The tapestries of Versailles hung heavy with history, their silken threads whispering tales of kings and queens, of duty and desire. Lady Oscar François de Jarjayes, commanding her post within the gilded corridors, felt the weight of it all pressing down on her. She had come to a decision, a quiet, resolute pact with her own heart. André, her steadfast companion, her shadow, her most loyal friend... he was her true love. It was logical. It was honorable. It was… decided. But God had other plans

Yet, a thin, persistent thread of unease ran through her certainty, a faint, almost imperceptible discord in the symphony of her resolve. Duty, she understood. Friendship, she cherished. But love, true, soul-shattering love, felt like a concept she’d analyzed and concluded upon, rather than one that had taken root and blossomed unbidden.

She walked with her usual brisk, purposeful stride, navigating the labyrinthine passages of the Queen’s private apartments. The air was thick with the scent of lilies and intrigue. Lost in thought, her mind replaying André's kind eyes, her gaze perhaps a fraction too distant, she rounded a corner with less caution than was her habit.

Thump.

A soft gasp. Oscar's hand shot out automatically, steadying the slight figure she’d collided with. A cascade of loose sketches, charcoal sticks, and a small, leather-bound notebook scattered across the polished parquet floor.

"Forgive me!" Oscar's voice, usually crisp, held a murmur of genuine regret. Her blue eyes, accustomed to scanning battlefields and discerning threats, now focused on the young woman before her.

She was... breathtaking. Not in the grand, opulent way of the court ladies, but with a delicate, almost ethereal beauty. Her hair, the color of burnished copper, had escaped its ribbons and framed a face of exquisite porcelain. Wide, intelligent eyes, the shade of deep moss, stared up at Oscar, first with surprise, then with a flicker of something akin to awe. A small, faint flush bloomed on her cheeks, contrasting with the soft smudges of charcoal on her chin. She was dressed simply, in a gown of pale blue linen, suggesting she was perhaps an artist, or a scholar's companion, certainly not a lady of high rank.

Oscar, finding herself oddly reluctant to move, knelt too, helping to collect the fallen items. Their hands brushed, and a jolt, sharp and unexpected, arced through Oscar's fingers. It was fleeting, but it left a curious warmth.

"Allow me," Oscar said, gathering a sheaf of drawings. She glanced at them, a polite gesture, and her breath hitched.