by Kat Dunn
‘Does it hurt?’
‘Yes,’ she hissed between clenched teeth. ‘Of course it hurts.’
A maid arrived with a jar of honey and a clean cloth, and set about washing, covering and bandaging the burn.
The pain was raw, a shock that rooted her to the chair.
But it had brought a new thought with it.
As her hand was wrapped, she looked at the offending ladle, now being covered in a napkin as the table was cleared. The ladle itself hadn’t been cooked – it was the stew that had sat over a flame until it bubbled, then the ladle had been placed inside and carried up. The heat from the stew had carried along the metal and burned her.
It was already known that electricity could move along copper wire in the same way. She thought of Olympe, kneeling on the floor when Dorval had attacked them in the duc’s laboratory, how she ran her electric charge into the water so that it flowed across the whole floor. The conductive material didn’t just receive the charge; it moved it. It could be generated in one place and felt in quite another. Destruction could be carried out from a distance.
She watched the blistered skin of her palm disappear beneath a layer of honey and cotton bandage.
The duc was trying to harness and transfer an electric charge for a reason, one that would help his cause. She knew too well that his cause was violence. The beginnings of an idea formed in her mind, still shapeless, indistinct. She felt frustratingly on the edge of understanding something much, much larger.
Dinner was over, and she was packed off to bed with a glass of watered-down laudanum and an instruction to rest.
Alone, Ada pushed the laudanum aside. She didn’t want to sleep. She wanted to work.
From under her bed, she pulled out the books and pamphlets and treaties the duc had lent her. She burned through candle after candle reading until her eyes ached.
In the small hours, as she stretched and yawned, the quiet of the night was split by a yell. Ada started, sending a book sliding off her lap and thunking to the floor. Another yell came, then another, then so many it was like a wall of noise rolling along the street outside.
She wrapped herself in a shawl and went to the window. When she’d returned to her father’s she refused to stay in the same room as before, the one he’d locked her in not once but twice. Her new rooms faced the street, a gesture of his goodwill. She pushed back the shutters, and looked down onto a riotous crowd, lighting the darkness with torches, candles, anything to hand. Young and old, men and women, shouting, laughing, dashing forward with excitement.
Ada hung over the window ledge and called out.
‘What is it? What has happened?’
A girl paused in the flow of people, and looked up at Ada, eyes alight with glee.
‘Robespierre has been arrested!’ yelled the girl. ‘The Terror is over!’
13
The Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens
James jumped off the boat, tossing a coin to the ferryman, before he and Olympe raced up the river steps towards the pleasure gardens. They couldn’t have been far behind Camille and the others, but it felt like a lifetime. Wickham’s smug smile replayed in his head, the pure fury he’d seen in his eyes. The way he’d looked up at the edifice of James’s family home and vowed to bring it tumbling down.
He’d shaken off his near miss with the cab and gone pelting to stables. Olympe had been there, confused but fine – which had only brought more dread. If Wickham hadn’t found Olympe, then maybe he was going after another target.
There are so many of you, you cannot keep your eye on them all at once.
And where was Edward while Wickham confronted James?
His family. Too many moving parts. Too many to protect all at once.
The pleasure gardens would make that job even harder. If Wickham’s threats were serious – and James was sure they were – he had a clear run to whichever of James’s family he wanted.
Inside the gardens the crowd was thick and raucous, the ground churned to mud. Olympe wrenched out of his grasp.
‘Al! It’s Al!’
And it was – sloping past was Al, smartly dressed, hands in pockets. He stopped dead, eyes wide. ‘Good god, that was even easier than I thought.’
Olympe flung herself towards him. ‘Thank goodness you’re here.’
He looked down at the bundle of girl in his arms. ‘That’s what everyone always says.’ He quirked an eyebrow at James. ‘Er, is this you surrendering? Because if so, can we tell Camille I heroically disarmed you and persuaded you to see the error of your ways? I know you already asked her for help, but maybe you can let me have a bit of the glory.’
