Tonight the myth-born sentinels seemed almost benign, the gates flung back to admit the stream of elegant equipages inching their way past the tree-lined square toward the Tuileries. But Belle shifted away from the coach window that framed the brilliance of the distant palace beyond the iron bars. Drawn against her will, she peered out the opposite side of the carriage toward the shadowy darkness of the square. The stark branches of the trees bent gently with the wind, the stone pavilions appearing silvery in the moonlight. Lush fountains sprayed wreaths of water with a peaceful hush. The Place de la Concorde, Baptiste had told her the square was now called. To those who knew no better, the name would seem apt. But in Belle's mind it would always be the Place de la Revolution. The guillotine was gone now. Even the scaffolding had been torn down. So many lives lost, so many innocents swept from the face of the earth, and nothing marked the place other than a handful of brittle autumn leaves being swirled by the night breeze.
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