They Locked Me Away for What I Knew—Sixteen Years Later, My Daughter Stepped Onto the Wheel

I pulled back from the viewing slit.

"He knows this passage," I whispered.

Mathurin shook his head. "He suspects everything. That's not the same as knowing."

Below us, chairs scraped and voices rose.

"Your name," Vautrin demanded.

Elise lifted her chin. "Elise Marceau."

That did it.

The king stood so fast his chair tipped behind him.

"Marceau?"

Vautrin recovered first. "The daughter of Blanche Marceau, the woman who confessed to treason."

My nails cut into my palm.

Confessed.

They had never even questioned me.

Elise reached into the pocket of her dress and pulled out a folded strip of linen. I recognized it at once. One of the laundry hems Mathurin had carried between the tower and the city for years.

"My mother never confessed," Elise said. "She wrote to me from Sainte-Agathe for sixteen years."

The room erupted.

Mathurin grabbed my arm. "We need to move."

I resisted. "Not yet."

Vautrin raised one hand, and the royal guards closed around the Wheel.

"A forged letter proves nothing," he said.

"Good," Elise answered. "Because I brought numbers."

My heart slammed against my ribs.

That was our plan.

Not names first. Numbers.

Numbers are harder to call hysterical.

Elise unfolded the linen and read aloud.

"Seventeen barrels of winter grain diverted from Saint-Brieuc. Forty thousand crowns removed from the widows' fund. Twelve payments to Captain Renard. Three payments to the royal physician."

King Edouard turned toward Vautrin.

For the first time, the chancellor looked genuinely afraid.

Then Captain Renard entered from the west doors with twelve armed men.

He bowed to the king.

"Your Majesty," he said, "we've received word that the prisoner Blanche Marceau has escaped her cell."