louis," she murmured, not looking at me. "These past few days."
"Is that a bad thing?" I asked, my own voice quiet.
She was silent for a long time. "I don't know yet," she finally answered.
The moment was fragile, a tiny spark of genuine connection in a world of artifice. It was terrifying. It made her real. And if she was real, then this was all real. And the guillotine was real, too.
I met Jean in the workshop after dark. The place was lit by a single lantern, casting long, dancing shadows that made the tools on the walls look like instruments of torture.
He didn't waste any time. His nervousness was gone, replaced by the electric excitement of a man who has solved the puzzle.
He pulled a grimy piece of paper from his pocket and laid it on the workbench. On it, written in rough charcoal, were three names.
"The stationer is a man named Monsieur Dubois," Jean whispered, his words coming in a rush. "Very proud of his work. Says he makes the finest paper in all of Paris." Jean pointed to the watermark on the ledger page. "This is his personal mark. He was happy to brag about his clients."
My eyes scanned the list. My heart pounded against my ribs.
"He said this paper, with this specific ink blend, is made for only the most discerning households," Jean continued. "It is a custom order."
I read the names. The first was the Comte d'Artois, the King's own brother. A notorious spendthrift. The second was the Duc d'Orléans, the King's cousin and rival. A possibility.
And the third name on the list was the household of the Duc de Polignac.
Bingo.
It wasn't proof of the signature. But it was a direct, physical link between Polignac's house and the fraudulent accounts. A thread I could pull.
I had my first real weapon. Now, I had to figure out how to use it without getting myself killed.
A direct accusation was still suicide. Polignac would deny it, and the court would close ranks. It would be my word against his, and I was the strange, "unwell" King.
I had to be smarter. I had to think like an auditor. Like a CEO.
When you find a department that's embezzling funds, you don't just fire the manager. You freeze their budget. You shut down their accounts. You cut off their blood supply.
The next morning, I summoned Calonne. He looked even more stressed than usual, his face pale and clammy.
I didn't mention the conspiracy. I didn't mention Polignac. I framed it as a bold, decisive move for the good of the nation.
"Monsieur Calonne," I announced, my voice ringing with a false confidence I didn't feel. "I have reviewed the state of the Royal Household's finances. The waste is unacceptable. The hemorrhaging of funds ends today."
I pushed a freshly written document across the polished desk. "A new royal decree. Effective immediately, there is a complete freeze on all payments from the King's Discretionary Accounts. All of them. Pending a full and thorough audit, to be personally overseen by me."
Calonne's eyes scanned the document, his jaw going slack. This was an earthquake. It was a declaration of war against the most powerful people at court.
"Sire... this will... this will cause a tremendous uproar," he stammered.
"Good," I said, my voice cold. "Let it."
I picked up the quill pen. The scratch of the nib on the parchment was the only sound in the room. I signed my name—Louis—with a flourish that was becoming less awkward each day. The ink was black and final.
Let's see how they react when the free money stops flowing, I thought. Starve the beast. Standard procedure.
I knew there would be blowback. I expected a visit from Polignac. I expected angry petitions from a dozen other nobles.
I never expected her.
That night, the doors to my study were thrown open with such force they slammed against the walls. It was Marie Antoinette.
Her face was a mask of cold fury. The fragile connection we'd shared in the garden, the quiet understanding—it was gone. Shattered. My victory suddenly tasted like ash in my mouth.
She stormed across the room and slapped a copy of my decree onto the desk. The paper trembled next to the candelabra.
"Louis, what have you done?" she demanded, her voice shaking with a rage that stunned me.
"I am trying to save the treasury," I said, my voice defensive. "It is my duty."
"Your duty?" she spat the word. "You have publicly humiliated my dearest friends! You are ruining the Polignacs! The Duchess has been like a sister to me! After all their loyalty to me… to us!"
My blood ran cold. Of course. Of course they hadn't come to me. They had run to her. They had twisted the story, painted themselves as the loyal victims and me as the cruel, mad tyrant. And they had sent her to fight their battle for them.
I never even considered it.
She took a step closer, her eyes glittering with unshed, angry tears of betrayal. "They told me you were not yourself, that some madness had taken you, but I defended you! I told them they were wrong!"
Her voice dropped to a whisper, heavy with a pain that was sharper than any anger. "Is this it, Louis? Is this your way of punishing me?"
I looked at her devastated face, and the terrible truth crashed down on me. My first real move to save France, to save myself, had just declared war on my own wife. The one person in this whole nightmare I was just starting to see as human.
I was trapped. Saving my kingdom might mean destroying her.