Chapter 28

“The weak. The soft. The innocent. They’re millet, just groats to feed this rather dull and tremendous machine. But you know that. That’s why this happens. Pressure. It grinds a man down to less than a spice. The poor bastard really was less than a man. And so tormented by his peers…”

Beneath the matted hood, more mud than fur, Henri could see a hint of the courtier’s face. A sneer like a cracked moon, glowed. So familiar, one he’d seen almost daily in the underground kitchens of Fontainebleau. It was a haughty sneer worn by the lesser, fuller-cheeked head p?tissiers. The Quaking Pudding. Usually with their bulging aprons and their spoked implements yielded as scepters.

Who was he talking about? Henri wished not to speculate, his thoughts ratting against the walls. The smoke shrank the carriage to the size of a duckling’s cage. It was as if André had brought the darkness in with him only to fill it with smoke. The flames of the carriage lanterns flickered, fighting to stay lit.