"Monsieur Marchal?"

He was bent over a book, quill in hand, writing furiously in a tiny, meticulous script. He held up a long brown hand without looking up.

"Wait."

He carried on writing for a moment more, looked the page over for a beat, then closed the book softly, put it in a drawer, locked the drawer and dropped the key into one of the inner pockets of his vest. Only then did he look up, pinning her with a cool,brown-eyed gaze that missed little, gave away even less.

"Who are you?"

In spit of herself, she almost smiled. He was so like Lauren had described. Any other man of his position, with his cares, would have never agreed to see her, a stranger, a servant, sight unseen and with no explanation. He would have dismissed her supplication out of hand, or at best turned the task to one of his subordinates. But not Fabien Marchal; he had been born knowing what most men never learn - that the one mystery you leave unsolved will be the one that gets you killed. He wanted to unravel the anomaly she presented for himself.

She noticed a tinge of impatience had crept into his impassive expression. She stood up straighter and spoke.

"I am no one, monsieur. A scullery maid, the King's servant. But my name is Valerie StCleu; Lauren StCleu, lately in your service, was my sister."

One eyebrow twitched, that's all. He made only that concession to surprise.

"I knew she had a sister. But not that you had been brought to Versailles. I understood you were back on the farm, with your younger brothers, in.." his brown eyes glazed slightly as he rifled in his impressive memory for the place, "in Pacy, no?"

She nodded.

"I was sir. But lately my sister summoned me here, found me a place in the palace kitchens."

"She did not tell me. I did not know."

He frowned a little as he said this, as if it vexed him rather. And that too was as Lauren had said. "If someone takes a piss, he wants to know before its cooled," she'd scoffed, but there had been a curious affection in her voice that belied her coarse mockery. She'd liked Marchal, Valerie had been sure, although her hard-nosed sister would probably have bitten out her tongue before she'd have admitted it. Standing before him now, Valerie was hard put to understand why; the man had a palpable hardness about him, and was regarding her disapprovingly - and his frown only deepened as she said, thinking to placate him, "the comings and goings of kitchenmaids are beneath your notice, I'm sure monsieur."

"I will be the judge of that," he snapped. He sat back in his chair and appraised her.

"Did you know the nature of your sister's employment?"

His tone was bored, businesslike, but she felt instinctively this was deceptive. He wants to know how much I know, she realised. And he will not want it to be too much. She briefly considered lying, dismissed it almost instantly. She wanted something from this man, and it would not be an auspicious beginning if she began by attempting to deceive him. Besides, self-preservation suggested he was a man you only got the chance to lie to once.

"I knew she was no serving maid, monsieur. She helped you with... your work. To protect the King. But she was discreet, monsieur. I know nothing of particulars; only that she enjoyed your trust."

He scowled.

"Misplaced, as it would seem."

She flinched despite herself. Lauren, she was sure, was beyond earthly pain; but she knew it would have hurt her sister to hear him say that, to dismiss years of loyal service over so minor a lapse as to have loved her own little sister. She held her tongue, however, waited, silent. Eventually, he spoke.

"You speak of her in the past tense. You know, then, that she is dead?"

She had known, of course. Lauren hadn't returned to the chamber they shared for over a week, was nowhere to be found. Rumours that she had gone back to her family in Pacy Valerie knew to be false. There had been only one realistic conclusion to draw. And she had not expected Marchal to sugar-coat the truth for her. Even so, the pain was still raw; she found she had a lump in her throat, could only nod in confirmation.

"And given your knowledge of her employment, I trust I need not elaborate on the manner of her death?"

Murdered, then. As Valerie had suspected. Murdered by one of Marchal's targets, who had discovered the seemingly innocent chambermaid knew far too much.

"No.'

She kept her voice low to stop it shaking, stared at her feet.

"If I had known that you were with her here, I would have come and told you myself."

Her head jerked up, surprised. Even if he had known of her, she would not have expected such a courtesy from one who stood at the right hand of the king. He seemed grimly amused by her obvious incredulity.

"Well you might doubt it. But it is so nevertheless. She died because of my misjudgment. I did not see where danger lay until it was too late. She tried to warn me; I should have listened. I did not. I owed it to her kin at least to admit that."

