Monstrous Design

by Kat Dunn

  She sighed, thinking of the dream that had come again that night. It had followed her from France, a cloud of blood and fire and pain. ‘I’m not sure I know how to talk about it.’

  ‘Well, start with what you’re thinking right now.’

  Camille looked at her toes peeking out from under her nightdress. At the speckled half-moons of her fingernails.

  ‘All right. Do you feel guilty?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About the things we’ve done.’

  ‘What, you mean rescuing people? Not really, I thought that might be my ticket into the good place, if Him upstairs is as against my type as my family tells me he is.’ He took a pinch of snuff. ‘Told me,’ he corrected himself.

  ‘No. I mean when we do what we do, and people get hurt.’

  ‘You’ve never had an issue with that before.’

  The fever that had gripped her when she’d woken was gone. She felt cold in just a nightdress and acutely vulnerable, soft skin protected only by a thin layer of cotton.

  ‘I … didn’t tell you everything that happened before Ada and Guil rescued me from the Madeleine.’

  ‘Oh?’

  She moistened her lips. ‘Dorval died because I killed him.’

  ‘So you feel bad for hurting someone. My god, that’s natural, Cam.’

  ‘No.’ She couldn’t look at him. ‘I feel bad because I know I’d do it again. He was trying to kill me. I tell myself I’m better than Comtois and the duc because I don’t kill and they do, because they hurt people and cross the line. But here I am, on the other side of the line alongside them, and I know I’ll cross that line again if I have to. So who am I now? What other lines might I cross? Where does this all stop? If I give up, abandon Olympe, then worse things will happen. I have to keep going, keep doing what needs to be done to stop something more awful from happening. Don’t I? I lie awake at night and think: is that what they tell themselves too? That it’s a necessary evil? How can one person make that decision? How can I sleep when I have blood on my hands and I am running headlong into more?’ Camille stopped. Somewhere in the middle of all that, she had started crying and she couldn’t stop.

  Al stared at her, eyes wide.

  ‘Oh, Cam. Oh, you ridiculous human.’ He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close. Petted her hair. Rocked her. ‘I didn’t know you had feelings like this. I assumed everything was easy for you because you make such snap decisions, as if you’re born to lead. And here I am having to eat my words because you’re a mess like the rest of us.’

  She sniffled. ‘Yes. I am. Don’t tell Ada.’

  ‘My dear, I think she already knows. I’m sure that’s what she likes about you most,’ he said.

  Hiding her face in his shoulder, Camille let herself say the thing she had wanted to earlier in the library. ‘I’m sorry. I failed you. I couldn’t save you from what happened to me, but please don’t leave. I can’t bear the idea of losing you too.’ When he said nothing, she added, ‘I’m your family as well, you know. We’re all each other has left.’

  He didn’t move away, but she could feel the subtle shift, the loosening of his arms.

  ‘I don’t know about that, Cam. Seems like you’ve got a whole extra family here waiting for you.’

  And just like that, another stone of guilt joined the pile in the pit of her stomach.

  ‘I don’t belong here any more,’ she said.

  ‘Are you telling me that, or yourself?’ he asked.

  They let silence fall and she peeled herself away from Al’s warm body, wiping her face with the sleeves of her nightgown.

  Al spoke at last. ‘You don’t have to do this, you know. If you’re afraid what it might make you. No one dropped down and knighted you saviour of the broken, the beaten and the damned.’

  She thought, for a second, about what it would be like if she did stop fighting, if she married James, like she’d always meant to, and quietly put down her responsibilities, retired from difficult decisions. The Harford family name and money would protect her from any consequences.

  Then she saw Olympe’s face in the Conciergerie prison when she’d taken off her iron mask, upturned and hopeful. She thought of the horror of the duc’s experiments. The knowledge of what would happen to the people of her city if the Revolution fell.

  And she knew she could never give up.

  ‘I know,’ she said. ‘But I’d rather be a monster than a coward.’

