by Kat Dunn
She crumpled it without reading further and stuffed it back in her pocket.
Sick of being cooped up, she fished out a shawl from their stashed supplies and went to get some air.
Then stopped dead at the top of the stairs.
James and Camille were together. Their arms wrapped around each other. Then James was pressing a kiss to Camille’s mouth as she tilted her chin to meet him. He slid his fingers into her hair and held her close.
They looked so familiar with each other – Ada remembered that, of course, they were.
Camille was crying, Ada realised. Camille never let anyone see her cry.
For a moment she wanted to go back downstairs and pretend this had never happened.
But Camille had spotted her over James’s shoulder and was disentangling herself.
‘Ada, it’s not what it looks like—’
Ada didn’t give her time to finish the sentence.
Pulling her shawl bitingly tight around her, she marched past them and let herself out into the alley behind the charnel house. Sheer, caustic jealousy flooded through her.
It was not far to the market that was already in full swing. A tailor with a rare display of riotous fabrics, frothing Belgian lace and coils of ribbon from Saxony, jostled against stands of swedes and carrots and rhubarb, bunches of dried rosemary, sage and thyme. The curled wig of a noblewoman fluttered in the wind as she hung out of her carriage window to berate her driver for stopping behind a delivery wagon. Wheels and hooves splashed up sewer-smelling water. Ada walked blindly along the Rue St Honoré, stumbling into carts and street sellers, mud splashing her muslin skirts as she went faster and faster until her lungs burned and her heart raced. Anything to obliterate the image of Cam in James’s arms.
She stopped abruptly in front of the Conciergerie. Somehow her feet had led her across the river onto the Îsle de la Cité, back to where it had all started. Coming to her senses, she slid out of the thoroughfare and into the shadowed overhang of a building. It was a slim chance that any of the guards outside the gate would recognise the girl who’d fallen from the hot air balloon a few days before, but one she wasn’t willing to take.
It was stupid. She was stupid. She shouldn’t be here. Running across Paris because she’d seen Camille in the arms of some stupid boy with a square jaw and too many muscles. It was pathetic.
She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.
There wasn’t time for this. She still believed in Camille, and their plan.
She just wasn’t sure she trusted her.
Forcing herself into the first coffee house, Ada ordered coffee then picked up bread and cheese and any other bits and pieces she could find on the way back to Saints-Innocents. Threading towards the market, she nearly barrelled into Al. He looked terrible: pinched and grey as if he was still covered in a fine layer of ash from the fire.
‘Ada – oh, thank god I found you.’
‘I should be saying that. You left with no word. You know that’s against protocol—’
‘Shut up. Sorry, I mean, just shut up.’ He thrust a crumpled letter into her hands. ‘This is more important. Tell me off later.’
It was unaddressed, but on expensive, creamy paper.
‘I don’t understand.’
‘I must have been followed – I know, I said shout at me later – but some scrote slunk out of nowhere to give me this. I think I shook him off but—’
‘We’re being watched.’
‘Looks like.’
Ada swore, turning the letter over. She didn’t recognise the seal. ‘Cam should know.’
‘And yet I don’t see you rushing back to her side.’
Ada gave him a dark look.
‘Oh dear, trouble in paradise? Want to talk about it?’
‘Absolutely not.’
He looped his arm through hers. ‘Come on, let’s walk. Give our watchers something confusing to think about.’
Ada only hesitated for a moment. Camille could be angry at her for leaving all she liked. Ada didn’t really care right now how Camille felt.
They traced the riverbank, pot of coffee rapidly cooling where it was tucked under her arm. She spotted a news-sheet sticking out of the pocket of his olive frockcoat.
‘Is that today’s? What does it say about the fire?’
She reached for it but he shimmied out of her reach. ‘No, it’s old.’
‘It’s not – I can see the date.’
‘Oh, really? How strange.’
‘Al—’
‘You’ve got enough to carry as it is.’ He pointed to the parcels of food she was juggling. ‘You don’t have to be in charge of every meal, you know. But I will have some of that cheese, thanks.’
She let him tear off a chunk of bread as well.
‘I know. But I want to. My mother always fed us when things went wrong. It was how she showed us she loved us.’
‘Funny. My mother used to lock me in the nursery with no supper when I annoyed her. One time she forgot about me for a whole day.’ He folded up the cheese and bread in a handkerchief and shoved it in his pocket. ‘That’s when I learned to always be prepared.’
They stopped at the Pont au Change, gazing out at the muddy waters of the Seine.
‘Do I need to give you the talk?’
‘The talk?’
‘Don’t cry over stupid boys, he’s no competition, et cetera, et cetera.’
She arched an eyebrow. ‘Did you really say “et cetera” out loud?’
‘I am very cultured, what of it?’
She laughed softly, and hooking their arms together again turned towards Rue St Honoré and the safe house. ‘Well, whatever your mother was like, I think you turned out okay. Come on. Let’s go back.’
But Al didn’t move. He stared out at the tumult of ferries and ships and barges vying for space, at the gulls swooping to snatch fish from open barrels and stevedores hefting bails up to the quayside.
‘No. I don’t think I will.’
