by Kat Dunn
‘Ah, well, that’s where you are wrong.’
Her curiosity was piqued. ‘No takers?’
‘Plenty. But that’s not what he was after.’ Leon pulled a piece of paper from his pocket. ‘I found myself introduced to one of the soldiers he’d approached. Ex-soldier now, I suppose, like you.’ The last part directed at Guil, who bristled. Guil had deserted, unlike the men who had been disbanded. ‘Far too happy to talk, not so fond of paying his bar tab. Once I cleared that problem up, I learned quite a bit. The Royalists are stirring; there’s something about to go down. Something brewing. People criticising Robespierre as though consequences were a thing that happened to other people. And your duc is looking for bribable soldiers who can access the prisons.’
Ada’s breath caught in her throat. ‘Prison? But he already got Olympe out…’
Léon shrugged. ‘I bring you the news, you figure out what it means.’
Guil’s lips were a tight line. ‘We need to speak to this man.’
‘I thought you might.’ He slipped the paper into Guil’s hand. ‘His name, and where you can find him. Take something to make it worth his while.’ Léon’s eyes slid back to Ada. ‘It didn’t come cheap, buying out his debt.’
She dug into her pocket and pulled out a roll of assignat notes.
Leon’s nose wrinkled. ‘Don’t insult me.’
Grudgingly, she swapped the notes for a purse of pre-Revolutionary coins. ‘Stay in touch. If you hear anything else—’
‘You’ll be the first to know.’ He caught her wrist. ‘And if you hear about Al…’
She softened. ‘We’ll tell you anything we hear. Camille won’t let him get hurt.’
With a nod, Léon left, and Guil took Ada’s arm again to promenade along the gallery.
Another chance for her to tell him about the duc’s offer.
Another moment of cowardice.
‘So when do we meet this solider?’ she said.
Guil unfolded the paper as they walked, scanned it, then handed it to her silently. All the life had drained from his face. Quickly, she read the name and location.
‘I don’t understand. What’s wrong?’
Guil was silent a moment more, before he said, ‘I know him. We were in the same light infantry demi-brigade. We scouted together in Spain, when we served under General Dumas in the Army of the Western Pyrenees.’ He stopped by the north window, looking at the city, his expression unreadable.
‘He was the man I betrayed.’
10
Buckbridge Street
James hurtled downstairs. The passage outside the tenement was as busy as it always was, drinkers spilling out of the pub, out-of-work men thronging on corners, girls carrying children in doorways, games of knucklebone, sewage thrown from windows, cats fighting over split bones.
Where was Olympe? Had Al and Camille come for her? Had she run away?
Oh god, oh god, oh god, he should never have left her.
His heart was racing so fast he felt faint, struggling to suck in full breaths. In minutes he was onto the fractionally calmer Broad Street, where men strolled by shaking off their umbrellas now the storm had passed, and women clopped along the cobbles on their metal pattens like horses.
He scanned the crowd, but of course Olympe was nowhere to be seen.
Picking a direction, he started walking, hunting the faces of everyone he passed for some sign of her.
He was an idiot. An idiot. His father was right. What was wrong with him that he hadn’t seen this coming? He’d let himself get distracted and he’d been outmanoeuvered.
At the end of the street he stopped, glancing in both directions. This was hopeless. Looking for one person in London was worse than looking for a needle in a haystack. Needles stayed still. Olympe would be on the move and expecting him.
The street was full of cabs and carts, men on horseback, private carriages wedged into the traffic, peddlers pushing handcarts, milkmaids with pails of fresh milk hanging from the yokes across their shoulders, cress sellers and cat’s meat men knocking on kitchen doors. The cacophony overwhelmed him, the sound of iron on cobbles, yells of traders, animals bleating – it was too much.
He forced himself to slow down and think.
There were two possibilities: either Al and Camille had taken her, or she’d left on her own.
If Camille had taken her, then chasing after them would do nothing. He knew where they were staying. He could confront them – lord, but Camille would probably want to crow about it anyway.
