by Kat Dunn
‘What’s the meaning of this?’ barked the duc. ‘Is it a joke?’
He tried to settle the brim of his hat lower and slouched. Ada reflexively touched her hatpin, feeling the wind tug at the wide brim.
‘No. I told you, this is the meeting.’
‘Are you mad? Here?’
‘Why not? Half of Paris is here, what better place to be lost in the crowd?’
The duc pursed his lips. ‘Clever.’
Ada folded her hands in front of her again. ‘Yes, we are.’
Now, they had to prove it.
5
At the Top of the Mountain
‘How do you do?’
Robespierre. President of National Convention, member of the powerful Committee of Public Safety and architect of the Terror that had murdered her parents.
Camille held out her hand, hoping it wasn’t too clammy. Robespierre glanced at it, then briefly inclined his head. Camille clasped her hand behind her back. Olympe dropped a curtsey then slid as far behind Camille as she could manage.
‘A strange get-up for … a lady, citoyenne,’ he said, regarding her trousers and short jacket.
Molyneux gave her a pained look. ‘I had rather hoped you’d wear that lovely dress from dinner. I know you ladies worry about day dresses and evening dresses but trousers are hardly the solution, I’d have thought.’
‘And yet here I am in trousers.’
As usual, Camille found herself speaking before thinking, despite the knot of anxiety weighing down on her. Giving Molyneux cheek was one thing, but Robespierre?
‘Citoyenne Laroche has done a great service to the Republic,’ cut in Molyneux. ‘Returning a most valuable resource to us. A true daughter of the Revolution, raised in the greatest circles of free thought, and now living up to her pedigree—’
‘I only hope I don’t live up to my parents’ legacy too closely,’ she said. ‘After all, they were both executed as traitors – traitors according to your Tribunal, at least. I’m not entirely sure everyone agrees with your Tribunal.’
Molyneux hastily cleared his throat over the end of her sentence. Camille smiled blandly. Robespierre was losing interest in the conversation, observing his gathered people spread around the mountain.
‘The child always strives to improve upon the parent, my dear,’ said Molyneux. ‘Each generation learns and develops and pushes the great undertaking of human progress.’
Robespierre took out a fine linen handkerchief and blew his nose.
Molyneux tried to usher Olympe forwards, but she pressed closer to Camille, twisting her fingers into the loose hem of Camille’s shirt.
‘After all, Citoyenne Laroche has returned the key to our future into safe hands.’
Robespierre glanced at Olympe. ‘Is this the experiment you mentioned?’
‘The very same.’
Molyneux reached and, with a twitch of his fingers, pulled the hat brim away from Olympe’s face.
‘How curious.’ Robespierre leaned closer, green eyes studying her. ‘She looks exactly like a human girl.’
‘She is a human girl,’ said Camille. ‘In all the ways that matter.’
Robespierre ignored her. ‘Docteur, I want to see those reports again. Tangible results are long overdue.’
The docteur gave a perfunctory bow. ‘Yes, Citoyen le Président, of course.’
‘Now the girl is ours, I predict we shall see results within weeks – days—’ continued Molyneux, but Robespierre cut him off with a raised hand.
‘As you promised before. Excuse me. I have a speech to give.’
He left Molyneux flapping and descended to a balcony several levels below. The docteur had turned his attention to Olympe, who was shaking so badly Camille could feel the tremors.
Quiet settled across the Champs de Mars, the whole of Paris holding its breath as Robespierre took his position and began to speak.
‘It has finally arrived, the forever fortunate day that the French people consecrate to the Supreme Being. The world that he created has never offered a spectacle so worthy of his regard. He has seen tyranny, crime and imposture reign on earth: at this moment he sees an entire nation that is combatting all the oppressors of humankind…’
‘You see, Camille,’ Molyneux said. ‘You may not understand what is going on here, and believe me I had no desire to threaten Ada, but the return of the girl is of utmost importance to the Revolutionary effort—’
‘If I let you take her, do you promise you won’t hurt her?’ Camille’s mouth was suddenly dry. ‘Those experiments, the mask, that will all stop?’
