I capture the city before anyone is awake. The sun rises at my back, a warm kiss on the bare skin of my neck, and I document this Parisian morning with oils and canvas. I hurry to catch the dramatic shadows and swaths of gold that sprawl across the rooftops of the Île-de-France before the sun gets too high or the master painter returns. I have already finished the sketches Edmond Morel left for me and he hasn't returned from the palace in weeks.

The cool morning air is disturbed by the distinct rattle of wheels and the rhythmic clop of horses as a carriage pulls to a stop below, on the cobblestone street of Rue du Faubourg Saint Antoine. I put my palette aside and lean over the railing to see who has arrived. I freeze at the sight of a carriage with the fleur de lis.

It's not fine enough to be carrying around a person of consequence, but it could only have come from the palace. Heart racing, I expect to see Morel alight from the coach, but men, soldiers in royal blue coats dotted with shiny brass buttons, descend from the carriage. Morel isn't with them. They enter the building and the sound of their boots echoes on the stairs, rhythmic like drum tattoo. What does this mean? Are they here for me? Madame Poulin's terrier starts up a horrible racket that will wake the entire neighborhood.

I don't have time to think. I close the floor-length windows to the balcony and wipe my dirty hands on my apron. It takes only seconds to swap it for a clean one and knot a sheer, white fichu over my shoulders. The officers who knock on my door tell me not to bother with my belongings; I'm needed at Versailles. My invitation to court has finally arrived.