The three days granted to François by Governor Vaudreuil and Marshal de Contades had passed so quickly that he had barely been able to appreciate them. He had so much to do, most of all, to prepare for his mission.

For hours on end, he studied the information related to his false identity until he was plagued by migraines, leaving his office only to eat, get some fresh air, or sleep.

François didn't just memorize facts, he spent long hours practicing how to speak, alone, simulating conversations in English. He even adjusted his walk, since his alias was supposed to limp.

If he ever had to show the wound he supposedly received at Saint-Cast, he would display the scar left by the Mohawk warrior Joseph Brant during the Six Years' War. It could easily pass for a bullet wound.

His other scars would reinforce the impression that "James Woods" had lived through dangerous situations, that he was a fighter. As for the half–horseshoe-shaped scar running from his left eyebrow, he would simply claim it came from a fall on the rocks during a retreat.

François's departure had been an emotional one. Fortunately, his children had no idea of the risks he was about to take for them. Only Onatah knew.

She had accompanied him to the edge of the estate and made him promise, once again, that whatever happened, he would come back. François hadn't tried to avoid the promise—he had sworn, on everything he held sacred, that he would put his safety above the success of his mission and that he would return to Montrouge alive and unharmed.

To seal that promise, he had kissed her for a long time beneath the great trees lining the path to the manor gate. Then, with a heavy heart, he rode north under a bright sun.

On the road to Québec, somewhere between Fort Carillon and Fort Bourbon, he crossed paths with the Madec family. They were a day's journey away from the fort, and from their new home.

François explained that he had to return to Québec and that his wife had already been informed of their imminent arrival. They would receive a strip of land between the road they were following and the wide Hudson River.

The only problem was the steep terrain near the river—about thirty meters of elevation. To reach the water, they would likely have to dig a ramp.

On June 1st, the day his leave officially ended, François arrived at the gates of Québec.

The air smelled of summer, but it wasn't stifling. Under other circumstances, the major, dressed in the uniform of the Regiment of Nouvelle-Aquitaine,might have enjoyed strolling through a garden, simply taking the time to clear his mind.

From afar, Québec looked modern, beautiful, perhaps even more beautiful than Paris itself. Yet once inside the city walls, it became clear that, despite France's resounding victory over Great Britain and her allies, the gap between the colonies and the metropole had not narrowed much.

There was still plenty to be done.

Several major projects were underway, the most significant being the city's northern expansion, followed closely by the improvement of the port. New houses were under construction, laid out according to a strict plan to ensure order and symmetry.

At the same time, older districts were being improved: cleaner, better-paved, and better-lit streets.

All of it came at a great cost.

François walked calmly through streets lined with towering scaffolds, giving the impression of a man heading to a routine business meeting. The smell of freshly cut wood was so strong it drowned out every other, less pleasant odor.

Crossing the Place d'Armes, he presented himself at the gates of Fort Saint-Louis. It did not take long before he was led inside, to the entrance of Governor Vaudreuil's office.

The officer couldn't help but smirk.

Feels like I'm being sent to the principal's office again. It's becoming a habit.

He quickly erased his smile when the old man's voice came from behind the tall door. The escorting officer opened it for him and closed it behind.

"Major Boucher, there you are at last. I trust you made good use of these few days with your family—and that you did not neglect your mission's preparation."

"Good morning, Governor. Marshal," François greeted with a respectful bow.

The tall man was indeed in the room, his face grave as he read through a letter.

"I used the time to familiarize myself with the file you gave me," François said. "But I believe I'll need more time to properly prepare for the role I must play."

"And time," the marshal cut in, "is precisely what we don't have. Or very little of it. We've received word that the merchant ship The Gallant is approaching Anticosti Island. It's three days ahead of schedule, and according to our plan, it will remain there only seven days. Ah, that's why we wanted you to stay in Québec: you would have had more time to study the documents."

Marshal de Contades set aside his letter and stepped closer, fixing the young officer with a penetrating gaze.

