by Kat Dunn
At the bottom of the stacks was an edition so old the paper was soft, dog-eared at the corners and tearing along the fold of the spine. She held it up to the light to see the date. 1786. Before they had left Martinique. Greedily she turned the pages, recognising it for what it was: the trial run her parents had created when the paper was a kernel of an idea, nurtured between the two of them over candle stubs and late-night conversation. There were only four pages in total, some reporting local news from Fort Royal, some giving notice of upcoming events and meetings. Then an essay from her father. Something aping the classics, a conversation between a student and teacher. Finally, on the back page, taking up the whole sheet, she found it. Her mother’s writing. The ink had bled, a fuzzy printing job to start, with some words running in to each other and misplaced letters making it hard to scan. But it was her mother’s voice. Clear, incisive, urgent.
Ada ran her fingers along the lines, imagining her mother writing it. Late at night, after Ada was in bed. Ink staining her nails, crumpled paper littering her desk. Never giving up.
A tear dropped onto the fragile paper, soaking through and making the ink run. She folded the paper and slipped it inside her dress, then dried her tears. Ada had tried to live a life of her own. She hadn’t failed – it had been real, every moment had been real with Camille. She belonged there because that was where she wanted to be. Her father had tried to wrest control from her, but she couldn’t let things end like this.
When her father came this time, he carried a far smaller tray with only a slice of buttered bread sitting directly on the metal. No plates to smash.
He held it out to her, and she took it, calling on every bit of her willpower to eat the bread and not throw it at his head. She needed her strength.
‘Are we calmer today?’
She nodded.
‘I’m afraid I’ve come with upsetting news. A member of your battalion, Aloysius, was arrested and sentenced to execution. In fact, he’s due at the guillotine tomorrow.’
The food turned to lead in her stomach. ‘What? Why?’ But she knew why. The warrant out on his family had included him. His past had finally caught up with him.
‘I don’t tell you this to hurt you, but to show you who this government is. You and I both know that boy had nothing to do with his family’s crimes against the people. You see now why I have to do whatever it takes to keep you safe from this madness?’
She buried her face in her hands and let a sob overwhelm her. The bed dipped and then she felt her father’s warm hand on her back.
‘I’m sorry,’ she mumbled into her hands. ‘It’s so unfair.’
‘I know. We must be very brave.’
‘Please, Papa, would you let me do something? Anything, just to keep busy and not let my mind wander to such things.’ He drew back a fraction, sympathy replaced by caution. She pressed on. ‘Have a servant watch me, take my shoes if you must, just please let me out of this room.’
‘I don’t want you to be unhappy…’
‘Let me be of some use – I can check proofs for you, or manage the household accounts or – or any of the things I used to do.’ She looked down at her folded hands in her lap. ‘You said I still had a place with you. Where else have I got to go? The battalion is finished.’
She let a note of bitter despondency creep into her voice and watched her father’s expression tense with indecision.
Al’s past had caught up with him, and now Ada’s past was repeating itself. Locked up, helpless, while someone she cared about faced death.
‘Please, Papa.’
He took her hand, patted it. ‘All right. Let me see what I can arrange.’
6
Outside the Au Petit Suisse
Camille yanked the knife out of the letter, struggling to bring herself to close her hand around the hilt. She didn’t want to touch the knife that had killed Molyneux. But she needed to read the letter.
In a spidery hand it revealed that Ada was held at the duc’s pleasure and would be released in exchange for Olympe. Their ruse had failed – they knew Olympe was alive, and now Camille had to choose.
Ada or Olympe.
Her mind scrabbled like a rat in a trap. She was playing, and losing, a game she didn’t understand.
The door opened, and James stood in front of her.
‘Oh, thank goodness you’re back.’ He paused, taking in the tears streaking down her cheeks. ‘That bad?’
She pushed the letter into his hands.
The light faded in his blue eyes as he read.
‘I told you something was wrong.’ She snatched the letter back to read it again, frantic for any hint of where Ada was, what she could do to make this right.
Other than hand over Olympe. Give up on everything they’d fought for.
James put his hand gently on her shoulder and nudged her inside.
‘Ada’s smart. She can look after herself. She’ll be okay.’
He tried to slide his arm around her, but she pulled back. She didn’t deserve comfort.
‘I messed up. I messed everything up again. What made me think everyone would behave like good little chess pieces and stay where I placed them on the board? I’m an idiot.’
