by Baird Wells
That was an absolute fact. Her block captain had written letters more than once begging to send her to the guillotine just to have peace, to quell the rebellion in some of the other women that her protests incited, or at least to be allowed to make a bit of coin off of her flesh. But by some strange design, mysterious to all not privy to the inner workings of his festering mind, Fouche himself had declined the request. She had no idea why, not even a decade later.
La Force had given her a thorough education, though, enough to know that what happened away from Fouche's gaze could be covered up, explained away, or blamed on easy scapegoats. She had learned when to bite and when to smile.
“By turns I was sweet and obliging, charming the warden so mama could have extra rations or Madame a little something for her headaches. He got me a branch, under the impression I longed for something of the outside. I used the few hours of moonlight at night to scrub it against the stones in my cell, until I had a makeshift awl.”
He chuckled. “That is referred to as a shiv.”
“Call it what you like. There were rumors that my mother and even Madame would be taken any day before the court, and on to the guillotine after. As much as it broke my heart, I knew if I were left behind, I would have to be ready to survive on my own.”
Waving the torch left and right ahead of them, Ty debated a fork in the passage, then nodded to the right. “It never came to that, did it? As I understand it, your uncle arrived shortly thereafter.”
“It never would have come to that; I wouldn’t allow it. About a week after I got the branch, we were taken out for our forced exercise. I spied out the largest woman in the courtyard, La Stump, and spit in her face. I called her names I'd overheard in the bawdy songs at night. At first I didn't think she'd bite. I'd never uttered a word to her before, and for a moment she hunched over me, looking dumbstruck.”
“Very clever,” praised Ty. “Making a target of the meanest one.”
“I had a hidden motive. The woman was quite literally a stump. Short and wide, meaty limbs. She could hit with the force of a ship at ramming speed, but was not a bit agile. I made a show of dodging her, but it hardly winded me. Unfortunately, she had a little band of followers that bought protection for themselves by giving her food or smuggled goods. Needless to say, they took my provocation amiss and were determined to gang up on me.”
Ty let out a low, airy whistle.
“I hung myself from her thick neck, like the monkeys you see in those drawings from the South Islands. The first time one of her cadre disobeyed my warning to stand back, I skewered La Stump like a Christmas roast.” The confession tasted bland and matter-of-fact, and she summoned the same determination she’d had to that day in the yard. The act was rendered no less horrible by its necessity.
Beside her, Ty ground to a halt so fast that his boots skidded over wet grit. He stared unblinking, and Olivia had the sense that they were strangers for a moment. She met his stare, looking for any sign that he was judging her. His throat worked, and he swallowed hard but kept silent.
She had gone this far. She might as well finish the tale. “I meant to do it. I provoked her with every intention of doing violence. I had to be able to survive alone, and it was repayment for all the times she had hurt or menaced me. When her blood ran out over my hand… I realized I hadn't been prepared for what that meant.” She stopped, swallowing down some bile that had risen in her throat. La Stump, d'Oettlinger, and herself; she wondered who was truly the monster. “Girls transform from children to women when their monthly courses come, or they get with child. That was the moment I grew up.”
Ty grabbed her with his free arm and dragged her against him. He was warm and solid, and his touch chased back some of the darkness. Olivia buried her face in his shirt. She couldn't cry; that well had dried up years before. Instead she drank in the comfort of his simple but meaningful gesture.
“How do I say it, Olivia, without sounding like one of those damned Romantics?” He smeared a trickle of blood across his shirt, escaped from a cut he’d aggravated while they walked. “Every person has dark places inside. If you believe the good book, they can never all be gotten rid of. Goodness isn’t the absence of that darkness. I think perhaps it’s the struggle of not giving in to it.”
She considered how profound his words were, and ignored disappointment that his philosophical side had gone untapped until now. After a long, silent moment, she squeezed his waist and let go. “I wish I could have taken the painting. My uncle has two or three, but they don't look the way I remember her, and my memories...” For a moment, it seemed she'd been wrong and that tears would come. Olivia caught herself with a deep breath. “My recollection of my parents was so sharp, for so long. Lately though, I have trouble drawing up their faces. I'm afraid that someday, soon, I'll have forgotten them entirely.”
