by Kat Dunn
Camille couldn’t speak, couldn’t think, as horror took over. It wasn’t true. It couldn’t be true. Molyneux was trying to hurt her, surely, to distract her.
Why, though? What possible purpose could it have?
All she could think about was her mother standing alone in front of the Tribunal in the night shift she’d been arrested in, defiant and brave until the end.
‘Your friend Ada’s father was the one who broke the news to the Revolutionary Tribunal,’ he continued. ‘He always hated your relationship with his daughter. I wish I had seen it coming before it was too late. I failed both your parents, I will admit that. Once the Tribunal heard what your father had done, he had no chance. Your father had lied to them, given false information about her. Sentenced to death a true, loyal daughter of the Revolution. The Tribunal couldn’t let such an act stand. He was unfit for office, misused his position, betrayed us all. The evidence was unquestionable. He had to go.’
It was too much at once. She couldn’t hold it all in her mind: her mother’s affair, her father’s revenge, Ada’s father’s betrayal. Everything she believed, all the faith she’d put in her parents, every time she’d looked to their memory to work out the right thing to do.
‘Shut up – stop – you’re lying.’
‘No, Camille. For once, I want you to understand the truth.’ Molyneux looked so tired. As if he was trying to hold the world together in his own hands. ‘Our parents are never who we think they are. They can’t be, we see them in such a distorted, impossible light. But we don’t have to be ruled by them for ever. There’s one thing your father said that wasn’t bluff and posturing. He said there was no such thing as fate. No destiny. That we must make our own choices. That much, I think he got right.’
‘So what now? Do you arrest me too? Execute me as a traitor? Hurt Ada like you threatened to?’
‘I am sorry we threatened you. That was a mistake. One of many I have made with you. I should have told you the truth about your parents before now. Stupidly, I thought I was sparing you from the pain. I had hoped with time you would come back to us. That you would remember where you came from.’
‘I would never, ever side with you,’ she spat.
Even in her anger, some affection lingered. Made it hard to hate him. Because it was so like him to have made up some lie to protect her from the gritty realities of life. She was just a little girl to him.
‘Go, Camille. Run now, while you can, and hide yourself away. Comtois will find another way to protect France and her children. And I hope you will be at our side when the fight comes. As it must.’
She lowered the gun, eyes blurring with tears.
‘Let us leave this place as family once more.’
He held out a hand, a fond smile lifting his eyes and the colour in his cheeks. Her grief for her parents sliced through her, keen and pure.
Tentatively, she took his hand. On numb legs, she turned and stumbled down the mountain, letting him support her as they made their way through the paper rocks. The wind died, the screaming with it. She stared at the gun in her hand, still warm from shooting Olympe.
She hadn’t thought she had anything left to lose.
She’d been wrong.
At the foot of the mountain, Camille slid the pistol back into her belt and tried to pull herself together. She needed to find Ada and get out of there.
‘I have to find my friends.’
For a moment, she wanted to hug him like she had as a child.
‘I—’
Dorval appeared behind Molyneux, and the words died on her lips.
Dorval, who should have died in the theatre days before. An angry burn puckered the side of his face, as cruel as his smile. Camille’s heart was racing. How was Dorval still alive? How had he found them here?
Molyneux shuddered, eyes widening in shock. Then he coughed, convulsing, as a trickle of red bubbled over his lips.
Dorval pulled the knife from Molyneux’s back and pushed him into her arms. She fell under his sudden weight, knees hitting the ground hard. Over Molyneux’s shoulder she watched Dorval clean his knife on a silk handkerchief.
‘You disappointed us. I told you there would be consequences.’
PART SIX
Dangerous Remedy
1
Île aux Cygnes
20 Prairial Year II
Camille ran.
Blindly, scrambling through stampeding crowds, gasping around the knot in her chest. She was slick with blood – no, she couldn’t, she wouldn’t think about what had just happened. Ada. She needed to find Ada. That was the only thing that mattered now.
Where the Champs de Mars sloped to the river and the Île aux Cygnes, Camille left the crowds and headed into the alleys towards the spot she had planned to meet Ada. Above her, the Périer brothers’ steam mills rose over the scattered buildings, the twelve huge driving wheels churning incessantly, filling the air with a metallic thrum.
There was no one waiting for her.
She sank down by one of the channels of brackish river water that ran through the reclaimed land, wiping her bloody hands on her trousers. Her father’s pistol was still at her belt, but she was careful to avoid touching it.
Ada would come. She had to.
The air was heavy with the odours of offal and lamp oil from the factories and slaughterhouses. Camille felt numb. Neither side had Olympe. They’d won, but why didn’t it feel like it? She was aware of the pain in her lungs. First the river water, then the fire. She could barely catch her breath.
Church bells chimed the afternoon into evening, and still Ada didn’t come.
A hand touched her shoulder and she started, expecting Dorval.
But it was James, easing his arm around her shoulder and pulling her up.
‘Cam, thank god I found you.’ He brushed his palms against her tear-stained cheeks. When had she started crying? ‘Are you okay? Are you hurt?’