  She would save her friends. Her city. And she would save anyone else from having to cross those lines for her.

  Idly, Al stroked a stray lock of her hair, and regarded her sadly.

  ‘Oh, my dear. Conscience makes cowards of us all.’

  12

  The Faubourg Saint Jacques

  Ada held her skirts out of the dirt as she strode down the Rue Faubourg Saint Jacques. The evening was hot and a trickle of sweat made its way down her neck. She’d picked the wrong outfit again; it was too tight in the bodice, an old-fashioned thing in striped silk, pinched in at her natural waist. She was cursing herself as she panted for breath on the long walk from the Marais.

  Her mood was as sour as the smell from her old dress. After Léon had left them, things had not gone well. From the Observatory, she and Guil had piled back into the carriage and crawled north towards her father’s house through Paris’s gridlocked traffic. Guil had been silent. Ada hadn’t known what to say. It was an awful thing for Guil to find out, but she knew there was no point pretending they could pass up this chance to find out what ally the duc was trying to bring on board.

  ‘Will you be able to do it?’ she asked, as they passed the Jardin du Luxembourg.

  He came back to himself. ‘Of course. Do you doubt me?’

  ‘No. Never.’ Now was the time to tell him about the duc and her nascent plan. ‘I’ve been thinking … perhaps we can use another route to get to the duc. What if we try to get inside the house, now we know where he’s set up?’

  Guil looked at her sharply. ‘That’s too risky.’

  ‘Risky worked for us last night.’

  ‘It very nearly didn’t—’

  ‘Hear me out.’ She took a breath. ‘I think we’re being too cautious. The longer we take, the more chance the duc has to slip out of our grasp entirely, to hurt more people – to move against the government, even. We know he wants the Revolution overthrown at any cost. From what Léon has heard, it sounds as though things are already in motion. If we hold ourselves to higher standards, he’ll win while we’re still deciding on the safe thing to do.’

  Guil considered her words. ‘Léon’s lead is a more sound route. The more we learn about the duc from a distance, the better equipped we will be when the time comes. If we stretch ourselves too far too soon, all we will achieve is attracting trouble.’

  ‘And if we sit on the sidelines, we’ll achieve nothing,’ she snapped. ‘We might as well not bother. Camille trusted me to stop the duc. To help people. What’s the point if I sit here worrying about my own hide?’

  Guil’s tone became frosty. ‘Only you? Did she not also entrust that responsibility to me?’

  Ada felt immediately guilty. Guil was right. Perhaps it was the claustrophobia she felt being with her father that drove her to action. It felt too much as if she was going backwards; day by day she was losing all the things she had grown to like about herself.

  Drawing a slow breath, she pinched the bridge of her nose, brought her emotions back under control. ‘I’m sorry. You’re right. We’re doing this together.’

  ‘I am sorry too. You are correct, we cannot linger.’ He drummed his fingers on the lapel of his coat. ‘What is your plan to gain access to his house?’

  Ada swallowed, winding her sweaty fingers together to keep them still, and haltingly recounted everything that had happened: the duc finding her, telling her they had been seen. His suspicion. His implied offer.

  Guil’s expression grew unnervingly still. Ada had forgotten how much she hated this about
him; when Camille was angry it was written across her face in ten-foot letters. Guil was far too careful to reveal anything he didn’t want to. Perhaps it was why she had not noticed his feelings for Camille for so long.

  ‘He didn’t offer anything directly,’ she said. ‘It was more like an overture to a larger conversation. But I think he means it; if I want a place with him, I can have it.’

  Guil shut his eyes, swaying with the carriage. ‘You kept this from me until now, so I can only presume you are planning to accept.’

  Her cheeks burned. ‘I needed some time to think it through.’

  ‘And informing me that our most dangerous adversary not only witnessed us spying on him, but had the tenacity to approach you in the open – that was unimportant to mention?’

  ‘No. I – I couldn’t find the right time.’ Her stays were prodding her in the armpit and she was too hot and her scalp itched and she hated feeling so stupid and childish.