And if Olympe had got out on her own? Then she was in a hell of a lot of trouble. She didn’t know the city, she was wearing nothing but a collection of borrowed silks, she had no money – hell, she didn’t even understand English. The longer she was on her own, the more she was at risk. The Rookery was a dangerous place for a girl – the rest of the city no better. There were too many horror stories in the papers that his mother would pore over and pointedly put in Hennie’s face to explain why she absolutely wasn’t to go gallivanting around without a chaperone. If there was even a chance Olympe was out there, he had to search for her.
That was something to go on, then. He was hunting for a girl on her own. A girl who was probably lost, and scared, and trying to hide from people. It would be hard for her to avoid attracting attention.
He began to make a methodical sweep of the streets, alleys and courtyards radiating from the tenement, avoiding the busiest, people-filled thoroughfares and sticking to the quieter back alleys.
Then, on Great Queen Street off Drury Lane, a street lined with chemists, haberdasheries and bookbinders, he almost walked past a heap of rain-soaked rags bundled into the opening of a mews. He doubled back, picking out the storm-grey face that blended into the dirty silks. She’d pulled the scarf tight around her face and buried her head in her hands. People walked past unseeing; Londoners were used to ignoring vagrants and beggars. By making herself look pitiful, Olympe had unwittingly stumbled on the best disguise of all. Just another fallen woman, soon to end up in the murky waters of the Thames. He heard a few muttered comments from passers-by. Those French refugees coming over here, and they don’t even speak the language. Don’t know how to behave on the street. Look at her face. Bringing diseases.
James tuned them out and sat next to Olympe on the wet pavement. At any moment he expected her to dart away.
But she didn’t.
She only cried harder into her hands.
Awkwardly he patted her knee.
‘Hello.’
Looking up at him through a blur of tears, a warring mix of relief and despair crossed her face.
‘Did I get far?’
‘Far enough to frighten the life out of me.’
She looked down at her feet, the silk stockings ripped and dirty. ‘Was I going in the right direction?’
‘To find Camille?’
She nodded.
James decided to be kind. ‘Almost.’
‘So not at all. I couldn’t even get ten minutes away before I was lost. I don’t know where I am, I can’t find my friends, I can’t even speak to anyone. I hate stupid English. It’s very rude that no one here speaks French.’ She slumped into her folded arms. ‘I’m a child running off in a fit with no plan.’
‘I don’t know. I think it was brave.’
‘It was stupid.’
Above, the clouds lowered, threatening another storm. Olympe’s skin had settled into a dull grey, like the paving stones beneath them.
Olympe wiped her eyes and rearranged the scarf to better hide her face. Then she turned to James.
‘I give up.’
His eyebrows shot up. ‘Really?’
‘Really. Take me back. I’m done.’
Broad Street
James lifted the steaming pot of coffee and poured two cups. He nudged one towards Olympe, but she didn’t take it.
They were folded into the corner of a noisy coffee house on the main road, just beyond the Rookery proper. Olympe was soaked t
hrough from the rain, looking so wretched that he let go of the urge to cloister her again and took her to dry off first. The coffee house was crowded enough that no one looked too closely at her, and with her back to the room she could sit unnoticed – at least for a short while.
‘Drink something. You must be cold.’ He couldn’t quite believe his luck that she’d stopped fighting.
Mechanically, Olympe took her cup, drank, replaced it on the scuffed wooden table. James sipped his slowly. She pulled the scarf closer around herself, fingers clenched tightly and he realised she wasn’t downcast. She was angry.
‘Do you think Camille would be disappointed in me?’
‘If Camille expects you to magically locate her in a city of several hundred thousand people when you don’t speak English and have no idea where she is, then she’s an idiot.’
Olympe’s eyes snapped up. ‘Camille is not an idiot!’
A smile tugged at the corner of James’s mouth.
