Scandal - COMPLETED

Betrayal Sneak Peak

Paris, Summer 1803

During the day, the stretch of the Rue du Temple that extended north from the Seine to pierce the heart of the third arrondissement might pass for any other poor district in the city. Barefoot children as thin as scarecrows chased alley cats; drunkards lolled in the gutters, unconscious of the sewage that seeped around them; prostitutes and their pimps reclined on balconies, nursing their hangovers from the night before; vendors hawked wares of cheap trinkets and false remedies for venereal diseases to passersby.

While the sun shone, the police found the courage to brave the densely packed neighborhoods, never less than five in a group. They'd been sent forth from Napoleon's recently established Prefecture of Police, an organization headed by a man named Louis-Nicolas Dubois, who carried a chip on his shoulder from the revolution and still felt the need to prove himself. In the few years that he'd been in power, he'd demolished two of the strongholds once held by criminals, making way for fishmongers, blacksmiths, and other honest merchants of their ilk to move in.

His aim was to rid the city of her slums. The rebel leaders of the counter-cultures that flourished within them knew what he was after and were turning the districts against his gendarmes. Soon, it might not be safe for Monsieur Dubois's forces to come here even during the day. They already knew better than to risk it when the sun slipped below the horizon, and ensured they were safely away by the time the last of the dying rays bathed the cobblestones in the colors of blood and gold.

It was then that the district rumbled to life, and the meaning behind its name, The Court of Miracles, became apparent. Before the first candles could be lit, the streets filled with beggars, some squabbling with flea-bitten fury over the most profitable corners, still others streaming outward from this den of cutthroats and thieves to plead coin from those better off than they were. The horde was made up of mutes, blind men, and cripples, with the spare raving lunatic and doomsday prophesier thrown in for good measure. Come the end of their shifts - which usually occurred when they'd scrounged enough coin to fill their bellies with cheap wine - the lame would stand tall, the blind would see, and the mutes would find their voices. Miraculously.

Ah, the court and all her jesters, I thought.

I strolled arm in arm through the thick of it with a man dressed as one of the many vagrants that haunted these boulevards and back alleys. He was utterly forgettable, neither too handsome nor too hideous to draw notice. The shirt he wore was threadbare and tattered. It flapped open to reveal an expanse of concaved chest, above which sharp collarbones jutted like knives. The trousers that sat low on his hips were in no better condition, stained at the seat and torn across each knee. They were two sizes too big, held in place with a length of rope he'd scavenged from the nearby docks.

He walked with a staggering limp, reliant on my support as we made our way down the middle of the street. Anyone that remarked upon his gait would be met with an unintelligible story of how he'd sustained the injury. Many would see the madness in his eyes, and paired with his slurred speech and rank breath, they would decide against further conversation in favor of fresher air. The few that were too deep in their cups to notice the smell were usually frightened off when he pulled a knife and brandished it as he threw himself into the retelling of his tale.

I sashayed alongside him, bold as any other woman for rent, exaggerating the sway of my hips in the sensual, rolling gait of my peers. My dress was fifteen years out of fashion, once a vivid, violent red, but faded now into an orange mockery of its former glory. The bust was too large, sagging open to reveal my sweat-stained corset and the small, mounded tops of my breasts.

Just last night, the lace that edged my left sleeve was yanked free by the grasping hands of a "mute" beggar, and now it swayed to and fro with every step I took, a noose dangling in the wind. My hem was stained six inches up with mud and dust, more than half of my muslin bows and ribbons were missing, and instead of the fine stays that once held it closed, my bodice was laced shut with yellow silk that clashed spectacularly with the color of the gown.