"You haven't spoken to anyone about your mission, have you?"

"No, sir," François lied without hesitation. "I've kept my mouth shut, both with Colonel de Faudoas and with my wife… though she wasn't pleased about it."

Contades continued to stare at him for several long seconds—an eternity to François—before finally nodding.

"Good. You must be extremely careful. Even though every nation keeps observers in the territories of its rivals, no one likes being spied upon. The slightest mistake could have serious consequences. Keep that well in mind."

"Yes, my lord."

The marshal nodded again and waved his letter gently before him, almost like a fan.

"We've received some news from England. It arrived almost at the same time as The Gallant. While it doesn't change your mission, it contains details you'll need to know to make your story credible. These are events that took place in Portsmouth shortly before that ship set sail. As one of its passengers, it would be strange if you didn't know about them."

François raised an eyebrow but said nothing. He focused on every word spoken by the marshal, etching them carefully into his memory alongside all the other details he had already memorized.

"The Gallant left Portsmouth at nine o'clock in the morning, as scheduled, under the command of Captain Robert Harris, on Thursday, April 12th. However, it set sail under rather particular circumstances: since April 9th, the city has been in the grip of urban riots. It's very likely the army has since suppressed them, but you, as James Woods, will not be able to confirm that, since the riots were still raging at the time of departure."

"I see. Do we know what caused these riots?"

"Yes, to some extent. According to one of our agents, it began with a rumor about an increase in taxes. A small group of enraged townsmen forced their way into an official building and threw everyone inside out the windows—without distinction. Several people were killed. The rioters then set fire to the building, and the local militia intervened, but their numbers only grew. From what we've heard, the army acted fairly quickly, sending in mounted units, and did not hesitate to charge into the angry crowd."

"Does this… report specify which taxes were, or were said to be, increased? It could be useful if I need to explain the situation once I'm in New York."

"Hmm. The duties were to be raised on salt, candles, leather, and soap, four goods already subject to excise. We don't have the full details yet, since, as far as we know, it's only a rumor for now. Even if buyers won't be paying the tax directly, prices will still rise for all these goods… again, if the rumor is true. We'll have more news soon."

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François nodded slowly.

In his former life, there had been a tax applied to nearly everything, its rate varying depending on the product or service. Because it was included in the price, the consumer usually only realized it existed when looking at the receipt, when seeing that a significant portion went straight to the state.

Out of curiosity, after watching a YouTube video, he had once done the math using a rather long receipt. The result came out to between ten and twelve percent of the total.

At the time, he'd been outraged, convinced that someone was getting rich off everyone else's back. But things weren't so simple. Not only was the money better used than in this century, but the taxes didn't pile up at every stage of production.

Here, the slightest percentage could have devastating effects on the buyer, since the same product was taxed at every transaction, with no mechanism accounting for previous duties.

Take a simple candle, for example: the tallow bought from butchers was already taxed along with the meat, then taxed again at the internal toll barriers during transport. The candlemaker, who turned the tallow into finished goods, had to pay yet another tax on the final product. If the candle crossed another checkpoint or underwent inspection, it would be taxed again, and then once more at the point of sale.

François knew that this was how things worked in France and assumed it was much the same, or nearly so, in Great Britain.

"I understand the situation," he said. "Is there anything else I should know?"

"I don't think so. Good. You already have all the papers necessary to prove your identity. The rest you'll find aboard The Gallant. Tomorrow evening, you'll travel to Beauport Bay. The fishing vessel Saint-Roch will take you near Île d'Orléans, where you'll wait to be picked up."

The major nodded several times and watched as the marshal picked up a bundle of dark clothing and a wide-brimmed black felt hat.

"You'll wear this. The ship that will take you to The Gallant will signal with three lanterns to tell you when to board. The captain knows what to do, but avoid showing your face until the exchange is complete."

"The exchange, sir?"

"With the real James Woods. You'll take his clothes; he'll take your cloak and hat."

So he really exists? It's not just an invention?

Several questions came to François's mind, but he held them back and simply nodded.