‘Molyneux,’ she mumbled. ‘Uncle Georges…’
‘Molyneux did this to you?’
She shook her head. ‘No. James – he’s dead.’
‘What?’
‘Dorval stabbed him. He said – he said there would be consequences.’
James looked away, pushing his hair back from his face. For a moment, he looked so young. Once, when they were children and playing in the river that ran through the Henley house’s garden, they’d tried to catch frogs in kitchen jars. But James had fallen, dropping a jar onto a captive frog and killing it. He’d cried for hours and buried the frog in a flower bed.
She took his hand, winding their fingers together. ‘I’m so sorry.’ Her voice sounded strange to her. Distant and hoarse.
‘Dorval made it out of the theatre fire?’
‘Apparently.’
He cursed and squeezed her hand. ‘We’ll get them back, I swear.’
She caught his sleeve. ‘James – Olympe, she… I…’
‘Not now. We can talk when we get you somewhere safe.’
‘No. I have to find Ada – and Al. Where are they? Ada was supposed to meet me here but she’s not – she hasn’t…’
‘Maybe she had to hide out somewhere.’
‘I should look for her.’
James’s brows knit together. ‘We can’t draw any extra attention to ourselves if Dorval is still around. We should get back to the safe house and lie low.’
‘I can’t. I have to try—’ She tried to go, but still holding her hand, James pulled her up short.
‘No, I won’t let you.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘It’s dangerous, and you’re not well – you’ve hardly recovered from the fire. You’re no use to anyone like this.’
‘If Ada is out there and needs help—’
‘Cam, stop it. Ada isn’t stupid, she’ll know to go back to Saints-Innocents or to the Au Petit Suisse. So will Al, you know this isn’t the first time he’s vanished. Please. Ada wouldn’t want you to get yourself into more trouble.’
/> Her exhaustion won out over her worry. If she tried to hunt for Ada now, she thought she might pass out. The space she knew should be filled with grief at Molyneux’s death was instead a grey pool of tiredness. As though her grief had been worn out.
‘Maybe she got caught up in the crowd and has gone straight back to Saints-Innocents. Maybe she’s just as worried about me…’ She let James slide an arm around her waist and lead her towards the water taxis that plied the bridge-less stretches of river. The familiar strength of his arms was comforting, the callouses on the fingers that gripped her, his wood smoke and carbolic scent.
‘You’re probably right. We’ll go back to Saints-Innocents and Ada will be waiting for you. It’s going to be okay. You did it. Your plan worked.’
Camille remembered the recoil of the gun as she fired at Olympe, the hot bloom of blood across Molyneux’s chest as the knife sank in, and she knew James was wrong.
Nothing was ever going to be okay again.
A Boat on the River Seine
A plume of smoke hung over the buildings of the Left Bank, trailing Ada along the river like Ariadne’s thread following Theseus into the labyrinth. Through bleary eyes she watched it coil over the rooftops, her head fuddled and aching. Something big was happening but she couldn’t think what.
Slowly, her senses came back to her in scraps and snatches. The smell of sewage from the river, the numb ache of her hands tied behind her back, the slap and splash of oars in the water. It hurt too much to move. Her father was somewhere nearby, talking in hushed tones.
None of it felt real.
Someone appeared in her line of sight. The duc looked down at her, thin mouth lifted in a smile. She tried to speak, but realised that the fuzziness in her mouth wasn’t just from the drug, but a rag stuffed between her teeth. She settled for glowering.
He disappeared and she went back to watching the sky as they sailed upriver past the Île de la Cité and the Conciergerie where this had all started. She’d swum for her life here. Now she was helpless. Camille had fought for her life in the river too. But Ada had left her. Like she’d left her in the theatre. Like she’d left her now.
She loved her, she knew that much was true.
Maybe love wasn’t always enough.
2
The Bedroom, Au Petit Suisse
Camille woke up with James’s arm slung over her waist. They were curled up in her bed, his slow, sleepy breath on the back of her neck. Her throat was raw from crying. The long summer evening had nearly faded outside the windows.
Ada hadn’t come home. Neither had Al.
James had talked her into going back to the Au Petit Suisse. Guil was recovering well, but James didn’t like his patient being stuck in the damp. Camille had agreed – Ada might have made it back there, and anyway it was for the best if they kept moving. Guil could just about walk now, if slowly, and with the chaos of the festival, it was easy enough to disguise themselves as just another group of drunks staggering along.
She’d lain down still in her clothes on top of the covers, telling herself she wasn’t going to sleep until Ada was back safe. James had joined her. She’d meant to push him away, she really had. But it was cold, and she was tired and lonely. And she’d already crossed so many lines with him. So she let his arm stay around her, pressed herself against the warm bulk of his chest. Somewhere between the warmth of the fire and the steady, comforting thud of his heart, she had fallen asleep.
A rapid hammering on the bedroom door sent her shooting upright, then Guil threw the door open, leaning heavily on the door frame to support himself.
‘Camille! Wake up!’
‘I’m up – what is it?’ She tried to shuffle away from James, combing the knots from her hair. It felt obscene now for him to be in the bed she shared with Ada.