6
The Charnel House
Ada was out of the door too fast for Camille to catch her, but she’d spotted something lying in the mud. A screwed-up ball of paper. It looked too fresh to have blown in; it must have fallen from Ada’s pocket.
She picked it up, easing it open.
‘Camille? What is it?’ James asked.
She looked at him, heart in her throat. ‘What? Nothing – I’m going to check on Olympe.’
It was dark and damp in the crypt, only the light from one storm lamp in the middle of the room casting strange shadows over the bare walls. Their things were bundled about the floor, discarded clothes stained with soot and blood. They never stored any food along with the supplies they stashed, to avoid attracting rats. Olympe was fast asleep.
Camille splashed cold water on her face, then sat down and pulled out the piece of paper.
It was a letter, addressed to Ada.
If she was a good person, Cam thought, she would put it away. Put it out of her mind. Nothing good could come of opening it.
She wasn’t so sure she was a good person any more.
It didn’t take long to read.
She read it twice, blinking back tears.
‘Camille?’ Olympe’s voice was soft with sleep. ‘What’s wrong?’
Camille folded the letter away. ‘Nothing.’
‘You’re crying.’
‘No, I’m not.’
Olympe left her nest of jackets and crossed to sit next to her on the step. ‘Why are you lying? You can tell me what happened.’
‘It’s not important. I mean, it is, but I can’t think about it right now.’
Olympe picked at the stitching in the fingers of her gloves. She must have found a pair among their supplies.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘What?’
‘It’s my fault you can’t think about other important things.’
‘Stop it. Blaming yourself isn’t going to help. If anything, I think you were really
brave yesterday.’
Olympe’s eyes widened. ‘Brave?’
‘Yes. You think the rest of us aren’t scared when we go out on a job? That we don’t make mistakes or act on impulse? Of course we do. Things didn’t go as planned, but you saved us at the abbey, and you saved us in the theatre.’
‘I didn’t save anyone in the theatre. I lost control and—’
‘I know what happened, but you did save me. Quite literally, you pulled me out of that place before it fell down. And you were fighting back against someone who hurt you, so I don’t blame you for a moment for what happened.’
Olympe looked away. ‘You remind me of my mother. You’re not frightened of me. Everyone has always been frightened of me, even if they were also curious. Except her. She was never frightened.’
‘People are idiots.’
Olympe snorted. ‘She says that too.’
‘Then your mother has a good brain in her head.’
The conversation was making something twist in her chest. Her mother had always been the one who told her that even the cleverest of people could do rash things in certain circumstances. Her father had always thought the opposite: the worst of times was when your true nature showed through. She wished she could ask her mother for help. She would have sat her down and talked through the problem. Her father would have dismissed her until she came up with three different solutions, then made her argue the case for each. Every time she faltered she knew she was letting them down. It was as if she was standing on the edge of a vast ocean and whatever step she took would end with cold water closing over her head.
How were they were going to throw the Revolutionaries and the Royalists off Olympe’s scent? Either side was so paranoid it shouldn’t be impossible to persuade them that the other camp had claimed Olympe first. But how to fake the drop?
Her father had always said people were fools. So eager to believe the worst, fixated on scandal and gossip, ready to believe anything if it was dressed up in the right way. They let one tyrant replace another because he wore the right costume, the right attitude. A little pomp and circumstance and the grossest of injustices could be sold easily.
The image of the automaton in the theatre came to her mind. Its gears and cogs, nothing more than a clock. And yet people were so ready to believe it could write and read minds and do all manner of miraculous things. All it took was showmanship, and a little stage dressing. A little misdirection.
A germ of an idea was beginning to suggest itself.
‘I almost ran away last night, when everyone was sleeping,’ Olympe said, glancing at Camille out of the corner of her eye.
‘What stopped you?’
‘Fear. I’m not brave. You can tell me it’s not my fault, but it is. By helping me you’re putting yourselves in danger and it’s not fair of me to ask. I want to be brave and leave and handle this myself, but I don’t know how.’
Camille pulled her round by the shoulder, so they were looking eye to starry eye. Lined up hip to hip, shoulder to shoulder, the same height sitting on the step.
‘Do you remember what I told you on the roof before we jumped into the river? No fate. No destiny. Everything is a choice. That goes for me too. This is my choice.’
‘But—’
‘Don’t you dare run. I promised to help you. To fight for what’s right, even when everything around us is falling apart. That’s what we do. Okay?’
Olympe’s eyes searched hers.
‘Okay. Whatever your plan is, whatever you need me to do, I’ll do it.’
Camille felt her breath tighten in her chest.
Everyone trusted her to make this right. To make the right choice.
What if she didn’t know how?
What if there was no way to save Olympe?
7
The Charnel House
Ada stood outside the door to the charnel house, hand resting on the latch when it jerked under her hand and she was face to face with James.
‘Oh. I was just going for water. Here, let me take that.’
He lifted the parcel of food from her arms and she found herself following him inside mechanically. The coffee, the withered apples, the stony pain d’égalité seemed a useless offering as he laid it in the middle of the room. Olympe was awake, and Camille had changed. She still looked half-dead, though she’d made an effort to tame her hair and find the cleanest trousers available. Ada pushed coffee towards her, avoiding her eye.