"And how will I communicate with you?" he asked next, his tone calm but serious.

"You won't communicate with us directly, that would be madness. You won't use the smugglers either, though there are many of them; they can easily be intercepted. You'll send your reports using this special ink."

He pulled from his pocket a small vial containing a seemingly harmless liquid.

"This is invisible ink. You'll write your messages on the back of an ordinary letter addressed to Edward Black, draper of Providence. Once this ink dries, it becomes invisible. It reappears only when exposed to heat."

François immediately frowned.

Providence? Where is that?

Then he realized.

"W-wait a moment… Forgive me, but... who is this man? I thought we no longer had spies in the colonies. So why send me, in that case?"

The marshal didn't appreciate being questioned by a mere major, especially one who had reached his rank without the proper seniority as a captain. His expression hardened.

"This man is reliable," he said curtly. "That's all you need to know, Major Boucher. You will have no direct contact with him."

The air in the room turned cold, and Governor Vaudreuil decided it was time to intervene, his voice calm and conciliatory.

"We said we had lost our agents in New York and Philadelphia, but that doesn't mean we've lost our eyes and ears in the colonies, and thank heavens for that. This man cannot leave Providence; he has his own duties along the border… If we could send him to New York in your place, we would have."

Indeed, Providence was close to the frontier. There stood a wooden fort and several large warehouses meant to protect the region in case of renewed conflict with France.

The ruins of Boston were not so far away. If King George ever decided to reignite hostilities, the activity in that area would be a clear sign that war was near.

François accepted the answer, though part of him still wondered whether the governor and the marshal truly had no better choice than to rely on him to rebuild the spy network in New York.

The discussion continued a little longer, then the young major was dismissed. He would stay in Québec and leave behind all his belongings, taking only what was necessary for the mission.

***

When he had left the room, the marshal turned to Governor Vaudreuil.

"Why did you tell him all that, Governor?"

"Why were you so harsh with him?" the old man countered, returning to his desk.

Marshal de Contades raised an eyebrow.

"You favor him too much, sir. You think you're doing him a service, but you're not. He still lacks maturity. What he needs is discipline."

Vaudreuil tilted his head slightly, causing a few curls of his heavy wig to fall forward.

"And why is that? Because he asked a question? You could have simply answered it."

"Why should I? That boy needs to remember that his role is to obey, not to question. He must trust his superiors and carry out their orders without hesitation. It seems he's forgotten that under Faudoas's command. Perhaps Faudoas himself wasn't ready to shoulder such responsibility either. Maybe a change is in order—someone with more experience, more firmness?"

He turned toward the tall windows overlooking the St. Lawrence River and clasped his hands behind his back.

"Despite his successive promotions, he is still a nobody. I believe he understands that now. If he wants to speak among the great, he must rise higher and forge a reputation for himself."

"I see," murmured the old man, leaning back deeper into his large chair. "So it's a form of motivation…"

"Depending on his results and behavior in the coming years, I'll see whether he's as remarkable as you claim. If so, all the better. If not, he'll remain where he is for the rest of his career."

He paused for a moment, thoughtful, then changed the subject to return to the matter they had begun discussing earlier.

"As for that other affair, I must admit I don't quite know what to make of it."

"You mean the marriage of the Duke of Berry?" asked Vaudreuil, lifting his head. "Isn't that good news?"

Vaudreuil fell silent for a moment, gathering his thoughts and choosing his words carefully to approach such a delicate topic. He furrowed his brow and folded his hands atop his perfectly ordered desk.

"The fact that Monsieur the Count of Burgundy, his brother, married an Austrian before him clearly shows, in my opinion, His Majesty's intentions. It's amusing. At the beginning of the last war, we were preparing to fight against Austria alongside Prussia, and now we're told of a second marriage with another daughter of Archduchess Maria Theresa."

"A double marriage," murmured Contades, almost to himself. "That ties us to them for decades—perhaps even a century. Must it really be an Austrian? If you'll forgive my honesty, sir, it would certainly have been wiser for him to marry a Spaniard."

