December 18th, 1804

Paris, France

I pressed my hands into dough, my fingers enveloped into it's soft warmth.

The smell of fresh baked bread filled the air and there was a sort of pain in my stomach knowing none of it was for me. Even still, it was peaceful. Sunlight flooded the shop through the windows. If I was really quiet, I could hear the music the gypsies were playing in the market down the street. But mostly, it was the sound of hooves on stone streets and the carriage wheels that followed after them.

"Sophie!" screeched a voice, calling me from upstairs, pulling me out of my thoughts.

"Yes, mama?" I called back. I tried to keep my voice light but every day was a struggle to be polite.

"Are you done yet?"

"No, mama," I said. There was still more batch left to do before I was done for the day, never mind the cleaning to be done after the doors were shut and locked.

"Hurry up!"

That meant the second batch would have to wait.

I kneaded faster then placed a cloth over the dough, dusting my hands off on my off-white apron. I hurried up the stairs, untying as I went. I tossed the apron into my room and smoothed down my mousy brown hair. I gently pushed open the door to my parent's bedroom.

My step-mother was lying in the bed, coughing.

"I need my medicine," she whined.

"Of course, mama," I said, bowing out of the room.

Mama, she was not.

I opened the pantry door and rifled around for the medicinal jar that a healer down the street had given her. She was ailed with aches and pains, or so she claimed. It was hard to believe she was actually sick. She was a cruel woman that Papa had only married for the money. I brought it anyways. She wrestled with the top before dumping a spoonful down her throat.

"Ah," she sighed. "Where is your father?"

"At the market, mama," I said.

"Fine. Go," she said. She turned over underneath the pile of thread-bare blankets and I left.

I went back down the stairs to watch over our little bakery below the apartment. It wasn't noon yet. My father would be home within the hour from the market in the square.

People came and went, as they always did; the rich in their fancy coats and long dresses, and the poor in the torn clothes. The bakery was the perfect place to see the world as it was. It wasn't like the tailor where only the rich could go; we would always have customers because there would always be a need for bread. Or at least, that's what Papa said.

The door opened, jingling a little bell.

"Good afternoon," I said, greeting the man in the fancy clothes.

"Hello," he said. I kept my eyes down, respectfully. "Are you Sophie?" I looked up.

"Yes, sir," I said, hesitant. I dared to look him in the eyes.

"My name is Louis and I'm your brother," the man said.

I didn't quite know how to respond to that.

"I'm sorry, sir, but you must have the wrong Sophie," I said. He pointed to just below his neck.

"No," he said, shaking his head. I looked down. A locket rested on top of my blue dress. I had never removed it and I'd never opened it. It was impossible to.

"My locket?"

"Yes. I was told that's how I could identify you," he said.

"I'm sorry but who are you again?"

"I'm your brother, Louis," he said. His smile was massive-- like it might rip off his face at any moment.

"My father only had me," I said.

"Your real father actually had four children, including you," he said. This man was crazy.

"My real father? Sir, you are most certainly mistaken," I insisted. I wiped my flour-covered hands on my apron.

"I wish," he said. He sounded genuine.

"Why are you here, Mr--?"

"No surname, really. My full name is Louis Joseph, former Dauphin of France; that was before Napoleon," he said.

"Dauphin?" I quickly bowed. He was once royalty. But I stood straight up just as quickly, remembering my history lessons. "But you died years ago."

He smiled but it looked painful, forced.

"No," he said. "That is what most people know to be true. However, our father sent me away because he feared that the rebels would kill us if we remained. The same happened to your older brother, also named Louis, and our older sister Marie. He faked our deaths. Marie ran to England. Louis is somewhere in Austria. I was in the countryside up until a few weeks ago."

"And I was hidden here? In a bakery?" I asked. He nodded. Did I actually believe him?

"That locket was given to you to prove your identity," he said. "I'm here to take you away."

"Why?" This sounded very crazy.

"You are in danger, Sophie," he said. "Napoleon discovered our existence. He's looking for all of us."

"I cannot leave Paris. I don't know anywhere else," I said. For some reason, I trusted him now.

"You do not have to go," he said. "But too many people know that you are here. We must relocate you."

"And where do you suggest?" I asked, satirically.

"You can come and stay with me for awhile," he said. "We can find you a new home and a new job."

"Where? Mister Louis, this plan is crazy," I said.

"We'll have to find you something fit for a princess."

"I'm hardly a princess," I said, "and I've got work to be done."

He shook his head.

"I will just have to come back then," he said. He left with an elegant bow.