The Chevalier's Gambit

Charles-Geneviève d'Éon glided through the Hall of Mirrors. Fractured light danced across gold frames, multiplying their reflection endlessly. Chevalier here, the ghost of Mademoiselle Auguste there.

Every surface lied. Every courtier smiled without warmth. The choreography never stopped.

A Russian courier appeared at their elbow. The sealed envelope carried Viktor's cipher. D'Éon's fingers traced the wax seal—habit checking for tampering.

The message inside held four words: "Blackwood has proof. Move."

Their hand didn't tremble. Years of espionage craft held. But the rainbow fragments from chandeliers above suddenly felt like fractures spreading through ice.

A servant materialized. "The Marquis requests your presence immediately, Chevalier."

D'Éon touched their own face—confirming which mask they wore. Their fingers found masculine jawline, formal attire. The stage requires it.

They traced fingers along the doorframe before entering Pompadour's chambers. Old spy habit. Always check for threats.

The Marquis stood before the fireplace. Paper crackled as flames consumed correspondence. Smoke curled upward, carrying secrets into ash.

"Viktor wrote you as well, I presume?" Pompadour didn't turn from the fire.

"Four words." D'Éon closed the door. "Concise as always."

"The Captain understands economy in crisis." Pompadour fed another letter to the flames. "Blackwood possesses documentation spanning years, mon ami. Your service as both Chevalier and Mademoiselle Auguste across three courts."

The words landed like stones. D'Éon's shoulders stiffened.

"How extensive?"

"Dates. Locations. Witness accounts." Pompadour finally turned. "He intends to weaponize truth itself."

D'Éon crossed to the window. Below, courtiers strolled through gardens, performing innocence. Above, those same gardens reflected in countless mirrors, distorted by observation.

"The British spymaster offers two choices," Pompadour said. "Betray France's intelligence to his service, or face exposure before every court simultaneously."

"And you summoned me to counsel surrender?" D'Éon's voice carried theatrical precision—formal diplomatic phrasing even in crisis.

"Non." Pompadour steepled fingers, contemplating. "I summoned you to propose the path he cannot imagine."

Silence held between them. Wood popped in the fireplace.

"He offers you two choices, mon ami." Pompadour's tone shifted—less advisor, more mentor. "But there is always a third path, if one has courage enough to walk it."

D'Éon turned from the window. The Marquis stood perfectly straight despite exhaustion, smoothing invisible wrinkles from velvet sleeves. Need for control manifesting physically.

"What path?" D'Éon asked.

"The one where you choose the terms of revelation yourself." Pompadour paused, sipping wine thoughtfully. "Consider—what if Blackwood's weapon became your declaration?"

The suggestion hung in air thick with smoke. Rainbow light filtered through windows, fracturing across d'Éon's reflection in the glass.

Their hand rose instinctively to their face again. Checking which mask. Finding only flesh.

"You speak of authenticity in a court built on performance."

"I speak of freedom." Pompadour's voice carried decades of regret. "From men who believe they own truth itself."

D'Éon's breath caught. The cost of perpetual deception suddenly visible—endless reflections, none fully real. All performance for watching eyes.

"Viktor knows," d'Éon said quietly. "He has known for years."

"And remains loyal." Pompadour set down the wine glass with precision. "True allies accept what rigid minds cannot categorize."

The crackling fire filled silence. Smoke curled upward, secrets becoming air.

D'Éon traced the doorframe again. Checking for threats. Finding only threshold.

"The third path requires courage I'm not certain I possess."

"Then you misunderstand courage entirely." Pompadour crossed the room. "It is not absence of fear, mon ami. It is choosing authenticity despite terror of consequences."

Their hand touched d'Éon's shoulder—brief contact, profound weight.

"Blackwood believes exposure destroys you. But what if it liberates instead?"

D'Éon met their mentor's gaze. Saw reflection of roads not taken. Lives lived behind masks until masks became prisons.

"How long do I have?"

"Three days before he moves." Pompadour's hand fell away. "Enough time to choose which version of this story gets told."

D'Éon turned toward the door. Paused. Looked back.

"And if I choose the third path? What then?"

Pompadour smiled—sad, knowing, fierce. "Then for the first time, mon cher Chevalier, you discover what it means to be seen."

The words followed d'Éon into the corridor. Behind them, paper continued crackling in flames. Ahead, the Hall of Mirrors waited with its thousand fractured truths.

Rainbow fragments danced across every surface. Beauty through dispersion. Truth through courage.

Three days to choose.