Naturally, Governor Vaudreuil understood why the marshal was less than enthusiastic about this marriage. The union of the Dauphin's eldest son had already caused considerable discontent, much like the diplomatic upheaval that had realigned Europe's alliances at the start of the Six Years' War.

Some had seen it as a betrayal. After all, this was the House of Habsburg—one of France's greatest rivals during the previous century. Austria, like England, had long been a formidable enemy.

"And now we are a little more bound to the Holy Roman Empire," sighed Contades. "At least the English must be in an uproar right now, that's something, at least."

Vaudreuil allowed himself a sly smile, imagining the outrage of the British people, Parliament, and King George himself. That strange entity, neither holy, nor Roman, nor truly an empire, composed of countless small states and often mocked for its absurd complexity, could not be ignored nonetheless.

"That's certain," said Vaudreuil. "With two sisters now married into the French royal family, Emperor Joseph has become our strongest ally against England. In the event of war, he would surely take our side."

"Who knows…"

A heavy, unexpected silence fell upon the room, freezing the governor as though an armed man had entered his office.

"Why that reaction, Marshal? You seem troubled. Don't you believe they would join us to bring England down if it tried to rise again? Hanover would fall within weeks, and they could help us isolate their island."

The old governor began to dream aloud, his voice swelling with ambition.

"They might even help us land troops there. Against our firepower, the English would stand no chance."

"No doubt that's how His Majesty and the Duke of Choiseul see it," replied Contades dryly. "But you seem to forget one thing: they are Habsburgs. They are deceitful, cold, and calculating. You never know what they're thinking, which makes them particularly dangerous. The emperor and his mother, the Archduchess Maria Theresa, could easily lure us into a trap and stab us in the back. Those two little Austrians could well be Vienna's spies."

Vaudreuil said nothing, lost in thought about what such a war would mean for France if Austria and the Holy Roman Empire sided with it. It would be disastrous, especially for the French colonies.

While the army fought in Europe, King George would have his hands free to reclaim everything he had lost before and more. The scenario wasn't far-fetched; Emperor Joseph likely viewed his powerful western neighbor as a potential threat.

The Austrians had a reputation in France for being cunning and endlessly ambitious. The Germans of the Holy Empire were probably no different.

If that was true, it meant they would never want to see France shine a second time. They likely imagined for themselves a destiny—to become the true master of Europe, a role that could not be shared.

"By the way," said Vaudreuil after a long silence, "what do we know about this Maria Antonia?"

"I know no more than you, Governor," replied Contades, shrugging. "But if she was chosen, she must possess fine qualities. She is likely very beautiful and impeccably educated."

"If she resembles her sister, Princess Maria Josepha, then the Duke of Berry is a fortunate man."

Indeed, the Dauphin's eldest son, the Duke of Burgundy, had married one of the daughters of the Archduchess of Austria and the late Emperor. Maria Josepha of Austria was gentle, intelligent, beautiful, refined, modest, and deeply pious.

When she arrived in Paris in 1767, she had found a population as wary of her origins as Marshal de Contades was now. Two years later, she was still regarded as an Austrian, yet her constant efforts were beginning to bear fruit: her reputation improved daily, and no one could find fault with her.

Their union resembled that of the Dauphin Louis and Maria Josepha of Saxony—a harmonious and untroubled marriage.

"No doubt," said Vaudreuil softly. "Let us pray, however, that neither she nor her sister come under Vienna's influence."

By the time this news reached New France, the Duke of Berry and Maria Antonia Josepha Johanna were already married. The ceremony had taken place on May 16th, in the chapel of the Château de Versailles.

The young bride, only fourteen years old, now bore the sweet name of Marie-Antoinette.

To celebrate the union, a magnificent fireworks display was held at Place Louis XV, dazzling the Parisians. The grand finale was so breathtaking that people wrote that none had ever been more splendid—and that no future spectacle, however sumptuous, would ever surpass it.

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