What? Camille snuck a sidelong glance at Lazare. He raised a dark eyebrow, the one with the scar. When the boy reached them, he flung himself to his knees before Camille and clasped her hand.
“Mademoiselle! An angel!” His clever black eyes scrutinized her. “No—scratch that out. A Jeanne d’Arc of the air! A true heroine!”
“But I didn’t—”
“Your name will be written in the annals of French history, mademoiselle!” he said, rising to his feet and removing his hat with a flourish. “Charles Rosier, your servant.”
“A pleasure to meet you.” Camille tried to keep a straight face. Who were these people? It was as if she had stumbled into Astley’s circus or a play, something mad and wild and wonderful—completely apart from the rest of her life.
Rosier stood and bowed to Sophie, his hand on his heart. “Mademoiselle—thank you for coming to watch. We were lucky to have such a lovely audience.”
Sophie said with a laugh, “It was quite something.”
“It looked well, did it not?” Lazare threw an arm around Rosier’s shoulders.
Rosier kissed the tips of his fingers. “Very impressive. Accidents become you, Lazare. You might plan them, in the future. Though next time we’ll have a paying crowd for when you land.”
Just as Camille was about to ask how one might plan an accident, the skies cracked open. Cold, fat drops of rain pummeled their clothes and darkened the dirt in the field. The farmers, who’d been cautiously approaching, ran back toward the gate and away. Closer now, thunder rolled around them; a fork of lightning whitened the tops of the trees.
It was ending, and Camille did not want it to end.
“Stop talking and help with the balloon!” Armand shouted. He dropped to his knees, roughly rolling up the silk. “One more minute and it’ll be drenched!”
Lazare reached for Camille’s hand. “Tell me, mademoiselle, do you live nearby?”
Camille had nearly given him her hand when she realized her mistake. Her fingernails were packed with dirt from digging up the scraps: five filthy black moons. Mortified, she pressed her fingers deep into her skirts.
“I—” she began.
But the light had gone out of Lazare’s face. For a moment he hesitated, as if he were going to say something else, then with a quick bow, joined Armand. Rosier helped maneuver the wagon into place. The wind snapping in the silk made the horses uneasy. The boys yelled encouragement and insults at each other as they struggled to get the balloon, the gondola, and all the equipment onto the wagon.
“If we don’t go now, we’ll be soaked to the skin.” Sophie plucked at Camille’s arm. “Come. The boys are busy.”
In all the commotion, Camille tried to say adieu to Lazare, but his whole attention went to the balloon and getting it packed away on the wagon and out of the rain. It was as if she had never existed. She remembered how when the Montgolfiers’ balloon rose into the sky, strangers in the crowd had embraced one another. In the excitement of the moment, people did strange things. But as she and Sophie trudged back across the field, she couldn’t help looking back at him over her shoulder.
Lazare was steadying the lead cart horse, a reassuring hand flat on its curved neck. Slowly, as if he could feel her gaze, he turned his head. He waved, once, before his attention went back to the horse, the wagon, the balloon.
What had she expected? That when the world made a door for her to step through, the door would stay open no matter what she did?
“Camille,” Sophie said. “Let’s go.”
Beneath Camille’s shoes, the earth became mud, marbled with bright green weeds crushed into the muck. The sack of metal scraps thumped dismally against her skirts.
She determined not to think of them anymore. Out of sight, out of mind.
As they walked toward home, away from the fields at the city’s edges, the streets of Paris grew more cramped. More shadowy. Police paced through crowds of tired people going home; boys shouted the day’s scandals, broadsheets in hand, telling of smashed bakery windows and rising bread prices and taxmen burned in effigy. Horse carts and oxcarts churned in the filthy lanes, and over and through it all wove the church bells’ solemn tolling and the cries of the market-sellers and the melancholy glitter of rain.
This was the Paris of the strivers, of those who dwelt low, not high. This was not the Paris of balloonists. It was her Paris, and it was the same as it had been this morning.
But she, perhaps, was not.