Olympe quivered with tension. Camille could feel the faintest hum building, the shiver of static in her hair. She focused on the biting wind against her cheeks instead, the smell of paint and moss coming from the mountain. She could do this. She could hold herself together. The image of her mother’s head being dropped into a basket, red with blood, kept looping in her mind.
The world might see far worse if anyone got hold of Olympe.
Comtois and Molyneux exchanged glances.
‘I cannot make any promises,’ said the docteur. ‘The Royalist threat still hangs over every facet of this Republic. I know you understand that.’
‘Olympe won’t help you,’ she said. ‘She won’t work for you. I know what you and the duc did to her. It’s sick. Experimenting on people. You should be ashamed.’
Comtois coloured. It was the first time she’d ever seen him respond to a barb. ‘I am ashamed. But I would do it again, if it meant finding a way to protect the Republic.’
‘You’re the people the Republic needs protecting from.’
Comtois took a step closer to her.
Camille’s hand went automatically to her pistol.
‘I know you don’t believe that. We might do distasteful things in the name of liberty and equality, but the duc, he’s the monster. We turn to violence in the name of freedom. They will use it to bring every last person in France back under their thumb.’
‘That doesn’t give you free rein to be just as bad. How much is liberty worth, if that’s the price?’
Comtois looked at her solemnly. ‘Liberty is worth any price. You’ll pay.’
Camille backed up a step towards the edge of the summit. Olympe moved with her, gripping her arm.
‘I won’t let you hurt her. It’s not right.’
‘We don’t want to hurt her,’ said Molyneux. ‘But she is so important, don’t you see? The Royalists will continue to undermine us at every turn – and if they succeed everything will be lost. Blood will run in the streets. France will never be free.’
‘You already wipe out anyone who stands in your path. It’s a bloodbath either way.’
The docteur held up his hands in truce. He was wearing the same style of neat black gloves he’d sewn Olympe into. ‘I know you understand what we’re saying, Camille. I know you don’t support the duc.’
‘Of course I don’t,’ she spat.
Camille pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes. Her head hurt. Her mind was a jumble of thoughts and images and plans weaving and falling apart again. Her father would have figured this out, where to draw that awful line in the sand. If he could see her now, he wouldn’t be proud.
‘So let us take Olympe. Let us do what’s necessary. Remember where you come from.’
‘Stop it…’ Camille stumbled back another step.
She kept trying to make things work, but there was always something she hadn’t considered that meant she was wrong and stupid and a failure. Ada hated her. Guil had been stabbed. Al – god, Al had gone through the one thing she never, ever wanted to think about again. Her throat was closing up, the whistle-thunk sound of the guillotine filling her ears and the heart-crushing pain, threatening to claim her.
Molyneux smiled at her, that familiar smile of the man who had taught her to ride and passed her sweets under the table.
‘Camille, why else did you come? It’s time to make the right choice. I kno
w it’s not an easy decision, but you already know it’s the right one.’
‘Don’t tell me what I think.’
Olympe’s fingers dug into her arm, sparks glancing off her fingers in anger.
‘You swore you wouldn’t let them take me. You swore.’
‘Shut up.’
She pushed Olympe away, struggling to catch her breath. Her chest hurt, everything hurt.
‘Please, Camille.’
Twin tear tracks stained Olympe’s cheeks. Camille’s hand went to her pistol. Olympe was standing right on the edge of the summit.
‘You promised it would be my choice.’
For a moment, Camille let the pain and noise and chaos drop away. Her parents always made the hard choice. Even if it meant people would hate her. Her parents would do the right thing.
‘I know I did. But I have to make a choice too.’
She lifted her gun and pointed it at Olympe.
‘I’m sorry I couldn’t save you. But I have to save everyone else. You’re dangerous, and we won’t be safe until you’re gone.’
Olympe froze, entirely focused on the muzzle of the gun and Camille’s finger on the trigger.
