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embroidered white vest appeared, a sword dangling from his side.
    ‘Ah, my husband,’ the Marquise said. ‘Alphonse Donatien Delacroix, Marquis de Barberon.’
    The Marquis de Barberon’s powdered wig was brushed back and tied with a black silk ribbon, revealing a small scar on his left temple. His hooked nose, high brow and grey eyes reminded me of a regal raptor.
    ‘Welcome, mademoiselle, I hope our humble abode is to your satisfaction.’
    He took a pinch of snuff from an engraved box and his smile showed a complete set of white teeth. Nobody I knew had all their teeth, especially such white ones.
    ‘Your Lordship.’ I curtseyed, my head bowed.
    The Marquis drew so close to me, I almost jumped backwards.
    ‘Don’t be afraid, my dear,’ he said, taking my angel pendant, the signet ring on his left little finger glinting in the chandelier light, as he turned it over.
    ‘What a strange, but delightful thing,’ he said.
    ‘It was my mother’s, monsieur.’
    The Marquis smiled and let the pendant go, patting it against my skin.
    Of course, I’d heard the stories of rascal lords who treated their servants worse than dogs, but this marquis seemed friendly and charming. Besides, I had promised Père Joffroy I would not judge every noble like the baron who killed my father.
    As the maid reappeared and led me from the parlour, I already felt much better about my new life in Paris.
    ***
    In the centre of the kitchen stood a solid wooden table. Pots and pans hung above it, and a rack of knives and several cabinets for other utensils and tableware lined the walls.
    ‘This is Cook,’ a young girl said. ‘And I am Marie, the kitchen maid.’
    Cook held a plucked chicken by the fire, burning the remaining feathers off. She looked quite old — forty perhaps — with silvered hair and a wide, wrinkled face. A fat orange cat crouched on the floor beside her.
    ‘ Bonjour, madame.’ I nodded to the woman and bent to stroke the cat. ‘What’s his name?’
    ‘Roux. Best mouser in all of Paris,’ Cook said. ‘Not a single live mouse has been seen here since the Marquise ordered the carpenter to put in swinging panels for mon petit Roux.’
    As I petted him I realised Roux — true to his reputation — was toying with a limp mouse.
    ‘You are poorly paid and not of high rank,’ Cook said, cutting the chicken open and removing its giblets. ‘But watch and learn from me and you may make something of your wretched life.’
    I nodded, meeting her black eyes that I sensed hid a wealth of wisdom.
    Roux bit hard into his prey, breaking the mouse’s neck in a sharp snap, and as Marie took me through to the scullery, the cat stalked from the room, the rodent dangling from its jaws.

9
     
    I rose from my attic bed at five-thirty, as every morning. I slipped out into the December gloom to empty the chamber pots, my breath forming icy jets of fog, which vanished quickly.
    The edges of the wind snapped at my face as the hooves of mules pulling produce-laden carts towards the market squares clattered on cobbles stained with churns of snow, dung and soot.
    I smiled at the boy I saw most mornings, a water-carrier hurrying up from the river, leaning into the weight of his brimming buckets. He gave me a nod.
    Two sous a load, he earned. How was anyone to cast off the shackles of poverty on such a miserable wage? I was barely better off.
    My fingers numb, the piss quivered as I emptied the pots, and scurried back inside to light the fires and fix breakfast — coffee, chocolate, jam, cream or gruyere cheese, sausages, bacon, biscuits and pastries — whatever their noble appetites craved that particular day.
    Later in the morning, Marie and I took vegetables from the sand bins in Cook’s cellar, which also housed her jams and liqueurs, and where hams hung in the dark corners.
    ‘Have you heard, Victoire? Finally, a royal baby,’ Marie said, as we cleaned and chopped vegetables, plucked fowl, and gutted fish — our usual morning