8
Back at their apartment, as the rain hushed in the half-light, Sophie began to plait a few silk roses into a hair ornament for Madame Bénard’s shop. “He liked you, you know.”
“Who? The one with the white stripe in his hair? Or the curly haired one who thinks I’m a Jeanne d’Arc of the Air? I think he liked you.” Camille dried the last supper dish and put it away. In the bare cupboard, Alain’s plate waited like an accusation. Once, Alain had tried to juggle plates, like the jongleurs at Astley’s, and smashed two. How furious Papa had been until Camille called it an experiment, and they were spared.
Alain was the reason there had been so little to eat, but that would change tonight. On their way home, Sophie had stopped in the shop and told Madame Bénard that she would be happy to do more work. Thrilled, Madame had pressed a bundle of silk flowers and a small calico purse into Sophie’s hands. They’d have enough for something good to eat. Camille’s stomach tightened at the thought of it.
“Obviously not the striped one,” Sophie replied, wrapping a ribbon around the flower stems. “The dark one, who was so handsome. Like a character in a novel.”
“Lazare Mellais, you mean,” Camille said, as nonchalantly as she could. In her mouth, his name felt like an incantation, a charm to bring him back. Before Sophie could see her flush, Camille picked up a rag and ran it over the table.
“I knew you liked him!” Sophie laughed. “That must have been the strangest way for any lovers to meet!”
Camille still felt the warm strength of his hands on her shoulders, how he seemed to be the only thing holding her up in a landscape that was tilting and spinning. “How does someone our age come to have a balloon?”
Sophie pretended to think. “Money? He’s clearly quite rich.”
But the Montgolfiers who’d launched their balloon at Versailles had been paper-makers, nothing more. “Didn’t the curly-haired one, Rosier, say something about an audience? Perhaps they sell tickets?”
Sophie was about to reply when the sound of heavy footsteps echoed on the stairs.
“It’s Madame Lamotte,” Camille said in a hushed tone. “Tell her we have a plan for the money. She likes you best.”
Sophie stood up, the fabric roses in her hands. “But I thought we still had four days?”
The footsteps paused. Someone pounded on the door so it shook in its frame.
“It’s not Madame,” Sophie said.
The door swung open so hard it crashed against the wall.
Alain stood in the center of the doorway. In the old days, before, Camille would have thrown her arms around his neck and kissed him. Not now. Now there was an empty pit where once there had been that feeling.
“No smiles? No glad greeting?” He shook out his coat. Water streamed onto the floor. “I’d have guessed you would have been happier to see me, sisters.”
“We are!” Sophie said, moving to greet him. “We were surprised, that’s all.”
“To see your own brother?” Alain sauntered into the room. His blond hair hung lank around his face, his cheeks unevenly shaven. He reeked of last night’s wine and his shoes were caked in mud. “Well, I won’t trouble you much longer. Just give me what money you have.”
“Our rent is due, Alain,” Camille said as calmly as she could. She’d not let him provoke her this time.
“That’s fine.” He shrugged. “Just give me whatever you have.”
“We can’t,” Sophie said quietly. “We’ll be thrown out if we can’t pay Madame Lamotte.”
Camille imagined the strongbox, the iron straps binding it to the floor, twenty real livres inside. That was all they had. The key was back under the floorboards, though knowing that didn’t make it any easier to breathe. She wished hard that he would give up and leave. “We were hoping you might have some money, Alain. We’re still short by a lot.”
“If I had, why would I be here?” Alain stalked toward Camille. “Don’t jest about that which you don’t understand.”
“I wasn’t jesting.”
“Help us understand, then,” Sophie pleaded.
Alain clenched his hands. “I’m in debt to someone,” he said in a strangled voice. Camille could not tell if he was angry or scared. “My debts to him are large. Larger than you can imagine. And he’s tired of waiting.”
As am I. As is Madame Lamotte. “We’re all tired, Alain,” Camille said.
Sophie stepped sideways, closer to Camille and the table where the calico purse lay.
