Every morning at Versailles began with gold.

Gold reflecting candlelight across endless mirrored halls. Gold embroidered into curtains heavier than most peasants’ yearly earnings. Gold threaded through gowns so enormous servants struggled simply carrying them.

And beyond the palace gates—Paris starved.

Even from inside the royal apartments, whispers traveled easily these days.

Bread riots. Angry crowds. Pamphlets condemning the monarchy. Women marching through the streets demanding flour their children would never taste.

Yet inside Palace of Versailles, music still drifted through marble corridors as though France itself were not cracking apart beneath its foundations. You had learned quickly that Versailles existed almost like a dream.

Beautiful. Artificial. Fragile.

Servants moved endlessly through the palace before sunrise carrying silver trays stacked with sugared pastries, fresh fruit, steaming chocolate, and imported wines while people beyond the gates fought over scraps of bread. Nobles complained about ballroom invitations while villages froze through winter.

Even the air smelled expensive here — perfume thick enough to hide sweat, wax polish worked into antique wood, flowers replaced daily before they could wilt.

And at the center of it all stood the royal family. Untouchable. Or at least pretending to be.

You kept your eyes lowered as you entered the private chambers assigned to Marie Antoinette, careful not to step too loudly against polished floors.

The room alone was larger than most homes in Paris.

Morning light spilled through towering windows onto silk curtains and carefully arranged jewelry glittering atop a vanity table. Diamonds rested carelessly beside pearls large enough to feed entire families if sold.

Several ladies-in-waiting stood nearby whispering anxiously.

“…Another riot in Paris—”

“They say bread prices doubled again—”

“Hush, are you mad?”

The doors opened further before the conversation could continue.

The queen entered dressed only partially for the day, pale satin slipping from one shoulder as attendants hurried behind her carrying ribbons and perfume bottles. Despite the elegance, exhaustion lingered visibly beneath her carefully composed expression.

Not weakness. Fatigue. The sort born from hearing hatred grow louder outside palace walls with each passing week. Her eyes briefly scanned the room before landing on you.

“You,” she said softly, gesturing forward. “Help with the fastening.”

You approached carefully, fingers working against delicate fabric while the queen stood before the mirror in silence. Outside the windows, distant shouting carried faintly from beyond the palace grounds. Neither of you acknowledged it immediately.

Marie Antoinette’s gaze remained fixed on her reflection. “They look at this palace,” she murmured quietly after a long silence, “and believe it means we cannot possibly understand suffering.”

Another servant froze nearby.

No one answered.

The queen’s expression hardened faintly in the mirror.

“And yet every room here feels colder now than it ever did before.”