  He opened his eyes and looked at her with a piercing gaze. ‘You want to work for the duc.’

  ‘With him.’ She folded her arms. ‘Tell me it’s not the best way to find out exactly what he’s up to.’

  ‘It is absolutely not the best way to find out what he’s up to.’

  ‘Guil, this is a gift horse. I’m not going to look it in the mouth.’

  ‘Your definition of gift is strange. I would suggest this is more likely an extremely dangerous trap.’

  ‘You don’t think I can pull this off.’

  ‘Ada—’

  ‘If it were Cam suggesting this, you’d be all over it.’

  His jaw clenched. ‘That is not true. You were not privy to my conversations with Camille, but I assure you that more often than not I was advising her against some risky or morally indefensible course of action. Must I remind you that it was your father who agreed to work with the duc before? I seem to remember you thinking that was unacceptable.’

  ‘This is different.’

  ‘Because now it is you who is doing it?’

  ‘Yes! I mean – the reason is different. Surely you of all people know sometimes you have to do distasteful, risky things for the right reason.’

  Guil’s voice went menacingly quiet. ‘What exactly is that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Well, you know.’ She tried to backpedal. ‘You left the army because you had to, in the only way you knew how.’

  But the conversation was broken. She’d known as soon as she’d said it that she’d crossed a line. Guil was a thunderous presence, too-long limbs folded into the opposite carriage seat. She tried to catch his eye but he wouldn’t look at her.

  And she hadn’t had word from him since. She felt guilty for an afternoon, before her guilt turned to anger. They wanted the same thing, why did he cast her as the villain for it? She had passed a distracted day turning the problem over in her mind, and came to a conclusion: if Camille was here she wouldn’t hesitate. She would make a choice and act.

  Ada was done with being cautious. She didn’t want to simper and tag along after her father, repressing every passion and talent that made her her. What was the worth of her, then?

  No. She wanted to make things happen.

  Outside the glossy front door of the townhouse, she paused to catch her breath. Neaten her hair. Smooth her skirts.

  In her head, she rehearsed what she was going to say.

  When she couldn’t put it off any longer, she reached for the knocker and rapped twice.

  A maid answered, and Ada waited on the step as her message was delivered.

  The duc appeared.

  Ada didn’t give him a chance to speak. ‘You’re right: I’ve been wasted, and I’m sick of it. Take me on, make me your apprentice. Put your money where your mouth is. I’m willing if you are.’

  The duc smiled and opened the door wider.

  ‘Welcome, Adalaide. I am so very excited to begin.’

  13

  A Flophouse in the Rookery

  9 Thermidor

  27 July

  James woke with a start when the string was cut and he went tumbling out of the pew. Olympe caught his arm before his head made contact with the row in front.

  ‘Morning. Sleep well?’

  Around them, people were stirring, stretching. The flophouse had been full the night before and they’d only managed to get a space after James pressed an extra coin into the landlord’s hand. It was little more than a single room, crammed with pews salvaged from a church. All the ‘guests’ jammed in close together, and then a rope was slung across their fronts and tied tight so they could sleep sitting upright.

  James only knew these sorts of places existed from the charity work the hospital sent them on. It was the cheapest possible place to get a night’s shelter – and the hardest place for anyone to sneak up on them unawares. Who he was hiding from at this point, James wasn’t sure. It felt like everyone.

  He thought of Edward easing himself from the operating table, beautiful face crusted with blood and body burned where the electric nodes had been affixed. He shouldn’t have run. Perhaps Wickham would chalk it up to shock, but Edward already seemed to think he was hiding something and disappearing wouldn’t have helped. Choose a side, Edward had said. Had running made it all too clear he hadn’t chosen them?

  One problem at a time: he needed to convince his father about Olympe before Camille made her move. If Edward and Wickham found out he’d betrayed them after that – well, it would be too late. He’d lose Edward’s friendship, Wickham’s mentorship, but he would have gained his father. For the first time in his nineteen years, his father would be proud.