“Still, he wants his money.” Alain fumbled in his coat pocket and drew out a small bottle. He tipped his head back and drank, wiping his mouth on the cuff of his coat.
“It’d be easier to pay him if you stopped drinking,” Camille said grimly. “And went back to soldiering.”
Swaying a little, Alain let the bottle drop to the floor, where it rolled clinking toward the center of the room. “I will, I promise, but I must give him something now so he knows I’m keeping my word.”
How could he ask such a thing of them? “Why not tell your creditor that you’ll pay him piecemeal, when you have the money? Tell him how Sophie’s getting better, but still needs medicine. Surely he can be reasonable.”
“Reasonable is not the word I’d use,” he said.
“Look around this apartment,” Camille said, bewildered. “We don’t have anything, brother. Not even a chicken bone.”
“You think this is a joke?” Alain snarled. “He is not a kind man. I’ve seen what he’s done to others. I could tell him where you live and he would come here and steal you away as payment for my debt. He’d eat your flesh and crunch up your bones.” Alain wiped spit from his mouth. “Or make you his harlots. How would you like that, Camille?”
The girl in the street, her crimson lips, her filthy feet—a girl on fire. Camille would not let that happen to Sophie or herself.
“You are incroyable,” she said, furious. “You drink away the money I give you and return only to demand more. Then you threaten to sell me as a whore to your creditor?” She took a step closer, eyes burning, chin up, defiant. “Whoring is something I will never do. And if you think I’d do it to save your pathetic skin, you are terribly mistaken.”
His demeanor changed, then. She had only time for one thought—this is the real Alain—before he slammed his fist into her face.
Lightning exploded. The room collapsed.
Someone was wailing.
She didn’t know if it was Sophie, or herself.
Camille pulled herself to her elbows. Firelight flickered. Something was in her eye: a kind of red curtain. With the back of her hand, she rubbed at it. Blood caught on her eyelashes, trickled hot into her ear.
By the fireplace, two figures struggled. Alain, she realized dimly. And Sophie. His broad back was to Camille, one fist wrapped in Sophie’s hair. The other he shook at her white face. Something dangled from it. The calico purse.
“Is this all you have?” he shouted.
Camille tried to get up. The room spun and she lurched onto her side. Everything blurred. He had gone too far. Her true brother was never coming back. She’d get the candlestick from the table and crack this one’s head open.
Camille grabbed at the floorboards with her fingernails, dragging herself forward.
“This is your last chance, ma soeur,” Alain slurred. “I know you and your lying sister have more hidden away somewhere.” He raked at Sophie’s hair and she whimpered. “If our parents were alive, they would never say no to me.”
Yes, they would. You’re no longer their son. You’ve become someone else.
Camille slid a little closer to the table.
In that moment, Sophie’s eyes met Camille’s. They were enormous in her face, their pupils black. Behind Alain’s back, Sophie motioned urgently toward the floor. She wanted Camille to lie down.
The floor tilted. Camille met it with a thud.
All she could see were his boots, filthy from the street. Straw crushed into the mud on their heels. Under his rumpled coat, the thready gleam of his watch chain—the watch itself pawned long ago—was strangely bare. It was missing its last remaining fob: a miniature portrait of Sophie and Camille.
Sophie pointed wildly. “See what you’ve done to our sister! You’ve killed her!”
Ah. Camille closed her eyes, held her breath. My sister the actress.
“Don’t be a fool. She’s not dead,” he faltered.
Sophie dropped to the floor next to Camille. “Open the window and call the constable!”
Alain stooped to peer at her. “She’s not moving.”
Sophie pressed gently on Camille’s throat. “Her heart’s still beating.”
“God in heaven!” he exclaimed. “Let her live! I never intended it. Never.” He picked up her hand, held it to his cheek. “You must believe me.”
“This time, she’s breathing. But Alain, think! What were you doing?”
Alain flinched. “You don’t understand. He’s not like other people.” He started to cry, abjectly. “If he doesn’t get the money, he’ll kill me. Or worse.”
