by Kat Dunn
It was an old house, judging from the slant of the window frames, and a rich one. The room was stuffed with Rococo cabinets, armchairs and console tables long out of fashion, but plush and comfortable nonetheless. A de la Tour hung over the fireplace and several tall bookcases had been fitted on either side, heaped with books. In front of the window was a roll-top desk with marquetry inlays, the lid propped up by a stack of ledgers.
But the oddest thing lay right before her. A complete human skeleton had been hung from the ceiling, all the connecting bones wired together so precisely that it felt as if the skeleton might sit beside her and start discussing crop prices.
Camille’s brows furrowed. What was this place?
Behind her the door creaked open, and a sandy-haired man took the seat opposite. He had his head bowed to flick through a sheaf of notes, but she recognised him at once. It was Docteur Comtois from the Conciergerie.
There was an empty chair beside him.
The door clicked again, and another man joined them. Camille drew in a breath.
She would have known her father’s oldest friend anywhere. Her chest hitched in a painful buried sob. For a moment she forgot that she was tied up, that Ada was missing, so strong was the wave of grief and loss and longing for the past.
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake.’
Georges Molyneux tutted and went to untie her bindings. He moved gently with light steps and careful fingers. When her father had gone to Oxford, Molyneux had been the only other Frenchman in his college. With an English friend in tow, they’d taken their grand tour around Europe together, fallen in love with revolution and worked side by side to create a new nation. Camille had grown up among it all, trusting her father’s friends as if they were her own family. Until the day Molyneux did nothing to stand against the false charge of treason that sent her father to the guillotine.
Camille was still shaking as she rubbed her freed wrists. Molyneux took the empty chair and leaned forwards, propping his elbows on his knees.
‘Hello, Citoyenne du Bugue. Or – what is it you’re calling yourself now? Laroche?’ He smiled indulgently. The crinkles of his laughter lines were horribly familiar. ‘After your mother, I assume. Touching, but ill-advised to make such a clear association with a convicted counter-revolutionary.’
And in that many words her mood changed. How dare he speak about her mother like that?
She lunged towards him, but was stilled by the muzzle of a gun that had come to rest against her temple. It guided her back into her chair.
‘Now, now. You’re far too grown up for such childish spite.’ He took a plate from the table and offered it to her. ‘Bonbon?’
‘Childish?’ she spat, voice shaking. ‘I’m not the one playing at spies. Bags over the head at night? Really?’
Camille felt almost giddy with anger. She’d fantasised about coming face to face with Molyneux again, back when her parents’ blood was still fresh on the ground. He looked nothing like he had done at the Tribunal, red-faced, his finger pointing across the crowds at her father in the dock. How dare he look so normal, reminding her that the world she’d grown up in – that he had been an integral part of – had shattered into pieces.
Molyneux put the plate back on the table. ‘I’m afraid as much as we have history together, I’m not prepared to share all our secrets with you.’
‘Fine. Tell me what it is you do want to share. I’ve had a bloody tiring day and you’re keeping me from my bed.’
‘As it happens we’ve had quite a taxing few days ourselves.’
‘Fascinating. Where’s Ada?’
‘Your companion is nearby. She’s safe.’
Camille sagged infinitesimally. She’d curled her hands around the edges of her chair to dig her nails into the wood. She couldn’t look Molyneux in the eye, so she looked at the point between his eyebrows.
‘And will be as long as you cooperate,’ he added.
The relief she’d felt evaporated in a breath.
‘Cooperate with what?’
‘Giving an honest response to the questions I’m about to ask you.’
Molyneux held his hand out and Comtois passed over a sheet of paper. From the corner of her eye, she tracked him as he rifled through his papers. Did he recognise her?
‘Do you get off on being all mysterious, or is it just an unfortunate side effect of being a total bastard?’
Comtois paused in the middle of making a note. ‘I thought you said she was a reliable source?’
‘Oh, I think she is.’ Molyneux kept watching her, despite speaking as though she wasn’t there. ‘I’ve known Camille since she was in swaddling clothes. A sweet girl, and always an honest one.’ He sat back in his chair, folding his hands over his stomach like a parish priest at lunch. ‘We all cope with the uncertainties of life in different ways. I believe in her line of work a certain attitude is a benefit.’
‘People tell me my attitude is charming. I’ll have you done for slander. Or is it libel?’
‘Libel is for comments in print,’ replied Comtois. ‘You might prefer the term defamation as it covers all mediums. I’m afraid you don’t come off so well in these notes either.’
‘As interesting as this is, can you just tell me what you want?’ She leaned back and folded her arms across her chest. The muzzle of the gun was still pressed against her skull. She could feel the bite of metal through her hair. ‘I need the toilet and these stays are horribly uncomfortable, you can’t even imagine. Yes, I am wearing stays with trousers, if you were wondering.’
She was satisfied to see Comtois’s ears grow pink.
Molyneux gave a patronising chuckle. ‘All right, all right. I have only one question. A young girl in our charge has gone missing. I want to know if you had anything to do with it.’
Camille swallowed. ‘Why would I have anything to do with it?’
‘You have a knack for picking up strays. And being in places you shouldn’t be.’