‘I trusted you.’
Camille was calm. Her voice soft against the wind.
‘I know.’
She pulled the trigger.
6
In the Crowd on the Champs de Mars
A shot rang out across the Champs de Mars. Robespierre faltered mid-speech as people started screaming.
From the top of the mountain, a figure in white tumbled through the air, narrowly missing the balcony Robespierre spoke from, before disappearing from view.
The crowd moved like a riptide, surging suddenly and violently away from the mountain, while eddies swirled back towards the scene. Ada was pulled in several directions at once, jostled and pushed away from the duc.
Fighting the flow, she elbowed her way towards where he was using his cane to smack people out of his path.
‘Move, you disgusting little man,’ he sneered, prodding a mason aside. ‘What is the meaning of this?’
‘I don’t know,’ mumbled Ada. ‘They were supposed to meet us here—’
‘Oh, for god’s sake.’
Forcing his way through the terrified crowd, he strode closer to the mountain, Ada tagging along behind. Robespierre had gone from his balcony, a ring of guards escorting him out of the public eye. Olympe had fallen into the ditch that circled the mountain like a moat. Some people were peering into it, while others were pointing up at the summit where the shot had come from.
‘I swear to you—’
‘Do not take me for a fool, girl,’ he hissed. His blue eyes had gone steely grey with anger. ‘You think we play? I have given you and Mademoiselle Laroche more than enough chances. I do not know what idiocy you aim at now, but my patience is finished.’
For the first time, Ada felt true horror as the duc towered over her. But before she could speak, a hand closed around her arm. She looked up in fright, adrenaline spiking her chest.
‘Ada, what are you doing?’
‘Papa!’ She tried to pull away in frustration, but he kept hold of her arm.
The duc shifted from rage into cold and calculating displeasure. ‘Get your daughter in hand. Set our plan in action.’
Ada frowned. ‘Papa – what is he talking about?’
The duc levelled a cold glare at her. ‘I do not take kindly to being tricked. If you won’t give me the girl sensibly, I will take things into my own hands. And your father is going to help me.’
He walked away into the crowds.
Ada looked at her father, eyebrows shooting up in disbelief.
He gave her a strained smile. ‘Time to leave, Adalaide. Things have gone too far – all of this,’ he gestured to the ragged remains of the festival, ‘has gone too far. It’s time some order was restored.’
‘But – but you hate the old system. You don’t want the monarchy back, I know you.’
‘You’re right. I don’t.’
‘Then why on earth are you working with them? We have to stop them!’
‘No, darling. I have to stop you. It’s the only way to keep you safe. The duc has promised me you will be.’
It took a long moment for his words to sink in. To let the truth stitch itself together.
She almost laughed. It was too much. And yet, it made a terrible sense. Her father had always done whatever he thought necessary to achieve his goal, even when her mother died and they were alone in the world, when they came back to Paris and struggled to survive while he set up his publishing house. He’d published the Revolutionaries’ work, but maybe it had always only been a means to an end.
Just like now. He was doing whatever he thought he had to to get her back. She nearly laughed. He must really think he was doing the right thing to protect his daughter.
‘Let me go!’
‘Shhh, there now.’ He pulled her tight against his body, her back nestled against his front. He’d held her like this in the days after her mother died, when her sobbing wracked her body so she thought she might snap in half.
A shiver of pure anger sparked in her.
‘Traitor,’ she spat, then a cold, noxious-smelling cloth closed over her nose and mouth.
She wriggled and thrashed, trying desperately to twist away. She sucked in foul-tasting air through the rag, and her head began to spin.
As her knees gave, she felt herself being lowered to the ground. But then she was gone, spinning eternally into a cold, black pit.
All she could think was that she didn’t want it to end like this.
7
At the Top of the Mountain
In the empty space where Olympe had stood, Camille felt her heart break. The last thing she’d seen was Olympe’s eyes, pooled with inky black. Then the recoil of her pistol had smacked into her.