He did not, she reflected, sound like a man racked with guilt. More like a moneylender, blandly totting up what was due. She ought to hate him, she knew, to blame him for her sister's death. But she did not. She realised that to to so was to slight her sister, to cast her as Marchal's naïve dupe. Lauren deserved better than that. She had been quick witted and adventurous, and it wasn't just the money that had drawn her to work for Marchal; she had relished the power she had over her supposed betters, she who knew their secrets, uncovered their lies. She had known the risks, had thought them worth taking. She had never been one for regrets.

"My sister was no fool, sir, could well take care of herself. And if she had her own suspicions, she would have been even more careful. If her death could have been avoided, she would have avoided it. There was nothing more you could have done."

Now it was his turn to look up sharply. That single dark eyebrow quirked upward, and an almost wary expression passed over his face. After holding her gaze for a long moment, he gave the smallest of nods in acknowledgment of the unsolicited absolution her words offered.

"It may give you some comfort to know that the murderer is now dead."

She nodded in return, although in truth it made no difference to the aching grief she felt for the loss of her sister, felt sure she would always feel. Lauren had been more than a sister to her; almost 15 years Valerie's elder, Lauren had been 18 when their mother had died bearing their youngest brother, and had been the only mother any of the younger children could remember. As their father was a violent drunk, she was the only stability they had as well.

Valerie had cried for days when Lauren went off to seek her fortune in Paris; but the messages she sent by pedlars telling of her rise, from a kitchen maid in the Palais Royale to the housemaid of the king's own chief of police, she had been happy for her sister. And when the Royal Court had moved to Versailles, and Lauren sent a message that Valerie should join her there, her joy had been unconfined. It was then Lauren had given her a brief but unvarnished overview of what her work for Marchal really involved. But even that hadn't been enough to worry Valerie unduly; all knew how high the King's spymaster stood in his favour. She had had a child's faith in her sister's ability to ride the whirlwind, to profit from her connection to such a powerful man.

Marchal did not look at that moment as if he were particularly relishing his power. If the death of her sister's murderer gave Valerie little pleasure, it clearly didn't Marchal either. His eyes had darkened, his face turned inward on itself. His hand had crept to the lower right side of his doublet, which he was kneading fractiously with long, square fingers. She had heard a rumour he had been wounded; could that explain why he looked so pale?

Abruptly, he rose, came around the table towards her. She fought the urge to take a few steps back, forced herself to look up into his face. He wasn't a tall man, she realised. Not like the Duc D'Orleans, or that horrible, ragged old man the Comte du Cassel. His chin was no higher than her nose. She tipped her head back to meet his eyes.

"So what is it you want from me, Mademoiselle StCleu? If one of my police died in service, it would be customary to provide a pension for his widow, his children. I'm not sure if the same applies for the sisters of spies; it would be very awkward to enter into the Royal Rolls."

She couldn't tell if he was joking or not, or if he truly expected her to respond.

"I would not ask, Monsieur. I am not here expecting a handout."

"Why then?"

She gulped. This was the moment then, to make her desperate bid for her desire; would he laugh in her face, turn her out of his chamber? Would her dream of bettering herself die here in Versailles, as surely as her sister had?

"I would not ask for something for nothing, Monsieur. But I would ask you to consider me – taking me on in my sister's place."

Now she really had surprised him. He stared at her incredulously. She rushed on ahead, hoping that by forestalling his refusal she could make it less certain.

"It would arouse no suspicion, raising me up – you need a chambermaid, and trained staff are hard to come by out here in Versailles. Half of the ladies of the court are sharing ladies' maids, so who would question a man like yourself – a single man, with many responsibilities – making do with a kitchen maid? I learn quickly, Monsieur, and and you could trust in me as you trusted in her – I would not be so foolish as to betray you. I could-"

"Stop."

That was all he said, one word. But in it she could hear the end of all her hopes. She shut her mouth, felt her shoulders drooping dejectedly downward. He was walking around her now, like a farmer at a fair circling a horse he wasn't sure if he would buy.

"Your sister died in my service. And yet, you want to step into her shoes. Why?"

She had not been expecting that. The truth was out of her mouth before she could think better of it.

"I need the money, Monsieur."

He stopped in his tracks – then after a moment continued to circle her.

"I paid your sister well – not a king's ransom, but well. What would you need that kind of money for? Are a kitchenmaid's expenses so high?"

He's wondering what my secret is, she realised. If I drink, or gamble, or have a child in secret I must raise. Anything that might make me vulnerable to bribery or blackmail, might make me a weak link. Which means he is considering my request.