She gave him a grim smile, remembering his plump figure, hands neatly clasped behind his back as he watched her father being led up the scaffold steps.
‘That’s a matter of opinion. I happen to think I’ve been in the right place at the right time more often than not. Enough to know who’s responsible for the bad things that happen.’
Molyneux ignored her, considering the paper in his hands.
‘We have intelligence that places your people in the Conciergerie prison, flying – is this right – a hot air balloon?’
‘Might be.’
‘Before disappearing in the confusion after a powder store was ignited.’
‘How unfortunate.’
‘Indeed. And around the same time the girl went missing.’
Camille cocked her head, feeling the gun slide along her skin to prod her ear. ‘But, citoyen, what does the most notorious prison in France have to do with your young charge? You didn’t say she was a prisoner.’
Comtois and Molyneux exchanged a glance.
‘She is not a prisoner,’ explained Molyneux. ‘But she is … important to us. She will be missed. And she’s a risk if she falls into the wrong hands.’
‘Would those be Royalist hands?’
‘Any hands,’ Comtois cut in. ‘Believe me, you do not want that girl loose on the streets of Paris.’
Camille gave him a bland smile. ‘Well, what a shame you lost her.’
Molyneux cleared his throat. ‘And that’s why you’re here. We’d like her back.’
‘Tough luck, we don’t have her.’
Molyneux held her gaze for a moment before he spoke again.
‘Indeed. But you will get her back for us.’
Right. Of course.
Camille sank into her chair, exhausted and crushed under the weight of so many people expecting things from her.
‘Sounds fun.’
Referring back to the paper, Molyneux gave her a rough description that matched Olympe – bar the storm-smudged skin and electrocuting people – and detai
led when and where they’d last seen her.
‘That’s not much to go on.’
‘I’ve heard you’re very talented.’
‘When I want to be.’
The door opened again. She tried to twist, but the gun nudged her to face forwards. A squat soldier led Ada into view. Holding her by the arm, he pulled the bag from her head. Camille’s gut cramped. A bruise was smudged across her cheekbone from where she had been struck in the carriage. She was so tense Camille could see her straining against the soldier’s grip. His knife still hung at his belt, but the threat was clear.
Molyneux watched Camille intently, pink fingers laced together. ‘I think you’ll want to be, Camille.’
Camille looked at Ada. She was so exhausted she couldn’t pull her thoughts into order.
Molyneux leaned towards her again, his round face softening.
‘Everything is a choice, Camille. We both remember your father’s lessons. I think we both know he would have done the right thing. What are you going to choose?’
A riot of emotion stole the breath from her lungs. For a brief second, she was back on the riverbank in the gardens of the house at Henley, her father in rolled-up shirtsleeves reading to her. There is no fate. No destiny. Everything is a choice.
‘Give me two weeks.’
Molyneux folded up the paper and held it out to her.
‘You have four days.’
12
On the Way to the Au Petit Suisse
They were thrown out of the carriage into a gutter on the Rue de Grenelle. Ada landed on top of Camille and heard her oof as her weight forced the air out of her. She rolled sideways into a puddle of something dubious. Oh, well, she’d had a worse dunking in the open sewer that was the Seine.
As the carriage rattled off into the dark, she sat up, shaking her skirt, and bent to help Camille.
On the other side of the street, a passing gang of men leered at what they thought was a clandestine tryst. Ada made a rude gesture.
Camille straightened her cap and they started towards the Au Petit Suisse.
‘Well, they were charming.’ Ada gingerly touched the tips of her fingers to the bruise on her cheekbone.
Camille gave a noncommittal grunt in response.
‘Was that really the docteur Olympe spoke about?’
‘Unfortunately.’
‘Oh. He’s very young.’
‘Old enough to make my life unpleasant.’
Ada considered asking Camille what she was planning to do about having the two most dangerous forces in the city demanding the impossible, but she knew how to read Camille’s mood. The edges of her mouth were turned down and she was walking with jerky, anxious speed. It felt impossible that it was only yesterday morning they’d been setting out for the Conciergerie job. The last two days had been some of the longest of her life. She needed a night’s sleep or as much coffee as the Au Petit Suisse had to offer. Planning could come later.
They turned into the Rue de Vaugirard and let themselves in through the street door. As they entered the apartment through the double doors painted in white, pale blue and gold, Ada spotted Olympe peeking out from the bedroom. Her eyes glittered like jet. Still keeping to herself. Ada didn’t blame her. It was a miracle she trusted them at all.
Ada and Camille went to the front room to find the others.
‘You’re late.’ Guil was cleaning their scant stock of weapons.
Al was sprawled in a chair flipping through a stack of National Convention speeches. ‘I almost started to worry. Then, you know, I remembered I don’t care that much about any of you and I had a snack instead.’
Guil ignored him. ‘I assume this does not mean good news.’
Camille dropped onto a seat by the fire, rubbing her eyes. ‘No. Pretty bloody terrible news.’ She ran through her rendezvous with the Royalists and their unexpected detour with the Revolutionaries, explaining the demands from both sides to hand over Olympe – and their threats against the battalion. Too many late nights in a row had her feeling almost drunk with tiredness. And now she knew she wouldn’t get much sleep in the days to come.