Guil hesitated on the threshold, taking in the scene, expression clouding over. But he said nothing, simply limped across the room, holding out a news-sheet.
‘It’s Al.’
She took the paper, scanning it quickly.
Al had been arrested. His trial was tomorrow.
Wordlessly, she pushed the paper into James’s hands. He read it, then looked at them both in horror.
‘You know how to fix this, don’t you? Isn’t rescuing people the battalion’s job?’
‘It is,’ said Guil, ‘but usually we have a full compliment of uninjured people.’
Camille giggled.
‘I don’t understand,’ said James. ‘What’s so funny?’
She waved him away. ‘Nothing. Only, the one thing I’ve tried to do is find a way to keep my friends – my family – alive, and yet all I’ve managed is to get people hurt or killed.’ Her laugh turned into a sob. ‘I supposed we really are going to be the Battalion of the Dead soon.’
James rested a hand on her back in comfort, and she couldn’t even bring herself to shrug him off.
‘Well.’ A voice came from the doorway. Olympe stepped over the threshold, still wearing the dress she’d been shot in, a neat hole burned into its front. ‘I suppose it’s a good thing I’m still alive.’
‘You have to kill me.’
The day before the deadline, Olympe had sat next to Camille on the steps to the crypt, gloved hands folded in her lap as she laid out her idea.
‘What?’
‘At the festival, when you’re supposed to hand me over. Pretend to kill me.’
‘I don’t know if they’ll believe it.’
‘Make them.’
‘It’s too much of a risk.’
‘We have to. It’s the only way to make everyone stop hunting for me.’
‘How would we even do it?’
‘I hadn’t got that far. What about the pistol?’
Camille had looked down at her father’s pistol hanging by her side. ‘I suppose I could load powder but no shot. But then what? They’ll see there’s no bullet wound. We’d have to get you off the mountain…’
She’d turned over the idea in her mind. It was extreme … but that seemed to be the corner they’d painted themselves into.
‘Are you sure about this?’
‘I don’t want any of you to get hurt because of me. If Comtois and the duc think I’m dead, then they’ll leave you alone.’
Camille had sighed. Olympe was right. And if both sides thought she was dead, maybe she would finally be safe.
‘Okay… Let’s do it.’
Together they had sketched out a plan. Camille would load her pistol with powder but no shot. Olympe would spark a small pouch of powder under her dress, blasting a hole that mimicked a gunshot. All they needed to do was get everyone in the right place at the same time.
It was cruel, but they’d had to keep the truth of the plan to themselves. If Ada and Al handled the duc, she needed their reactions to look real.
Though there was one person they’d had to let in on it.
‘We still need to get you off the mountain,’ said Camille.
A light shone in Olympe’s eyes. ‘I might have an idea about that. What if you let me fall?’
They’d called James from where he’d been checking on Guil’s injuries.
‘Do you have a minute?’
James had finished cleaning his hands and nodded.
With Olympe listening attentively, Camille ran through the outline of the plan, and what they needed him for. Someone had to get to Olympe’s body when she fell and declare her dead before anyone looked too closely.
‘We still have the soldier’s uniform from when we rescued Olympe from the Conciergerie. If you pretend to be a guard, you can get onto the mountain. I saw a replica of the mountain backstage at the theatre – it’s steep one side and sloping the other. It looks like a sheer drop from the top but if you fall from the right place, you’d only go a couple of metres before you hit a ledge. If you get in the right position, you can be first on the scene to declare Olympe dead. Then smuggle her away in the chaos.’
James had stared at her.
&n
bsp; ‘Are you completely out of your mind?’
Camille had grinned. ‘Only mostly.’
‘It’s a huge risk.’
Olympe had folded her arms. ‘Everyone keeps telling me everything is my choice. Then you understand what I’m saying,’ she continued. ‘The risk is mine, whether we do this or not. If we fail, I’m dead anyway, or worse.’
He had rubbed his eyes, muttering something unintelligible in English. ‘All right. I’m registering the fact that I think this is completely reckless, but if you insist on doing this, then I’ll help.’
For all his protestations, James had thrown himself into the plan. It was his idea to bring a cloak so once they were out of sight she could disguise herself to disappear. They practised him dragging her away without her making any noise or opening her eyes until they gave a convincing performance of a guard hauling away a lifeless body.
Camille had rehearsed the steps in her head as Ada slept beside her that night. She would need to make it convincing. And they had believed her. The gun had fired with nothing in it, and Olympe flung herself backwards off the mountain. Camille remembered the way they’d both plunged from the roof of the Conciergerie hand in hand. It had hurt a lot more than she’d expected, even pretending to shoot Olympe. But she thought they’d done it. That they’d managed to win, finally.
She should have known hubris would be her downfall.
3
A Town House on the Rue Barbette
Ada was back.
The boat had stopped at the Quai des Ormes by the Marais neighbourhood on the Right Bank. Long ago home to the aristocracy, then the bourgeoisie middle classes her father belonged to, the area had been mostly abandoned. Plaster flaked off the elegant frontages, windows were smashed, gardens overgrown. The journey had been short but miserable when she realised where he was taking her. His home. Just like he had wanted.