The medical wagon rattled over the cobblestones of the Place de la Révolution.
I lay on a stretcher, wrapped in wool blankets, shivering despite the summer heat. Danton sat opposite me, staring out the window.
"It's quiet," Danton muttered. "Too quiet."
I listened. He was right.
Usually, Paris was a cacophony of street hawkers, revolutionary songs, and the grinding of wheels. Tonight, it was silent.
"Where is the mob?" Danton asked, his hand drifting to the pistol in his belt. "Where are the section patrols?"
The wagon turned into the courtyard of the Tuileries.
My breath hitched.
The courtyard wasn't chaotic. It was ordered.
Three regiments of National Guards stood in formation. Not slouched, smoking pipes. At attention. Bayonets fixed. Perfectly aligned.
They weren't guarding the palace. They were occupying it.
"We've been gone three months," I whispered. "Someone has been busy."
The wagon stopped. The doors opened.
Napoleon Bonaparte stood on the steps. He wasn't wearing his dress uniform. He was in campaign gear—muddy boots, gray coat, sword at his hip.
And standing next to him was a child.
Louis-Charles. My son. Seven years old.
He wore a blue uniform that was a perfect miniature of Napoleon's. He wore a tricolor sash. And at his waist hung a small saber.
He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, legs apart. A perfect imitation of the Captain beside him.
"Welcome home, Minister Danton," the boy said. His voice was high, piping, but clear. "We received your dispatch."
Danton blinked. He looked at Napoleon, then at the boy.
"Where is the King?" Louis-Charles asked, looking past Danton into the wagon.
"Help me up," I rasped.
Two grenadiers lifted my stretcher. They carried me up the steps.
Louis-Charles didn't run to me. He didn't cry "Papa!"
He watched the soldiers carry me with a critical eye.
"Take him to the Solar," the boy ordered. "The map room is prepped."
I looked at my son. His face was pale, his jaw set. The baby fat was gone.
"Louis," I whispered.
He looked at me. His eyes were blue ice.
"Reports first, Papa," he said. "Hugs later."
They carried me to the Solar and placed me in my chair.
I slumped against the velvet, exhausted. My heart fluttered in my chest like a trapped bird.
Napoleon stood by the fireplace. Louis-Charles stood at the desk.
"Report," I wheezed.
Louis-Charles picked up a dossier. He opened it.
"Paris is secure," the boy said, reading from the paper. "We had food riots in the Saint-Antoine district last week. The bakers were hoarding grain."
"And?" I asked.
"I signed the death warrants for three bakers," the boy said. "Public execution. The riots stopped."
I stared at him.
"You signed death warrants?"
"Captain Bonaparte said they were stealing from the Army," Louis-Charles said, looking up. "The Army is the State. Therefore, they were traitors."
He turned the page.
"We were also short on silver for the mint. I authorized the requisition of the candlesticks from the Notre Dame treasury. The Bishop complained."
"What did you do?"
"I told him he could donate the silver or join the bakers," the boy said flatly. "He donated the silver."
I looked at Napoleon. He was beaming. A proud teacher watching his star pupil.
"He is efficient, Sire," Napoleon said. "He understands leverage."
"He is seven!" I shouted, the effort making me cough blood. "You made him a tyrant!"
"I made him a King," Napoleon countered. "While you were conquering Germany, someone had to hold Paris. The boy did it."
I looked at my son.
He wasn't traumatized. He wasn't scared. He was proud. He had solved the problems. He had made the numbers work.
I saw myself in him. Not the father, but the Accountant. The cold, rational problem-solver who viewed human lives as line items.
I had destroyed his childhood to save his life. But I hadn't realized what would fill the void.
"There is more," Louis-Charles said. "Bad news."
"What?"
The door opened. Talleyrand limped in. He looked rattled. His usual mask of bored cynicism was gone.
"Sire," Talleyrand said, bowing quickly. "You are back. Thank God."
"What is it?" I asked. "Did the English invade?"
"Worse," Talleyrand said. "The Queen."
I froze.
"Did you catch her?"
"We found her," Talleyrand said. "She isn't hiding, Sire. She is marching."
He placed a map on the desk.
Western France. The Vendée.
"She has united the peasant armies," Talleyrand said. "They aren't disorganized mobs anymore. They have a command structure. They have supply lines. And they have a symbol."
"What symbol?"
"Her," Talleyrand said.
He pulled out a sketch from a spy's report.
It showed Marie Antoinette. She wasn't wearing court dresses. She was wearing a white dress over a polished steel breastplate. Her hair was loose, flowing in the wind. She held a large wooden cross in one hand and the reins of a white stallion in the other.
"They aren't calling her 'Your Majesty,'" Talleyrand whispered. "They are calling her 'The Madonna of France.'"
"She's playing Joan of Arc," Danton scoffed from the doorway. "It's theatrical nonsense."
"It's working," Talleyrand said. "The peasants believe she is divinely anointed to punish the Republic. They think she is a saint. When our soldiers see her... they drop their weapons. They won't shoot the Mother of God."
"She is marching on Nantes," Napoleon said, stepping forward. "If she takes the port, the British fleet lands. They bring 20,000 regulars and heavy artillery. If that happens, the war is over. We lose."
I stared at the sketch.
My wife. The woman who loved opera and chocolate. Leading a religious crusade in armor.
She had found her role. I was the CEO; she was the Mascot. I ruled by fear; she ruled by faith.
And faith was stronger than fear.
"I have to go," I said, trying to push myself up. "I have to stop her."
My legs gave way. I collapsed back into the chair, gasping. The room spun.
"You can't ride, Sire," Guillotin said, stepping out of the shadows. "Your heart will explode before you reach the city limits."
"Someone has to stop her!" I yelled. "Someone has to look her in the eye and tell the truth!"
"I will go," Napoleon said. "I will take the Guard. I will burn the superstition out of them with grapeshot."
"No," a small voice said.
We all looked at Louis-Charles.
The boy walked around the desk. He stood next to Napoleon.
"The soldiers will hesitate," Louis-Charles said. "Talleyrand is right. They are Catholic peasants. They won't shoot their Queen."
He put his hand on the hilt of his small sword.
"But they will fight for their King," he said.
"You?" Danton laughed. "You're a baby."
"I am the Regent," Louis-Charles said coldly. "If I am there, they will remember who feeds them. They will remember who pays their wages."
He looked at me.
"She is my mother," he said. "I am the only one who can stop her."
I looked at him.
He wasn't doing it for love. He was doing it because it was the logical tactical move. He was a piece on the board, and he knew his value.
"It's dangerous," I whispered. "She has an army."
"So do we," Louis-Charles said. "And ours has cannons."
He looked at Napoleon.
"When do we leave, Captain?"
Napoleon smiled. It was a sharp, predatory smile.
"Within the hour, Highness."
I looked at my seven-year-old son adjusting his sword belt. He didn't look scared. He looked impatient.
I wanted to stop him. I wanted to lock him in his room and read him a bedtime story.
But the wolves were at the door. And I had raised a wolf to answer it.
"Go," I whispered. "God forgive me, but go."