‘How’s Guil?’ she asked.
James replied. ‘The same. I don’t think he has a fever, at least, so there’s no infection. We should pick up some fresh bandages if we can. And I think we’ll need to roll him so the wounds can get some air.’
‘That’s good,’ said Ada, only half-listening. She couldn’t help but snatch glances at him out of the corner of her eye. His high cheekbones, his floppy blond hair that curled at the nape of his neck, his clear, honest eyes. No wonder Camille liked him. Ada wasn’t an idiot, she could see he was handsome even if she wasn’t interested in men.
For a moment, as the bitter coffee burned her tongue, she wondered exactly why she’d given up her whole life for Camille.
Ada fished out the sealed letter and handed it to her. ‘Al gave me this.’
‘Where is he?’
‘Gone.’
Camille muttered under her breath as she broke the seal and unfolded the paper. Her face went pale.
‘What is it?’
‘An invitation to dinner. From the Revolutionaries.’
Olympe drew in a sharp breath. ‘Docteur Comtois?’
‘No. Georges Molyneux.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Did you say Georges Molyneux?’ James frowned. ‘As in our fathers’ old friend? The one who always had sweets in his waistcoat pockets?’
‘That’s the one.’
‘I didn’t realise he was mixed up in this.’
‘He hired us to get Olympe back for the Revolutionaries. He says he wants to talk. For old times’ sake.’
Ada folded her arms. ‘And you believe him?’
Camille looked at the letter in her hand. ‘No. Not particularly.’
‘It’s got to be a trap, to isolate you from the rest of us.’
‘Then why bother inviting me? They could snatch me off the street like last time.’ She tapped a fingernail on the side of her coffee cup.
‘You aren’t seriously thinking of going, are you? The deadline is tomorrow. We don’t have the time for you to make any more mistakes.’
Camille’s expression turned stormy.
‘If I refuse, what will happen? They threatened you, Ada. I don’t want to get on their bad side just yet.’
‘So you’re going to be a complete idiot and do what you’re told, then?’
Camille’s mouth fell open. Then she gathered herself. ‘There are other reasons to go. Information, for a start. We have the beginnings of a plan but the more we know about what they want, the better chance we have of pulling it off.’
‘I don’t for a moment believe Georges Molyneux would do a thing to hurt you, but this doesn’t feel like the best time to split up,’ said James.
Olympe nodded.
Ada sipped her coffee. ‘Not everything is about your need to pull off a clever plan. Look what that’s already caused.’
She knew she was hurting Camille, but she couldn’t stop herself. She was caught up in the perverse need to pick off the entire scab, to squeeze the pus out.
‘I’m going. I can take care of myself.’
‘You’re not listening to us.’
‘I have listened. I don’t agree.’
Ada folded her arms. ‘So that’s how it is, is it? You’ve made a decision and the rest of us have to fall in line?’
‘Yes. That’s how it is.’
She rose, as if to get more coffee, then paused by Ada, speaking softly so only she could hear. ‘I’m not the only one who makes decisions on their own.’
Camille pulled o
ut another piece of paper from her pocket.
Ada went cold. Her hand went to her own pocket and she felt the absence of the letter from her father.
‘Camille—’
‘Not here.’
They left James and Olympe with a half-hearted excuse and went down into the crypt.
‘You’re taking money from him?’ asked Camille at the same time as Ada said, ‘Please don’t be angry.’
‘Angry? Angry?’ hissed Camille. ‘Is that really all you think I’m feeling right now?’
‘No – I know – I’m sorry—’
‘You’re still seeing him, aren’t you?’
Ada swallowed, considering for a moment if there was any way she could deny it. Camille was livid. No, the damage was already done.
‘Yes. I am.’
Camille didn’t crumple or cry, if anything she became even tenser.
‘How long?’
‘I’ve never stopped seeing him.’
Camille recoiled.
‘You don’t understand! There’s only been the two of us since we came to Paris, he’s had only me for so long, I couldn’t walk away. It would have broken him.’
She reached for Camille’s hand, but she pulled away.
‘So you thought lying to me was better? You thought I wouldn’t understand?’
‘I didn’t want to hurt you – after what he did—’
‘I never asked you to stop seeing him.’
Ada’s temper snapped. ‘Didn’t you? You asked me to leave my home, to make a life with you instead, to risk my life with you.’
‘You were the one who told me you weren’t going to see him again! You told me you chose me.’
‘I do choose you, Cam. Isn’t that obvious? I’m here with you, aren’t I?’
‘But it wasn’t enough. You still need him.’
Ada raised her chin, meeting Camille’s gaze.
‘Maybe. Do you still need James?’
Colour rose to Camille’s cheeks. ‘That was … a mistake, I didn’t mean for you to see us—’
Ada snorted. ‘That was obvious. Have you even told him about me?’
‘I was going to—’
Ada cut her off. ‘Do you know what hurts the most? You open up to him in a way you never do with me. He gets your vulnerability. You share parts of yourself you never share with me.’