‘No, she’s not. My point is, she absolutely wouldn’t be disappointed in you.’ He hid his face in his cup for a moment. ‘If she’s disappointed in anyone, it’s me.’
‘With good reason.’
He shrugged. ‘I suppose. Only, I assume she must have gone off me beforehand otherwise she wouldn’t have been looking for someone else.’
‘You mean Ada?’
He didn’t reply. He hadn’t meant to let that slip, but he’d had no one to talk to about it, and somehow it came out anyway. It was a hurt that lingered. In his darkest moments, he wondered if that pain had made it easier to hurt Camille back, to betray her. An eye for an eye.
‘Are you jealous?’
‘Of course I’m jealous.’ James spoke quietly. ‘We were engaged.’
Are engaged, and his mother planning the wedding. Oh god, what was he going to do about that?
‘Have you spoken to her about it?’ asked Olympe.
‘I don’t need to. It’s obvious where things stand.’
It had been clear from the moment he arrived at Camille’s rooms over the Au Petit Suisse café. The look of shock and guilt when he’d walked in. Even before she’d admitted she’d fallen in love with Ada, he’d known. The way they looked at each other, moved easily in each other’s personal space, an unspoken dance of familiarity with each other’s bodies. It was the way he used to be with Camille. Now the space between them was brittle, frozen.
If he loved Camille, he should be happy that she was happy, he had told himself. But, oh, it had still hurt. A long, chaotic time had passed since they’d last been in contact, let alone seen each other. But Camille had left him. Without telling him. More than their engagement, it was their friendship he mourned. The Camille he’d known told him everything, wrote him letters about every decision she was agonising over. Shared her life with him as if it was the most natural thing in the world.
Now she shared that with Ada, and James was no one to her.
No – that wasn’t quite right, not now. Now he was her enemy.
Perhaps that was better than being nothing at all.
‘I think Camille and Ada are very good for each other, but that doesn’t mean you can’t also be hurt,’ said Olympe. ‘I would understand.’
He shot her a sideways look. ‘Are you trying to get on my good side so I take you to Camille?’
‘Yes. Is it working?’
‘No.’
‘But you are jealous. Why do you need to hide it? Are you ashamed of having feelings?’
‘They’re private.’
‘Hmm.’ She poured herself another cup of coffee, a smirk playing on her lips.
James glared. ‘Picking at this will not get you anywhere.’
‘Maybe you should try moving on too,’ she said sweetly. ‘Brooding isn’t going to make you any happier.’
‘I don’t have time for that.’
He couldn’t deny he still had feelings for Camille. But was loving her just a habit? Maybe one he could break. Or at least – that’s what he’d hoped before she’d showed up two days ago and everything had hit him at once. He loved her and he was furious with her; he felt guilty and scared at the same time.
Olympe smirked. ‘Oh, yes, I forgot, you’re terribly important.’
‘Look, I didn’t have to buy you coffee and be nice to you.’
‘It’s true, I think you’re going soft.’
He eyed her more seriously. ‘So do I have to tie you up again? Are you going to make another run for it?’
A flash of mottled navy blue and purple clouds bloomed up her throat and across the side of her face. ‘No. I’ve decided: I don’t like being useless, and I don’t like being locked up. So, here’s the deal: I will help you do whatever it is you need me for, and then you let me go.’
He opened his mouth to speak but she held up a finger.
‘I’m not done. Al knows where you were hiding me now; that game is up so don’t pretend you’re in any position to negotiate. You want something from me and I’m not unreasonable, I will help you. But no more tying me up. I decide what happens to me. Also, I want to go outside – show me some of the city. And you must teach me English, I don’t want to be helpless like that ever again.’
He held his hands up. ‘Whoa, whoa, whoa – I need to start writing all this down.’
‘Don’t worry, I won’t let you forget.’ She smiled. ‘But this is the big one: take me back to Camille. You’re out of time, we both know it. Camille will make your life not worth living until you hand me over. So let’s skip all that.’
‘What if you and Camille disappear before helping me?’
