The Queen's Dollmaker by Christine Trent

like a pink sash for my waist. Please tell the duchesse this.”
    Bertin made no move to leave, her mind still furiously working to concoct a way to convince the queen to abandon her love affair with common garb.
    Marie Antoinette prompted her. “You will need to tell the duchesse right away, before the porters have finished gathering my clothing.”
    Madame Bertin huffed, but realized she could push the queen no further. She departed with the wardrobe book pages still in her hand, tossing them to the lady-in-waiting posted outside the door. “Tell the Duchesse de Cosse that the Antoinette wants a pink sash to go with the splendid milkmaid’s dress she is wearing today,” she said imperiously, hardly glancing at the woman. The woman gaped at Bertin’s coarseness in referring to the queen just outside her bedchamber. After all, most people talked badly about the queen out of earshot, and in whispers.
    As for Marie Antoinette, she could not please the people of her country, no matter how she dressed. Only the birth of a Dauphin could soothe them and return her to a favored place in their affections.

5
    London pier was teeming with every species of life imaginable. The confusion of dock workers, stray animals, and travelers was disorienting, and was comparable to the chaos Claudette had experienced during the fire, less the acrid smell of burning wood. However, the odor of rotting offal that seemed to be everywhere gagged her similarly, and brought her tamped-down memories to life again. Had she just lost Mama and Papa forty-eight hours ago? Did Jean-Philippe and his parents know that her parents were gone? Were they looking for her? She fought back a sob. The sound of Simon Briggs’s voice brought her out of her daze.
    “You ladies gather round here,” he directed once they had disembarked. “We’ve got some customers coming up now. Smile, show them how agreeable you are.”
    Most of the women, barely out of their teens, had no idea how to demonstrate that they were “agreeable,” and so just smiled and called out inane things like, “Here, sir!” “Pick me, sir!” and “I’m a hard worker!” Their voices were a cacophony of French voices sprinkled with occasional English. Several finely dressed men approached the group, and looked the women over as though appraising thoroughbreds.
    Lizbit appeared behind Claudette and Béatrice. “I think it is time to make your exit from this fine company of associates. Follow me.” The three women and Marguerite joined hands and started walking casually away from the congregation, slipping away as the customers began making their selections among the newcomers.
    They were about to step into the dusty street at the end of the dock when they heard a shout behind them. “You nasty little sluts get back here! I’ll beat each of your arses until they bleed.” Simon Briggs and Jemmy were running toward them, the other women and customers staring after them. Seeing the trio of women and the small child running away, with their ship’s captain in hot pursuit, the other women began chattering among themselves frantically. Lizbit stopped and turned around. “Run, ladies! They want to soil your virtue!”
    Panic ensued among the remaining women, as they attempted to move away from the prospective “employers.” Some of the women ran back onto the ship, while others scattered in other directions off the landing pier. Realizing his situation was completely out of control, Briggs scurried back to reassure his customers, shouting at Jemmy to “Round up them whores or I’ll have your hide as well.”
    Béatrice had swung Marguerite up in her arms as the three women continued their escape. Lizbit led them down several roughly cobbled streets and narrow alleyways, until she felt reasonably certain that Briggs was no longer going to pursue them.
    “Well! That was simply exhilarating, was it not?” Lizbit’s hair was tumbling out from her hat, and part of the heel had snapped