“You won't ever forget them completely, Olivia. I know you well enough to appreciate that once something is stamped on your heart, you never forget it.”
Philipe. Her parents. Ty.
Ty wrapped an arm around her waist, guiding them toward a spiral of steps cut into the rock, while she wondered if he had any notion just how right he was.
* * *
They gained the last stone step and reached a gatehouse where Ty paused and pressed his back against the planks, catching his breath. Olivia looked him over, wide-eyed. “Are you all right?”
He nodded, not entirely certain. “I don't do well in the passages. Too far from an exit, too far below daylight. Historically, that has not always gone well for me.” He’d tried not to show signs of it in the tunnels, but without Olivia, Ty wasn't certain he could have traversed the crypts and kept his sanity.
Resting against the opposite wall, Olivia closed her eyes. “I prefer to stay out of the dark.”
He studied her, slender nose, full lips, and a riot of blonde waves barely contained by a scrap of fabric. Under the dirt and dust, the chunks of moss and damp strands of hair, she was undeniably Olivia. Still, he could not help feeling at least one of them had emerged from the crypts a different person. He just wasn't certain which of them it was.
He'd volunteered to do a lot of things, commit acts in the name of patriotism he would hesitate to share even with Olivia. But he had signed on for each one and done it for the greater good. Olivia's bravery had been thrust upon her as a child. She had survived, even thrived, in spite of the terror all around her.
Admiration was too weak a word to describe the emotion that squeezed his chest. He had witnessed her ruthlessness and her sweetly acerbic side. He was in no doubt of knowing her completely. Where his love for Kate had been innocent and untested, what he felt now for Olivia seemed unbreakable, forged by fire.
It occurred to him that even if Olivia had not asked to be reassigned, their work together would very soon be over. He would return to the army; she would return to searching for her parents. What then?
That question plagued him as he sorted through his haversack. He took out a red, woolen liberty cap and put his coat inside. Olivia was watching him now, and he stood, waving her closer. “Turn around.”
She presented him with her back, and Ty began to gather the hair from her nape. The pads of his fingers brushed her skin, burying themselves in strands still damp from the crypts. He took longer than was necessary, finding comfort in the simple contact of their bodies. Olivia felt it too, he was certain, judging by her gentle sigh and the way she leaned into his touch.
He could kiss her right now, brush his lips down her shoulder, follow wherever it led. The thought jumped unbidden into his mind, and just as quickly he shook it off. Olivia had asked to be reassigned, and whatever her reasons, he would show her respect. Ty slid the cap down over her hair, then turned her around to inspect her appearance. “We have a problem, Olivia.”
She glanced down at herself, and shook her head. “What problem?”
A very uncomfortable problem, as far as his body was concerned. Since fleeing the Verriere, it hadn�
��t crossed his mind. Forced now to take stock of their situation and assess their disguises, he couldn’t pretend ignorance.
Olivia, absent her stays and feminine undergarments, and hugged by the odd fit of masculine clothing, was very visibly a woman. That fact alone was bound to draw attention on their return, had she been average. Olivia was well above average, when it came to her figure. To anyone looking for a man and woman venturing back into the city together, they'd stand out like a sore thumb. “Your breasts.” He stumbled, never before at such a loss. “They are…” He waved toward her bosom without looking, hands drawing a vague curve. “They are.”
“Oh. Oh!” Wrapping arms across her chest, Olivia glanced around. “What should we… Should I wear your coat?”
“That might hide certain details, but not the general design.” He bent and opened the flap of his shot bag, finding a length of flannel bundled inside. Faking confidence he was struggling to summon, he cleared his throat. “Here. Take off your shirt.”