‘Ah. A tight spot, then,’ said Guil, passing an oiled cloth over a blade.
Al counted the days on his fingers. ‘If we’re starting tomorrow, that takes us to the twentieth.’
‘The Festival of the Supreme Being,’ said Ada. ‘I suppose they don’t want someone as dangerous as Olympe on the loose with such a big public event going on.’
Al turned a page of his newspaper. ‘I still vote we hand her over.’
Camille’s face was stony. ‘Absolutely not.’
‘What’s your alternative? We’ve tried your plan, and nobody was having any of it. What do you think you’re going to achieve? Is she really worth all this?’
‘What’s worth anything any more?’ Camille held her hands out to the dying flames. ‘Other than trying to do the right thing.’
‘We don’t always need to risk our lives for it to be a good day’s work.’
Guil was deep in thought. ‘This is not a job. This is a principle.’
Al slapped his paper down on the table. ‘God save us from the philosopher and his principles.’
Camille looked up at Ada, meeting her eye for the first time since they’d got back to the Au Petit Suisse. ‘What do you think?’
Ada felt her cheeks flush. Cam’s slate grey eyes fixed on hers still had the power to make her stomach flip.
‘I think … if Olympe doesn’t want to go to either of them, then we should do everything we can to help her do what she wants. It’s her choice.’
Al snorted, but didn’t fight any further.
Guil began to pack away the weapons. ‘Which leaves us with the question: how do we help her?’
‘If we were clever, we’d have started running the moment we found out we’d kidnapped a devil instead of girl,’ said Al.
‘Where would you have us go?’ replied Ada. ‘You said yourself there’s nowhere safe to run to.’
To her surprise Al went as white as a sheet and abruptly got up to pour himself a drink.
Camille prodded the embers angrily with a poker. ‘I’m not abandoning my home and the life we’ve built just because some old men think they can threaten us.’
‘But they can threaten us,’ replied Guil. ‘Indeed, I believe their threat is rather serious.’
‘They underestimate me if they think we’re easy marks.’
Al took a long pull on his glass of brandy. ‘So we don’t run. We don’t hand the girl over. What’s left?’
A determined light came into Camille’s eyes. ‘We fight.’
Before Camille could continue, they were interrupted by a commotion at the door. Ada startled, and as one the battalion braced for action. Camille reached for a weapon and across the room Guil did the same.
The door swung open. A tall young man in sopping wet travelling clothes stood on the threshold. His hair was dark with rainwater, plastering it to his forehead, framing his defined features and sharp cheekbones.
Camille lowered her weapon, face pale with shock.
The man turned to her with a blazing smile.
‘Cam! Thank goodness, someone let me in downstairs, and I’ve been knocking on all the wrong doors.’
Camille went perfectly and utterly still.
Ada’s face crumpled in confusion. ‘What’s going on?’
Camille, as white as chalk, took a few hesitant steps backwards.
‘My name’s James Harford.’ He proffered a hand to Ada. ‘I’m Cam’s fiancé.’
PART THREE
And the Devils were Unchained
1
The Parlour, Au Petit Suisse
16 Prairial Year II, four days until the deadline
‘Fiancé?’ Al looked from Camille to Ada to James, eyebrow raised. ‘That’s … illuminating.’
Camille felt hot and cold at once. This was impossible. This couldn’t be happening.
‘What are you doin
g here?’
James gave a sheepish grin, running his free hand through tousled damp locks.
‘I know, it’s a bit mad, isn’t it? But I’ve been so worried about you – the whole family has.’
He took her hand in his, giving only a passing confused glance at her Sans Culottes outfit. She let him hold it like a limp rag.
‘I’m serious, James. How did you find me?’
His face fell a fraction. ‘You – you put your address on your letters.’
‘But why are you here?’ Her voice was brittle. She could feel the whole battalion watching her. Ada watching her.
‘I told you, I was worried. The last letter you sent said you were going to get your father out of prison, and then we never heard anything else. They reported his death in the papers, but they said nothing about you and I couldn’t stop thinking about all the things that could have happened – so I had to track you down. I’m so sorry about your parents—’
‘Well, I’m fine. You’ve checked up on me. You can go home now.’
He smiled. ‘I’ve just got here.’
She flicked a glance at the others. Guil was hiding behind an old copy of Marat’s L’Ami du Peuple. Al on the other hand was watching delightedly, popping pieces of walnut in his mouth as if he was at the theatre.
She couldn’t bring herself to look at Ada.
‘We need to talk.’ She grabbed James’s arm roughly. ‘In private.’
Before he could say anything else, she barrelled him from the parlour and along the corridor into her bedroom.
‘Don’t get any ideas.’
He glanced at the rumpled sheets and arched an eyebrow. ‘When am I not the perfect gentleman?’
She shut the door behind them and rubbed her hand over her face. ‘When you said you’d follow me anywhere, I thought you were being romantic. I didn’t think you meant it.’
‘I was being romantic.’ He smiled, skin crinkling around his blue eyes. ‘And honest.’