She knew her only choice was to come right out with it, but for a moment she really wasn't sure she could. How could she confess her deficiency to this man, with his cold, exacting eyes that looked right through her, weighed and appraised and found wanting? But she must. So she raised her chin, fixed her eyes on a mouldy spot on the wall, heard herself say in a hard, distant voice: "my sister was very good to me, Monsieur Marchal. She had ambitions that I should better myself, raise my station in life. To that end, she was paying one of the King's junior clerks to teach me how to read. Now there is no more money, the lessons have stopped. I wish to start them again."

Her words seemed unnaturally loud against the silence that followed them. She could feel the silence, pressing against her chest, ringing in her ears.

"You cannot read?"

She felt the blush climbing up her chest towards her throat. She looked around her at his room, the shelves and shelves of books, not a one kept just for show, all worn, well-used. How could a man like this ever understand?

"No, Monsieur, I cannot. But I wish to. Lauren taught herself, back on the farm; but she didn't have the time, or truth be told, the patience to teach us children. I have made a start; I only want the chance to carry on. I want to learn, Monsieur. I want to learn all that there is to know."

Suddenly, she couldn't bear it anymore. Her shame, her sorrow, the crushed shards of her hope digging into her heart. She turned on her heel, only to find him standing right behind her.

"Forgive me, Monsieur. I have already taken too much of your time."

She waited for him to dismiss her – distressed though she was, she was not so foolish as to give him offence by disregarding protocol. But he did not. Instead, he gave her a long, hard look, one which seemed to be taking inventory of her ever. The blush had by now crept to her hairline. She knew she was no beauty – she had seen beauty at Versailles, these dainty, milk-white ladies with their piles of silky hair, their dresses of satin and velvet. A far cry from her frizzy, red-blonde hair, her hazel eyes set deep in her face amidst a sea of copper freckles, her sun-browned southern skin and work-roughened hands. Although Marchal did not seem like a man to be persuaded by a pretty face, she couldn't help but feel she needed every advantage she could get at this point, and lamented that she didn't even have physical charms to fall back on.

Finally, he released her from his gaze, turned back for his desk and sat down, took out his book once again and picked up his pen. As he wrote, he spoke without looking at her.

"I will forget your presumption in offering yourself for a role you are not fit to accomplish. An assistant of mine must be able to read correspondence and forge it when required, to make notes of all they see and hear in my service. While natural wit can get you so far, without these basic skills you would be nothing but an encumbrance to me."

She lifted her chin, clenched her jaw to stop her lips trembling. He might scorn her to her face, but she'd be damned before she'd let him see how much it stung. She turned to go, when he halted her with a word.

"Wait. I am not finished with you yet."

She turned reluctantly, only to see he had pushed a piece of paper across the desk, towards her.

"You would make an utterly inadequate spy, and I have no need of you in that capacity. I do, however, as you correctly pointed out, need a chambermaid. This document outlines the terms under which we might make such an arrangement. If I took you on In that capacity, I would pay you 15 francs a week, plus your room and board here at Versailles. Would that be enough to satisfy your junior clerk?"

Her mouth fell open. 15 francs a week was more than three times what a chambermaid, even to the nobility, could usually expect to make. She looked him sharply in the eye, trying to tell if he was mocking her. His dark, unreadable gaze turned slightly impatient. Before he could change his mind, she nodded hastily.

"Yes. Yes Monsieur Marchal. That would be more than acceptable. I thank you."

He waved her thanks away.

"My requirements of those in my service are few, but exacting. I expect diligence; I demand discretion; and most important of all, I insist on total honesty, at least as far as I'm concerned. Those who attempt to lie to me come to regret it deeply, but not long."

The cold look in his eye as he said this made her shiver involuntarily. These were words well remembered, caution said.

"I accept your terms, Monsieur. I will work hard, keep all your secrets for you, and keep none from you. You have my word on that."

"Words are cheap," he said. "But we shall see. Make your mark here, and you can start tomorrow."

He held the quill out to her languidly. The blush rose up her neck again.

"I cannot write my name. Not yet. And I will not make a cross, like a peasant. I cannot."

Again the eyebrow quirked upwards, as if in surprise at himself for being surprised. Then he picked up the inkwell on his desk, and poured a little of the brown liquid onto its weathered surface.

"Give me your hand," he instructed. After s moment's hesitation, she did, felt a silver shiver shoot through her arm and down her spine at the unfamiliar contact. He gripped her thumb firmly, dipped it into the ink, then pressed the pad down gently on the page.

"There. You're hired."