James was in no mood for it. ‘Where’s my family? And Camille?’
Al shrugged. ‘Your family are messing around with balloon rides, last I saw. Lost Camille in a hedge maze, which sounds ridiculous but is unfortunately the truth. She’ll be around here somewhere…’
The future yawned in front of James. The decision he made now would determine more than his own fate.
It was time he accepted which battles he’d already lost. He stepped back, leaving Olympe with Al.
‘Take Olympe with you and look for Camille. I’ve got to find my family. There are people after us. Olympe can explain.’
Al’s brows drew together. ‘James, what have you done?’
He grabbed Al’s arm, squeezing too tightly. ‘Listen to me. This fight between us, it’s over, okay? Whatever I did, it’s not as important as keeping everyone safe.’
Al studied him, mouth drawn into a sneer. ‘Whatever you did was pretty awful and no, it’s not over. But the battalion doesn’t leave people in the lurch. Unlike some others.’
James clenched his jaw. ‘Find Camille, then get out of here. And for god’s sake – watch your back.’
The three of them split up, Al and Olympe disappearing into the crowd while James peeled off, following the rough directions to the launch site Al had given him. He arrived as the balloon touched back down. Hennie was hanging over the side of the basket and waved enthusiastically when she caught sight of him.
‘You took your time! And you missed all the fun.’ The attendants opened the basket and Hennie and Phil stepped out.
‘What’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost,’ said Hennie.
His family were safe, thank god.
That only left Camille. Alone, lost, and unsuspecting.
His eyes caught on the maze Al had mentioned and saw a path to one side leading to another part of the gardens behind it.
It was a start.
14
The Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens
Camille stood face to face with Edward.
Edward, the boy she had seen dragged under the carriage wheels. Edward, the boy who should be dead.
She was rooted to the spot in strange fascination. Sensitive mouth, gently curling dark hair, deep, soulful eyes. And a puckered scar along his temple and forehead, a putrid bruise spreading from it like mould.
How strange to see death standing in front of her. Death, or one of his outriders.
‘You’re alive,’ she whispered.
‘In a sense.’ His voice was brittle. ‘James and Wickham brought me back using electricity, but you know all about that, don’t you?’
Camille frowned. ‘Wickham – is that James’s tutor?’
‘Don’t play stupid. The game is up. We know James has your electric girl. We know you came here from France to help him betray us.’
‘Sorry – what? You think I am working with James to betray you?’ She gaped.
‘How else do you explain it? We have worked side by side in blood and sweat for the same goal, the same glory for months – and then suddenly he acts as though we are nothing to him. And here you are.’ Edward circled her. ‘I’m disappointed to know his head could be turned so easily by something pretty in skirts.’
Her eyes narrowed. ‘You have me so well assessed I’m surprised you didn’t realise sooner that James had turned on y
ou,’ she said. ‘Or perhaps you were never as important to him as you thought. Either way, you say he has the girl and you have … what, exactly?’
‘We will have it all.’ Edward pounced, hands closing around her throat.
They felt like a vice, cold and solid and stronger than anything she had felt before. Immediately her breath was cut off and she panicked, scrabbling at the fingers around her windpipe. Pain screamed through her jaw and neck, stars flashed in her eyes, black growing around the edges. Her chest strained.
She was alone, and she was going to die here.
Ada might never know what had happened to her.
Something slammed into Edward’s side, sending him staggering backwards. Not something – someone. Camille barely had time to register her shock before he bucked, shaking off the small figure dressed in silk, who was thrown into Camille. Together they toppled to the grass. The figure’s veil fell back, revealing a stormy grey face and dark eyes.
‘Olympe!’ she cried. ‘Oh my god, what are you doing here?’
Olympe threw her arms around Camille in a quick hug. ‘Less talking, more fighting.’