  He and Olympe had come up with a plan last night, over oysters. They would go to Lord Harford and demonstrate Olympe’s powers. His father was hostile, so they’d need something impressive to persuade him. Something he hadn’t seen in any scientific demonstration before. Something he couldn’t accuse them of faking.

  After, James wouldn’t stop Olympe going to Camille. He couldn’t say the same for his father.

  They went back to the room in the Rookery to practise what Olympe had in mind. It was the only place they’d get any privacy. James hurried the whole short way, one eye over his shoulder. He couldn’t shake the feeling they were being followed.

  Upstairs, Olympe sat under the skylight, gloves off and grey hands held out before her. A blue-white spark shimmered along her finger, gathering at the tip before jumping to her next finger, and the next, like a coin rolling between her knuckles. She frowned, stormy aspect drawn to a churning knot around her eyes. The pinpricks of light in their inky darkness were iridescent, like the night sky in the deep wilderness.

  The spark of electric charge danced faster and faster across her outstretched fingers, the intricate ball of static growing bigger and bigger until, between one finger and the next, it spilled out of control. In half a breath it had engulfed her hand, blazing bright. A dangerous hum had built in the air, shadows gathering in darkened corners, and James felt his skin prickle as his hair rose in a halo around his head.

  ‘Olympe—’

  ‘I know, I’m trying!’ Her look of concentration took on a tinge of panic as the glove of energy stretched over her wrist and licked at her cuffs. For a moment the tide seemed to reverse – and then the whole thing flared in a blast of power that singed James’s eyebrows.

  Olympe gave a huff of frustration and slumped against the bed frame.

  ‘See, that bit’s easy. Why can’t I keep just doing that?’

  James patted the cinders from his face. ‘That bit we can fake. Any idiot with the right equipment can make a flash – what we need is control. To show my father what this really means. Imagine – if you can pass the charge between your fingers, could you pass it between your hands? Could you project it from your body? Pass a charge into something else? So many new possibilities open up.’

  She frowned. ‘Possibilities for what? You know I won’t hurt people.’

  James paused, chose his next words carefull
y.

  ‘I don’t want you to hurt anyone.’ It wasn’t a lie, but when his father finally understood Olympe’s powers, he was all too sure that’s what he would want. ‘If you could pass a current into something else, for example, there could be countless technological applications. Or medical – we’ve hardly begun to understand what electricity could be used for because we struggle to generate it in any large quantity or store it.’

  Olympe wrinkled her nose. ‘I’m not a resource for you to plunder. I know that’s the sort of thing you people do. Empire and conquest.’

  He realised then that she knew. She knew he would hand her to the war minister, who might lock her up like the Revolutionaries or experiment on her like the Royalists; she also knew she had no chance on her own. She was taking a calculated risk, using him to get closer to Camille. Their alliance was untested, but it was the only option either of them had.

  Olympe climbed onto the bed and leaned back on her elbows to stare at the skylight. In the hours since she’d agreed to work with him, she’d gone from crouching in the corner hissing if he made any sudden moves, to demanding he buy a better quality of meal. He outwardly took umbrage, grumbling that a slap-up dinner wasn’t a priority. But he bowed to her orders. The more she trusted him, the more she relaxed, the easier this would be. And if it soothed his guilt, then that was a pleasant side effect.

  ‘Do you really think this is science?’ asked Olympe. A solitary spark shimmered on her knuckles.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Once, a priest came to the house where I lived with my mother and tried to set me on fire.’

  James dropped his snuffbox, scattering tobacco over the rug. ‘Jesus, Olympe!

  ‘Don’t worry, Mother put it out quickly.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘He said I was the Devil. That I had no soul.’

  ‘I … don’t understand.’

  Although, beneath his shock and disgust, he did.

  ‘Isn’t that what Al thought? I overheard them all talking about me. I wasn’t surprised; the duc told me he wasn’t sure I had a soul like regular Christian Frenchmen, because I wasn’t made by God.’