‘Hey, no—’
‘I ruin everything. They trusted me and I got them hurt. I’ve lost everyone. Al, Ada, Maman, Papa, Uncle Georges…’
She desperately didn’t want to cry but it hardly felt like a choice. She’d been hiding all her fear and grief and loss for so long it felt as if it had rotted her from the inside out and now she was ready to burst and spill foul, putrid tears over anyone who saw her. And that person was James.
‘I’m alone,’ she said into his jacket. ‘Everyone’s left me and now I’m alone.’
He pushed her hair out of her face so he could look her in the eye.
‘No, Camille. You’re not. You’ve got me. You’ll always have me.’
‘Oh, god, please stop saying that. You don’t understand.’
‘You keep saying that but what is it I don’t understand, Cam? What’s going on? What changed with us?’
‘Ada. I love Ada. I’m in love with her. I have to save her because without her I don’t know who I am any more. I don’t know how to have a life without her.’
‘Oh.’ He stiffened, brows knit together in confused. ‘I … see.’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t want to lie to you. Not about something this important.’
‘I suppose you did say things had changed.’
She scrubbed her tears away. ‘You can hate me if you want, just please say you’ll still help me.’
He softened. ‘Of course I will. I could never hate you, Camille, whatever happens. You can trust me on that.’
He took her upstairs to the battalion’s rooms and ushered her into the parlour where the fire had been stoked up high. The coffee mugs from the morning of the festival were still on the table next to Ada’s half-read Galvani. Olympe was curled in a chair with James’s medical texts, devouring anatomical drawings of nerves and blood vessels snaking up flayed arms. She started when Camille came in, book toppling to the floor.
‘What happened? Is Al going to be okay?’
Camille sank into a chair by the fire and let James explain about Ada. She almost made herself a drink, but that made her think of Al and then her chest was tight and she couldn’t breathe.
Guil’s expression was grave. ‘How much time do we have?’
‘None. They’ll execute Al tomorrow. Ada … I don’t know.’
‘Well, I suppose that makes things straightforward – help Al first then Ada.’ James passed out plates of dried sausage and thinly sliced, fried potato. ‘Eat, Cam. Get your strength up.’
She moved to the window seat, swallowing her food mechanically.
‘So what’s the plan?’ asked Olympe. ‘Do we take Al from the prison like you took me?’
Guil shook his head. ‘Not with so little preparation time. Our best chance is when he’s being transported
to the guillotine. We must apprehend him en route. We’ve done it before, but we will be down to three people,’ he added, gesturing to his bandages.
‘I could make a distraction, give you time to get him.’
‘No,’ Cam cut in. ‘Not you. You’re staying here. Safe.’
‘I want to help.’
‘I’m not risking you. Not now. James and I will do it. We only need two people.’
Olympe flushed but didn’t back down. ‘You’re being stupid. I have these abilities – the least I could do is use them to help. I think I could fight, if I had to.’
‘Like hell you will. I said no. You’re staying out of it.’
‘Because you’re going to hand me over in exchange for Ada?’
‘No. Never. Because I can’t have all this be for nothing. Please, Olympe. I need you to be safe.’ Camille’s voice broke. ‘One of us has to be safe.’
A purple flush swirled across her cheeks, and hesitantly, Olympe reached to take Camille’s hand.
‘All right. I’m sorry. I understand. Do what you have to do.’
Camille took a slow, deep breath, willing the catch in her chest to ease. Her hands were trembling, so she knotted her fingers together to still them.
‘Al is relying on us. Ada is relying on us. We have twelve hours.’
She looked up at them, at her Bataillon des Morts, old and new. The future was in their hands now.
‘Time to make them count.’
7
Rue Barbette
22 Prairial Year II
Another day had crawled past, and Ada was still trapped. She paced in front of the window, watching the outside world like a starving man staring through a bakery window. Ever since she’d found out about Al, she’d been unable to rest. This was her fault. She should have told Camille what was going on. She should have made Al take more care not to get caught.
She’d dressed carefully that morning, looking through her old chest of drawers and wardrobe at the heaps of clothes she had taken for granted. She needed something practical, something that would let her grab the first chance to escape, but also something that would tell her father not to worry. To make him think he’d tamed her. In the end she settled for an old skirt and caraco jacket combination in a sunny yellow printed muslin. The skirt was full enough to let her run, but she skipped the layers of petticoats that would give it its proper shape. The caraco jacket fitted tightly, with lace around the cuffs and ribbon decoration – but a caraco was a Provençal peasant’s garment originally, much in fashion during the Revolution. She pinned her curls from her face, then applied a touch of colour to her lips to finish the look.