Edward was already on his feet, hands raised, ready to pounce again. His beauty had gone, and now all Camille saw was his ragged fingernails, bunching muscles, the edge of rot, as though he had come back wrong. She yanked up her skirts, grabbing for the knife strapped to her thigh – but Edward had stopped a second before his attack. He was focused entirely on Olympe, a look of recognition dawning on his face. His jaw worked, lips pulling open like the tearing of flesh.
‘You again.’
‘Yes, me again.’ They circled each other, a thread of current playing between Olympe’s hands. ‘I’ve come to defend my friends.’
‘Your friends scheme and plot and betray. They are not worth defending.’
‘What would you have me do? Go willingly with you? I have been the toy of scientists before and found it was not to my taste.’
‘If you mean to defend your friends then giving yourself up would be the safest way to save them hurt,’ he said. ‘We will have you, one way or another.’
Camille hung back, throat and lungs raw like a burn. Edward seemed reluctant to attack. He looked shaken, hands flexing as though in memory of squeezing her throat, as though it had frightened him as much as it had frightened her.
‘And yet you hesitate,’ said Olympe. ‘Perhaps your task is not so easy when it means hurting another person.’
‘I don’t want to hurt anyone.’
‘You just have. On his orders, yes? Wickham certainly has no such moral qualms. James told me about how they brought you back – you are an experiment to him now, that is your value.’
‘We are partners.’ Edward started forward, indifferent to the blaze of sparks Olympe sent his way – but he did not grab for her.
‘Does he still think you’re as human as him? Or does he look at you differently? Maybe not directly, but from the corner of your eye you catch him watching you, like a specimen to be studied. Perhaps he asks too many questions, wants to know why you don’t feel the cold or why your wounds don’t heal. He is re-categorising you, and once he does it will be all too easy for him to ask you to do so much worse. Hurt us today, see what he expects of you tomorrow.’
‘Shut up.’
‘You and I are not so different. We both know that being human is more complicated than it seems.’
His hand went to the gash on his forehead, to the rubbery, gangrenous flesh.
‘I’m not a monster,’ he said.
A stillness hung in the air, the stillness of the surface of water, subtle and shivering with tension.
Olympe held out her hand, a swirl of bruise-purple and grey, in a sign of peace. ‘Then let us go. Don’t become one.’
From the tree line, Al burst out, brandishing a walking stick.
‘Olympe! Get back!’
Olympe tried to stop Al – but it was too late. He cracked Edward around the head with the stick, clumsy with nervous energy.
Edward didn’t go down.
A low growl filled the clearing, and, with a dreadful slowness, he turned and set his sights on Al.
Al lashed out with the walking stick again, narrowly missing Olympe, who threw herself between them.
‘No! Stop! Don’t hurt him!’
Edward grabbed the stick before it made contact and thrust it back to strike Al in the chest. He doubled over, gasping. Olympe tried to reach for Edward, but he smacked her aside, flesh meeting in an audible crack.
Camille used the chaos to slide her knife from its holster and pounced, slamming the blade into Edward’s side. He howled – but still didn’t drop, only reached for the blade and yanked it out.
She scrambled towards Al, hands shaking.
‘Good job!’ he shrieked. ‘Now he’s got a weapon!’
The growl became a roar – not of pain, but frustration. Edward weighed the knife in his hand, appraising them in turn. Camille, with her fists raised, Al ready with the walking stick. And Olympe, reluctantly stepping to their side, hands crackling blue.
Olympe edged forward, sparks jumping back and forth between her outstretched hands.
‘You don’t have to do this. You’re more than Wickham’s pawn.’
‘I’m not a pawn,’ Edward spat. ‘I owe Wickham my life. Your friends may betray quickly, but I am not so fickle.’
‘He saved you. That doesn’t mean he controls you.’ Olympe let the electric field die down, extended her bare palm. ‘You make your own choices. My friends taught me that.’
