
Lizabeth
The moment Lizabeth enters the forest surrounding Versailles, she lifts her skirts and breaks into a run. Her dress is a heavy, brocaded silk, complete with a wool petticoat and cotton-stuffed jacket to keep out the chill. But the farther she gets from the palace, the lighter she feels, until all the layers of fabric feel like nothing at all. She has to get away from the crushing weight of the palace—away from the weight of her promises and duties and lies. If only for but a moment.
However, no distance will ever be great enough to stop the images that play relentlessly in her mind. Even if she were to travel back to England, she’d still see it—the stiff, black finger, poking out from the velvet pouch. And the note next to it. Written by a man capable of murder and mutilation. One she was sent here to kill.
He called himself L’Ange de la Mort. The angel of death.
Perhaps in a few short weeks, he’ll be responsible for her death as well. But even death would be better than returning to Mother unsuccessful. Better than continuing to live a life where she’s wanted and loved by no one.
Lizabeth takes a breath, welcoming the winter chill that coats her lungs. A month in Versailles, and this is the first time she’s truly been alone. The lack of distractions leaves room for darker, more terrifying thoughts, but everything has been too much—too overwhelming—as of late. If she had remained trapped behind those gilded halls a second longer, she fears the pressure would have caused her to fold into herself and crumple, until nothing was left but a mere decorative shell.
That’s when a tree branch cracks behind her.
She whips her head around to peer into the darkness. Night has descended since she left the palace, and it’s difficult for her to discern between shadows and reality. She squints, but nothing is visible save for the dark silhouette of trees, black against the cobalt sky.
No one would be this far into the woods or wandering around this late. Surely, the noise was caused by a mere harmless animal?
Lizabeth has almost convinced herself the noise is nothing to fret about when an echo of muffled laughter drifts out of the darkness. Heart pounding in her chest, she scans her surroundings.
“Who's there?” she calls. Her voice hitches into a childish whine, and she curses herself for sounding so panicked.
There is no response.
For a few moments, the only sound permeating the forest is Lizabeth’s own ragged breathing. Then a figure shoots out from between the trees and tackles her to the ground.
A scream rips from her throat as she falls, echoing through the forest. Her attacker curses and pins her to the ground, using the weight of his body to keep her in place.
“A lady shouldn’t be out in the forest all alone,” he whispers.
“What do you want?” Lizabeth asks, knowing all too well how foolish she sounds. Her mother’s voice rings in her ears, screaming at her for lying on the ground like some kind of defenseless kitten. What in God’s name are you doing, child? it screams. You know how to fight for yourself!
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L'Ange de la Mort (The Art of Revolution #1)
Historical Fiction{Wattys 2018 Winner - The Contemporaries} Versailles, France 1789: Where the only things more prevalent than opulence and wealth, are secrets. At the dawn of the French Revolution, Paris is divided. In the glittering palace of Versailles, courtiers...
