Episode 1

On September 3, 1755, in a narrow alleyway in Paris...

The night was dark and oppressive. The heat was too stifling to walk through the streets of Paris, even in a carriage. Were it not for that pressing matter, he would have been in one of his clubs or at home enjoying a cold drink. The coachman slowed the horses until they came to a stop, then stepped down to unfold the steps. Edmund De Lyons didn’t exit immediately; he spent a few minutes observing his surroundings, trying to absorb the atmosphere of the place.

The darkness of the area seemed to seep into the soul, leaving an unsettling sensation. Finally, he stood and stepped out of the carriage. Moving deliberately, he tried to appear confident and purposeful, but every few steps, he would stop and look back to check if he was being followed. This was a dangerous area for the unwary.

The shouting was constant, punctuated by screams that echoed through the narrow streets. More than one ruffian had a lair there where they could indulge their vices. Women of all shapes and sizes, tall and short, attempted to entice the passing men. He quickened his pace, but the sound of something liquid splashing in front of him made him slow down and move more toward the center of the street. Even so, his breeches were splattered.

What a vile place, he thought. He pulled a perfumed handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket and held it to his nose, trying to avoid the stench emanating from the streets filled with waste. Buckets of trash were dumped from windows, turning the streets into foul-smelling mud. He passed a tavern where a man, likely drunk, slept leaning against the wall.

He turned right and followed one of the many alleys in the area. Shortly after, he arrived at the Place des Vosges, the square around which the neighbourhood had been built. The square was almost empty. The nocturnal activity had yet to stir. Leaning against one of the columns of the surrounding houses, he waited, hidden in the shadows. Time passed, and he began to think his contact would not show.

He had heard of the man; they told him he went by the name Scorpio and was one of the deadliest assassins working for Cardinal Fleury, who held the position of none other than Louis XV’s prime minister. When he inquired about the man’s appearance in one of the clubs he frequented, no one could answer. No one had ever seen him, and it was whispered that those who did didn’t live long enough to tell the tale. A shiver ran down his spine at the memory. If not for Henrietta and Tabitha, he wouldn’t be there. He reached for his pocket watch to check the time, but there wasn’t enough light. Stepping out from his hiding place, he approached a nearby oil lamp that illuminated part of the square. That’s when he saw him, leaning against the column opposite.

The stranger stepped out of his spot. He was a shadow of black, even his shirt was a dark hue that absorbed all light. Slowly, he began walking towards him. Edmund froze. When the man was three paces away, he smiled and commented:

“Bonne nuit, Monsieur, a lovely night, isn’t it?”

“Oui, it is quite pleasant, though a bit warm, Monsieur…?” Edmund replied, his voice trembling slightly.

“There’s a poet who’s quite popular these days. He wrote a poem I find fitting for tonight,” the man continued without introducing himself. “It begins, ‘Wherever God erects a house of prayer...’”

“‘...The Devil soon builds a chapel.’ Yes, I know it...”

“Excellent, then we can dispense with names, n’est-ce pas? Did you bring what was requested?”

“Well… you see…” De Lyons stammered.

“Oui? You see what, Monsieur?”

“Well… Henrietta, my wife, knows. She thought it best that we renegotiate the terms of the agreement... you know... the one we have.”

“Oh, really? Does that mean, perhaps... that you didn’t bring the document with you?”

Edmund shrank under the stranger’s cold, lifeless tone. He felt a shiver run through him.

“Well… No, you never know who might rob you, and since we had some issues, we thought it best for me to come and speak with you...”

“Hmmm… So you want more money? Is that it?”

The stranger displayed a smile as he asked, but it didn’t reach his icy blue eyes. Edmund didn’t notice; his legs chose that moment to betray the nervous tension consuming him, and he decided to sit on one of the benches surrounding the square. Had he paid attention, he might have noticed the constant shivers he felt in the man’s presence and fled as quickly as possible, for that was a smile that foretold death.

“Yes… ah… we were thinking double… After all, all the information we obtained, with great effort, is worth far more than we initially agreed upon. It was very complicated to get the ambassador to commit... He seemed to suspect something was going on. And then we had to spend much more than we anticipated, you see. The dressmaker, the milliner, the servants, the carriages—after all, he moved in circles far above ours, and we had to buy our way in to gain access to him. And…” Edmund’s voice grew quieter as he tried to justify himself, “...and even then, if Henrietta weren’t so beautiful, I don’t think we would have succeeded.” He concluded.

The stranger said nothing, which made Edmund feel more confident. After all, the man wouldn’t do anything to him there; the square might not be crowded, but they were under a lamp, in plain view. Perhaps it would be wiser to move to the other bench near the flower vendor. He began to stand.