Free Waters of Versailles by Kelly Robson Page B

walked away.
    The crowd parted to let him pass, opening a view to the fountain. Two of the young men were leaning over the basin. The boy with the curls crouched at the side of the reservoir. Sylvain broke into a run.
    The boy was banging on the ice with his diamond ring. The reservoir rang like a drum with each impact.
    Sylvain grabbed the boy by the scruff of his neck.
    â€œThere’s something in there, monsieur,” he squealed. “A creature, a monster. I saw it.”
    Sylvain threw the boy to the floor and drew his sword. The boy scrabbled backward, sliding across the marble. The two friends rushed to the boy’s side and yanked him to his feet. They backed away, all three clinging to each other. Behind them a crowd gathered—some shocked, some confused, most highly entertained. They pointed at him as if he were a beast in a menagerie.
    Several men made a show of dropping their hands to the hilts of their dress swords, but not one of them drew.
    The fountain sputtered. A blossom crashed into the basin, splashing gouts of champagne.
    Gérard shoved through the crowd, wig askew, slipping on the wet floor. He skidded into place at Sylvain’s side.
    The fountain sprayed champagne across their backs and high to the ceiling, snuffing out a hundred candles overhead.
    â€œGo to your wife. Get her out of the palace,” said Sylvain.
    Gérard ran full-speed for the door.
    Sylvain raised his sword and brought it crashing down on the fountain. Ice limbs shattered. Champagne and ice vaulted overhead and fell, spraying debris across the marble floor. He shifted his grip and smashed the pommel of his sword on the side of the reservoir. It cracked and split. He hit it again and again until the floor flooded with golden liquid. Sylvain threw down his sword and shouldered the ice aside.
    â€œPapa?”
    The little fish was curled into a quivering ball. Sylvain slipped and fell to his hands and knees. He crawled toward her, reached out.
    â€œIt’s all right, my little one. Come here, my darling.”
    She lifted her arms. He gathered her to his chest. She burrowed her face into his neck, quaking.
    â€œNoisy,” she sobbed. “Too loud. Hurts. Papa.”
    Sylvain held her on his lap, champagne seeping through his clothes. He cupped his palms over her ears and squeezed her to his heart, rocking back and forth until her shivering began to subside. Then he pulled himself to his feet, awkward and unbalanced with the child in his arms.
    He stepped out of the shattered ice into a line of drawn swords. Polished steel glinted, throwing points of light across the faces of the household guard. Sylvain shielded the child with his body as he scanned the crowd.
    The jostling guests were forced against the walls by the line of guards. The plumes of the king’s hat disappeared into the Salon of Peace, followed by the broad backs of his bodyguards. Madame, her sister, and their ladies clustered on the royal dais, guarded by the Marshal de Noailles.
    De Noailles had personally executed turncoat soldiers with the very same sword that now shone in his hand.
    â€œLet the water go, my little one,” Sylvain whispered.
    She blinked up at him. “Be a bad girl, Papa?” Her brow furrowed in confusion.
    â€œThe water pipes, the reservoirs. Let it all go.”
    â€œPapa?”
    â€œGo ahead, little fish.”
    She relaxed in his arms, as if she had been holding her breath a long time and could finally breathe.
    A faint rumble sounded overhead, distant. It grew louder. The walls trembled. Sylvain spread his palm over the nixie’s wet scalp as if he could armor her fragile skull. A mirror slipped to the floor and shattered. The guards looked around, trying to pinpoint the threat. Their swords wavered and dipped.
    The ceiling over the statue of Hermes bowed and cracked. Plaster rained down on the guests. The statue teetered and toppled. The guests pushed through the guards, scattering their