A branch cracked behind them, footsteps in the trees.
Wickham stepped into the clearing, James held in front of him with a knife pressed to his bare forearm.
‘Children, children. No more dramatic speeches, I beg you. I have my knife to your friend’s radial artery. None of you have studied anatomy, so I shall explain: it runs across the top of the radius bone, and when severed can cause unconsciousness in thirty seconds. Death in two minutes. Not even enough time to go for help.’
James looked ashen. Even Edward had gone still, eyes trained on the blade against his friend’s skin.
‘He’s right,’ said James. ‘Camille, stand down.’
‘But—’
‘I’m sorry. I should have come to you sooner.’ He looked her in the eye and Camille knew he meant it. She saw an apology there, and something else that frightened her – acceptance.
‘This is over,’ said Wickham. ‘The girl comes with us.’
‘Stop it. Stop it – I don’t want anyone getting hurt because of me.’ Olympe started towards them, at the same time that Camille grabbed for her yelling, ‘Olympe, no!’
Wickham loosened his grip on James, licking his lips in anticipation – reached for Olympe—
She made it halfway across the clearing, when a flash of light ripped through the trees, and a bang so loud they all fell to the ground. The metallic smell of gunpowder drifted on the breeze. Camille covered her ears with her hands, blinking in confusion. Another bang, a flash, and gold glowing in the night sky. Fireworks – they must be near the launch site.
Through the light and smoke, in glimpses she saw James on the floor, red smeared down his arm. Olympe in Edward’s arms, shocking him to no effect as he carried her off. Wickham hauled James up, threw him over his shoulder and followed.
Camille got to her feet, only for another detonation to rip through the clearing, a wall of noise that threw her down.
There was a moment where she lay, pressed into the grass, cool under her skin and the ringing in her hears like a lament. And then it was over, the darkness closing in.
PART FOUR
Cry Havoc
1
A Supper Box in the Pleasure Gardens, after Midnight
Unnoticed amongst the drunken debauchery of the Vauxhall gardens, two figures emerged from the woods, stumbling and clinging to each other as they staggered across the piazza towards the oasis of a vacant supper box.
/> Camille and Al weren’t the only people looking the worse for wear by this time of night, and their lurching progress drew no attention despite the dirt and leaves clinging to them. Camille’s ears were still ringing so loudly the music and laugher was only a distant suggestion of noise. She’d come to with Al’s arm around her waist, hauling her away from the firework launch site. Olympe and James were long gone.
The display was still going on, a cacophony of noise and light erupting too close above them. Gunpowder burning her nostrils and chest tight with smoke, she let Al help her into a chair. They needed to go after Wickham now, before the trail went cold – but she couldn’t breathe.
‘Camille – Cam!’ Al was shaking her shoulder as she sank down, head between her knees to fight the drowning feeling. She felt too light, as if she was floating out of her body, dissolving into thought and starlight.
A sharp slap brought her back. Her cheek stung and she and Al stared at each other in disbelief, Al holding his hand out like a strange tool he had never had need of before. ‘Did that work? You’re not going to keel over on me, are you?’
‘You slapped me.’
‘You were having hysterics.’
‘I was not having—’ She stopped, her hand moving to her throat.
Al looked worse than she felt; the little colour he had was completely drained from his face, so that he seemed painted in lime wash and shadows. ‘Where’s a bottle of whisky when you need one?’
‘I don’t need a drink.’
‘I wasn’t thinking of you.’
A waiter arrived and Al sent him away for sherry and oysters, which appeared in short turn. A mishmash of ornate Venetian style and chinoiserie, Ionic columns, Gothic arches and flared scrolls, the garish boxes were little more than rooms, open to the party on one side, with rustic tables and chairs arranged to best view the action. Al poured them both a big measure and downed his in one. Camille sipped hers, feeling the burning line of her throat in contrast to the hitching numbness of her chest.