Olivia didn't hesitate, or even question. She turned her back and flipped the garment over her head in one fluid motion. He might have been touched by proof of her trust if the dryness in his mouth hadn't been so distracting. They had been in all sorts of intimate, compromising situations, but he could not recall ever seeing her even half naked. Something tightened deep in his gut. She was tall, making the line of bare flesh from her shoulder to the small of her back even more illicit. She raised both arms, adjusting the cap back over her hair, revealing a half globe of each breast. Ty groaned inwardly, wondering how to manage the operation with as little touching as possible. Finally, he reached the strip of flannel over her shoulder. “If you would just settle that across...”
Olivia held the fabric to her breasts, and Ty began to wrap, tugging the flannel snug with each turn and knotting the ends together. Then he turned his back. “All right. Shirt back on.”
“Shouldn't you make certain this worked, before I go to the trouble?”
“No. No. I’m sure it’s fine.” Inhale. Exhale. “It will be much easier to tell, if you have your shirt on.”
A rustle. The brush of fabric being tucked into a waistband. “There. Survey your handiwork.”
The situation had not significantly improved. Buckskin hugged the flare of her hips, and the flannel fought a losing battle against the strain of her breasts. They would just have to travel quickly. How had he ever thought to pass her off as a man? “My God, woman. There are statues in Rome that are jealous of you.” The words were out of his mouth before he realized it, and his heart lodged in his throat.
A bit of color to her cheeks said she didn’t mind overmuch. “Hush and give me your coat. This will have to do.”
Turning his face away, relieved, he handed over the garment without another word.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
There was an inherent danger to any movement through Paris these days. If they kept to the main roads, the odds of being recognized by anyone watching for them were high. Alleys and corridors offered more concealment, but were also the natural home of gangs and criminals. Each band held its own territory with no tolerance for the intrusion of strangers or opposition.
These dark thoughts had been at the forefront of Ty's mind when he became aware of footsteps – not his or Olivia's – scuffing lightly behind them. First one set, then two.
They were drawing unwanted attention.
He knew what they were waiting for. Two streets ahead, the alley widened into an old courtyard where the back side of a bakery formed a natural wall to the north. Its only exits were a wide blue gate to the east and an alley hardly generous enough for two men to walk abreast leading south. It was just the sort of place where thugs loved to corner their quarry.
Still, if their pursuers believed they were herding easy prey into a trap, they were in for a surprise. He glanced at Olivia, already giving him her usual sideways eye. They were ready.
He recognized the bruiser who stood with his back to the gate, tall as he was wide, his arms crossed as though he were only waiting for the afternoon stage. He was watch captain who patrolled this very district at night. Clever, Ty admitted. The man knew the area, who came and went, and what they were about. He was demanding protection money. Protection from him. A brilliant means for supplementing his less-than-brilliant wages. The sort of man who would steal the blessing from holy water.
Ty rubbed his hands together. He'd been at the receiving end of plenty of abuse for three days. Le Capitan looked like just the target for a lot of unspent frustration.
The man sauntered up with the absolute confidence of someone who’d already won. Fingers were hooked in his belt, not bothering to reach for his knife. “You lads must be lost. Certainly wouldn't be up to no good in my little kingdom.”
He nodded at Olivia. “My friend is ill. I'm taking him to Val de Grace to get him some decent care.”
“Soldiers, huh? Then you should know better than to come my way.”
Ty ran through the steps, readying for a scrap he had no doubt was coming. Flexing muscles, stretching as much as he could without being obvious, balancing his weight. If push in fact came to shove, he would be ready. “Didn't know this was your way. Can't see the harm in sharing it with a brother.”
“Ignorance ain't an excuse for stepping afoul of our rules. Gonna have to pay the toll.” The man looked Olivia up and down. “Or make us a part of something lucrative.”
“I told you, we're on our way to the hospital.”
The captain moved closer and stabbed a finger at Olivia, who was hunched and staring at her feet. “But he ain't told me shite.”
“He cannot speak!” Ty reached out and jerked up Olivia's chin, pointing rapid fire at her split lip and a gash on her neck before letting her head drop. “Hasn't said shite in three days.”
A sneer. “Maybe he ain't had the right motivation.”