“But you hurt your sister!”
“To protect her!” He wept. “To protect all of us!”
Sophie pried his hands loose from Camille’s; Camille saw a flash of silver as Sophie pressed some livres—how many, oh, how many?—into their brother’s hand. “Take this and go before I call for the police. You can never come back if you’re drunk.”
At the door Alain hung on Sophie like a too-large child. He had always been the biggest, the oldest, the most daring—the one who carried both girls on his shoulders. Now he avoided Camille where she lay on the floor. “I promise. I will change. I will get rid of my tormentor and then, you’ll see, we’ll be free,” he said.
She didn’t believe in his promises. She wished he would go away forever.
He was still moaning as Sophie pushed him into the hallway and closed the door behind him.
Sophie waited, still as a watched mouse, as his footsteps faded. Then she wrenched the key over in the lock and dragged the table, its candlesticks wobbling and legs screeching, against the door. Her chest was heaving when she crouched down next to Camille.
“Does it hurt?”
Oh no, not at all. Camille’s ears were ringing, her thoughts banging around in her head like a door in the wind. He had hurt her. Badly. What about her made him so angry? Her mind reeled back: the snap of her neck when he hit her. The slow drop to the floor. Alain’s wet, crying mouth.
“Can you get up?” Sophie wriggled her arm under Camille’s shoulder and helped her sit.
The ceiling loomed too close. “Everything’s wobbly. Lean me against the wall. Is it bad?”
“Awful,” Sophie said quietly. “His ring cut you above the eyebrow. That’s why there’s so much blood.”
“Merde.” Camille reached up to touch her brow. The raw pain made her wince.
With water warmed on the stove and a soft rag in her hand, Sophie worked away at the blood. She wiped it out of Camille’s ears, off her neck where it had dried and cracked, soaked it out of her clotted hairline. When she was finished, Sophie looked grimly pleased. “It’s just a small cut. I won’t have to sew it.”
Camille’s stomach lurched when she thought of Sophie’s tiny, even stitches in her skin. “Alain took it all, didn’t he?”
Nothing stayed. No matter what Camille did. She gathered scraps of metal and dredged up sorrow to make them into coins, but they didn’t stay. Maman and Papa, the print
ing press, her dreams, her family the way they’d once been. Though she’d tried so hard to hold it all, in the end it ran away like water through her fingers.
Nothing stayed.
“What do you mean, ‘all’?” Sophie wrung out the bloody cloth and dropped it in the basin of pink water.
“Didn’t he get into the strongbox?”
“Oh, no. He took only what was in my purse.”
“But that was your wages!”
“Not all of it.” Sophie smiled. “In fact, not very much of it at all.”
“What did you do with the rest?” Camille asked, wonder in her voice.
“I threw it into the ashes when he had me by the hair.”
Camille laughed, though it made her ribs ache. “Well done, my courageous sister.”
“Bah, it’s still not much. A few livres.” Sophie’s lower lip trembled. “I’m frightened, Camille.”
Camille smiled wanly, as if she weren’t at all afraid. “We’ll get away, ma chèrie. I promise.”
La magie was the only trick she knew. It could get them some of the way there, but not all. Because it wouldn’t take long before working too much magic made her weak, liable to fall ill. Maman’s death had taught her that. And she could not leave Sophie alone.
She needed a better way.
9
Camille woke too early the next morning. Her neck ached, her ribs, too, and under her heavy hair, at the back of her skull, she could feel a hard bump. Next her fingers went to her eye. The flesh around it was puffed up and soft, like a rotten apple. She could only imagine the color.
Rubbing her forehead, she wandered out into the main room. The basin of water still sat on the floor, its bottom rusty red with her blood. Just to be certain, she knelt by the door to the eaves and checked under the floorboard. The key was there, safe. As she replaced the board, she thought she heard a whispering coming from the little room behind the door. The tiny hairs on her arms stood up. There were no words, just a hush like wind across a silk skirt; the feeling it gave her was like the one she had whenever she went near the burned box. As if someone were there.
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