The empress of ice cream

Louise

The French ambassador wants to know if the king will attend his ball.

T have no idea,’ I say. ‘He is still in mourning for his sister.’

‘Of course,’ the ambassador murmurs. ‘How regrettable that lady’s death was - and yet I find I cannot regret it, because it brought you here. How fortuitous for France that the king has found solace in the companionship of one of our countrywomen.’

All his speech is like this - airy and overblown and assumptive. He makes some insinuation, and waits for me to contradict it; if I do not, he thinks that I have confirmed what he has in mind, when the truth is that it is simply none of his business.

‘I have ordered ices,’ he says after a moment. ‘Ices, in the hope that the king honours us with his company.’

‘Indeed,’ I say. ‘Let us hope that he does.’

Sure enough, two days before the ball three packages arrive, brought by liveried footmen. With them is a note.

Enough mourning - CR

Carolus Rex. Charles the king. A royal command.

Inside the first package I find a mask sewn with tiny red diamonds. The next contains a costume - a highwayman’s breeches, a short jacket like a conquistador’s, a three-cornered hat, all glittering with silver thread and made of shimmering silks. In the final package there are boots, a belt, a silver pistol.

I tie my unruly hair back into a man’s ponytail and paint my lips the same deep red as the mask.

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