‘Then you made a mistake trusting me.’ She shrugged. ‘There’s never a guarantee in life. You consider your options and make the best call you can. At some point it all comes down to taking a risk. I’m taking a risk trusting you to come good on your side of this deal. You have to trust me I’ll do mine.’
He leaned back in his chair, feeling light despite her threats. ‘You certainly did learn a lot from Camille.’
Olympe’s eyes sparkled. ‘Do you think she would be proud of me now?’
‘Most definitely.’ He stuck out his hand. ‘It’s a deal.’
Olympe peeled a glove off and he took her cold, swirling-grey hand in his own.
James thought of Edward’s limp fingers dangling from the operating table, the way they had twitched with each jolt of electricity.
He would be a fool to think this truce with Olympe meant his problems were over.
But he had no idea then how much they were just beginning.
11
6 Bedford Square
Sharp shards of moonlight cut slices out of the corridor, thick shadow and pallid light chequer-boarding the parquet and stretching up the walls. Camille stumbled barefoot, one hand at her throat, the other tracing the window ledges.
She needed air. She couldn’t breathe.
She tugged at a window, then the next. None would give. She’d woken, gasping for breath and so hot she felt like she was on fire. The windows in her room were locked and she couldn’t find the key.
With no candle and wearing only her cotton nightdress, she wandered from window to window, alternately sweating with fever and shivering with chills. The familiar hallways and furniture of the Harfords’ London townhouse were made strange by night. Somewhere outside, a fox screamed.
For the first time, she allowed the thought to enter her mind.
Maybe she wasn’t completely well.
Why were all the goddamn windows locked?
Camille rushed faster and faster from window to window. What was wrong with her, why couldn’t she breathe?
She yanked at a sash, cursing, fingers scrabbling at the latch. Lurched to the next – tripped.
A hand closed under her arm, catching her. Her heart stopped.
A voice spoke. ‘Don’t die here. It’ll look very suspicious.’
Al steadied her against the window ledge, arching a brow. Camille sank against him. He smelled
of brandy and tobacco and familiar Al-ness. ‘Oh, thank god. It’s just you.’ She shut her eyes as she tried to suck in a few even breaths. ‘You scared me.’
‘Er, no, you scared me, Miss Streaking-Around-in-a-Nightdress.’ He leaned against the wall next to her and pulled a snuffbox from his pocket. He was still dressed, though a little dishevelled, shirt untucked and cravat loose. The smudges under his eyes had grown darker since they had arrived at the Harfords’ and she wondered if he was getting any sleep. ‘I thought you were the ghost of some Civil War casualty come to haunt me for being French.’
She rolled her eyes. ‘First, this building is only forty years old, how is a Civil War victim here? Secondly, I don’t think the Civil War had anything to do with the French. And thirdly, what are you doing up?’
‘Sleep is for the weak.’
‘Sleep is necessary.’
He shrugged. ‘My whole family is dead. Sleep doesn’t seem particularly important. Nothing seems important anymore.’
‘Al,’ she started softly, but he interrupted her.
‘And anyway, they’re English, it’s always the French’s fault. Even when they’re killing each other, somehow it’s because our cheese is too good and we have better weather so they get angry and cut their own feet off. Silly country.’
‘I don’t think we have a leg to stand on right now.’
‘Touché,’ he snorted. ‘More to the point, what are you doing? Don’t tell me, your bed’s too cold without Ada in it. No wait – sleep is too boring for you. You’re pining after a good crisis?’
Camille didn’t reply immediately. Her chest still felt tight, and the memory of jerking out of sleep, heart racing, cold with dread, was too close. She sank to the floor, pulling her knees up to wrap her arms around her legs. ‘The opposite. Sleep is … too much. I dream.’
Al sat beside her. ‘Go on, then. Tell me.’
‘Really? You want to listen to me talking about my feelings?’
‘Oh, only so I can hold this over you later.’
‘How generous.’
‘Think nothing of it.’