One of the lackeys piped up. “They come in by the customs gate, LaMott. Just the two of 'em.”
“Sneakin' in through the gate. Soldiers, did you say? Or you deserters, friend?” LaMott grinned, revealing a gap in his bottom row of teeth that said he was no stranger to a physical blow. “Deserters fetch ten francs apiece. Maybe we just found your value.”
LaMott was expecting them to beg, negotiate. Ty was done talking. Men like the captain took pleasure in the mental torment of their banter, a cat batting at a mouse, and Ty had no interest indulging him any further.
“I'll let your mother know how clever you are, when next I see her.”
Lamott's eyes widened, struggling to absorb that someone had dared show resistance. “What did you say?”
Ty shrugged. “You heard me clearly.”
One meaty hand palmed a fist. “I don't think I did.”
Ty cast a glance over his shoulder. “Well, I didn't want to use coarse language in front of these fine lads, but I said your mother is a whore.”
Lamott swung high, and he would have rolled his eyes if he wasn’t busy dodging. Predictable. The stocky ones almost never went for the midsection. Ty's uppercut caught the soft flesh behind Lamott's chin, closing his throat with a gravelly cough. Flesh tore across the back of one knuckle, and he reveled in the hot sear of pain spreading up his finger.
Lamott stumbled back into the gate, hands clutching his neck, already gasping for breath.
Fingers clamped Ty's shoulder. He turned on the foot pad and danced back, taking stock of his newest opponent. He was a man whose face was already a patchwork of old, new, and infected wounds. Tall and wiry, he was little more than sinew stretched across a skeleton. Ty suspected he made his place by swinging fast and hard.
He hooked one arm overhead, advancing on Lamott's henchman. India had taught him more than an appreciation for martial fighting forms. It had taught him how to use them. Strike-step, strike-step; Ty moved through the postures in a dance around his opponent's fruitless blows. His mind recalled the forms, arranged them in quick order. Chop to the chest. One. Fist to the ea
r. Two. Round an elbow into the throat. Three. Sweep the shins. Four. In less than five seconds, flesh met cobblestone with all the grace of a felled oak.
The other foot pad, not nearly so physically imposing, had foolishly matched himself with Olivia, probably imagining her an easy target. He was already down, and Olivia, panting, planted a boot to his wiry midsection, delivering a final blow to his sprawled form.
Lamott recovered quickly, far faster than Ty had anticipated. He shouted for Olivia, but too late. She was intent on the thug she’d downed, and LaMott’s grip buried in her sleeve and snapped her around, using inertia against her.
Ty surged forward, knowing he would never reach them in time. Lamott's ham fist buried in Olivia's belly, pushing a ragged hiss between her lips, like the last steam from a kettle. She dropped with a grunt and didn't get up.
Something in him snapped. It happened in his mind, but Ty felt it somewhere behind his ribs. A dam broke, built from days of abuse and fear and frustration. Unchecked rage flowed out.
He ground momentum to a halt just in time, ending on the point of a small knife which Lamott jabbed at his chest. “Let's see you try that oriental black magic with a cutter in your face.”
Up to the challenge, Ty swung the toe of his boot up between stout legs, deep enough into Lamott's groin to earn a howl. The captain folded, but didn't drop.
He didn't have to.
Ty grabbed the arm with the knife and bent it back, twisting the limb into a sort of goose neck. As Lamott's back reached its full arc, Ty rammed the point into his side, chipped steel grating over meat and bone. The inertia of his thrust and Lamott's flailing drove them both back, stumbling, grasping. Lamott struck the gate, jarred by its planks, and toppled under Ty.
Pinning a knee into Lamott's throat, Ty swung with both arms. Meaty thuds became wet smacks. Blood and spit stung his eyes, clouded his vision. Fists raised and lowered like pistons. He felt more mechanical than man, capable of nothing more than repeating the process until Lamott stopped writhing, stopped gurgling. His mind was a white hot light, incapable of rational thought, focused on this one thing. A bone in his left hand cracked. He heard it, but couldn't feel it.