Olympe was gone and her gun felt hot in her hand.
Molyneux was leaning over the edge, yelling something she couldn’t make out. Comtois had fled, scrambling down the path to hunt for the body.
Trembling, Camille lowered the pistol and tucked it back in her belt. The barrel burned a line against her side.
‘What have you done?’ Molyneux roared, face tomato-red and throbbing. ‘You stupid, hateful girl.’
He made a lunge for her and she skittered back.
‘She’s safe now. She said she’d rather die and so I made the only choice I could. That kind of power should never be in your hands, nor the duc’s.’
‘You’ve ruined us! You’ve doomed us all.’
The screaming of the crowd reached them at the top of the mountain.
‘I did what I had to do. You’re sick, all of you. Did you read what the duc did to her? What Comtois did? They cut her up and drowned her and shocked her. That’s not science, it’s torture.’
‘You think sacrificing the future of the Republic is the better choice?’
‘Find an alternative,’ she said, hating the churlish note in her voice.
‘Oh, dear, stupid Camille. You get the wrong end of every stick, don’t you?’
He crossed the summit towards her, and she whipped out her gun again to hold him at bay.
‘Stand back!’
Holding his hands up, he paused by the tree, then gestured to her gun.
‘Your father’s,’ he said. ‘You hold it with such pride.’
‘Yes. Because he was a far better man than you. He believed in the Revolution, but he would never stoop to such cruelty.’
‘The wrong end of every stick, as I said.’
Camille held the pistol steady, fighting temptation. And lost.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Your father was no saint.’
‘He was better than you. He never tortured helpless girls. He would be proud of me for standing up to you.’
‘No. He was far more petty than that. That gun, you know it’s one of a pair?’
Camille glanced a
t the long barrel and pearl inlay on the handle. She hadn’t known that.
‘Your father and Will were insufferable about it.’ Will was James’s father. ‘He’d bought the duelling pistols while they were on their grand tour, and when Will moved back to England, they took one each. Some sort of gesture of their friendship. Ironic, really, given how things ended up. And stupid.’
‘So? They were friends. Loyal friends. Maybe that’s why they weren’t so keen on you, they knew what you were.’
‘Do you know what it was like watching them from the outside? Neither of them truly cared about the Revolution. They were concerned with their appearance as romantic Revolutionaries, not the bitter reality of bureaucracy and control. They wanted to stay up all night talking about wonderful utopias, while men and women and children starved in the streets. You might not like Robespierre’s methods, but he gets things done.’
‘Whatever you have to tell yourself to sleep at night,’ she said, with less venom than she’d hoped.
Molyneux rolled his eyes to the heavens. ‘Oh, do let up, Camille. You really think your father went to the guillotine because his idea of revolution was too pure for our corrupt state? That we executed him because he was in our way? Grow up.’
‘Why, then? Why did you let them kill your best friend?’
‘Because they found out what he did to your mother.’
The world stilled around Camille. Sound was muffled, the screaming below faded into nothing.
‘What did you say?’
‘All this crusading can’t save your parents, Camille. It won’t go back and stop you from being the naive child you were. My god, you don’t even know the truth about your mother.’
‘What are you talking about?’
The tricolore sash spread across Molyneux’s broad torso was riding up under his armpit. She remembered finding him once as a child, falling asleep in the library, his wig tipping off, his waistcoat rolled under his armpits as he slid lower in his chair. Despite everything, he still looked like ridiculous old Uncle Georges.
‘Your mother’s trial was a sham. Your father set her up. She was having an affair, you see, with Will, and he couldn’t stand the humiliation. When Will and I realised what he planned… The right word to the wrong person could land her in front of the Tribunal charged as an enemy of the Revolution. Your father could be a vindictive man. He knew the consequence could be her death. We begged him to take a different course.’ Molyneux took off his pince-nez and cleaned them with the edge of his sash. ‘Sad that he should go the same way. I warned him he was perverting the purpose of the Tribunal. It is for the people’s justice, not persecution and revenge.’