The bars on the windows didn’t budge. Her door remained bolted from the outside. The fireplace was blocked – too narrow anyway – and she couldn’t lever up any of the floorboards.
There had to be something.
She refused to be locked away while Al faced death. To be helpless when someone she cared about needed her.
Not again. She couldn’t do this again.
The bolt scraped back, and someone stepped in. It wasn’t her father.
She froze. Dorval! He was alive and standing in her room in his smartly cut suit and wolfish smile, hands clasped behind his back. Shiny pink skin pulled the side of his face taut: a fresh burn.
‘Excuse the intrusion, Mademoiselle Rousset,’ he said, his lips curling over his incisors. ‘I hope I haven’t surprised you.’
She shook her head.
‘I understand you wish to spend some time beyond these four walls? Your father has asked me to be your chaperone.’
Her skin prickled all over as he crossed the room to take her arm.
Dorval led Ada to the parlour where her father’s accounting books were kept. They were alone, and nervously she took her seat in front of the books. Dorval sat slightly too close, sharpening his knife. Every swipe of the whetstone brushed close enough to her thigh that her skin crawled, but never quite touched her. The ink blobbed and blotted as she tried to scratch her way through her father’s household accounts. Dorval’s fingers grazed her knee and she flinched.
‘What’s wrong?’ asked Dorval, scraping the whetstone against the blade with a sickening screech.
‘May I ask a question?’ She paused for him to nod. ‘I spent several days with this … girl you are so desperate to get hold of. She is most unusual.’
‘Ah, yes. The creature. It is a strange little monster.’
Ada frowned. ‘You say “it”, monsieur, but surely she is born from the same flesh and blood as you and I?’
He gave a derisive snort. ‘It is a scientific creation, a manipulation of muscle and bone and the natural forces of our world.’
‘But she feels pain—’
‘So does a dog. Doesn’t make it human. Doesn’t give it a soul.’
Ada felt ill. She remembered the accounts of the experiments done on a conscious, pain-feeling Olympe. Vivisection.
‘I … suppose.’
This time he pressed the tip of the knife against her thigh. It was so sharp it sliced through her skirts until she felt the cold metal on her skin. She was pressing the nib so hard it snapped.
‘So ill at ease, mademoiselle. Is there something on your mind?’
‘Camille won’t pick me, you know. That’s not how we work.’ She scratched a few more numbers, totting up goods in and money out for laundry, coal and soap. ‘My father said me you’re using me to coerce her into doing what you say. It won’t work.’
The knife traced a line up her thigh, sneaking through layers of fabric. ‘Oh, I’ve been watching the two of you. She won’t give you up easily, or she wouldn’t be living in squalour, playing at being a criminal. She chose a life with you in it.’
For a moment, Ada felt herself being drawn into the story he was telling. She and Camille had already picked each other once. Maybe he wasn’t so far off.
‘Your Camille is in over her head. The duc is a man of his word. If Camille hands over the creature, he’ll let you go. And if she doesn’t, I’ll have to do my best to persuade her.’
‘No,’ she protested, but her voice was barely above a whisper.
The fabric of her skirt gaped along the knife slash, letting the frigid air raise goosebumps on her skin. Dorval pressed the tip of the blade, drawing a bead of blood. Ada gasped at the pain. He shifted closer.
Then she felt the heat of his breath against her thigh. The moist rasp of his tongue licking up the drop of blood.
‘You taste sweet.’
The door to the salon opened, and, as fast, Dorval was sitting in his chair, idly running the whetstone over the knife.
‘Ah! Dorval.’ Her father strode into the room. ‘Your duc has sent word for you. Says it’s “time”, whatever that means – no, don’t tell me. I want as little to do with all this as possible.’
Dorval set down the knife so the blade crossed the ledger. Ada pulled her hand back just in time to avoid getting cut.
‘Until next time, mademoiselle.’
Ada forced herself to politely incline her head.
He exchanged a word with her father, and with their backs turned, she slipped a freshly cut quill into the folds of her skirt. In a pinch, she could pick a lock with it.
Then he left, slamming the front door after him.
‘I’m afraid I have some business to attend to as well. You’ll understand that I can’t leave you to roam freely…’
Ada’s heart sank. Her opportunity to escape was rapidly vanishing.
He took the key from the door. ‘But I think we can allow you at least this change of scenery. You may remain downstairs to complete the accounts.’
She sagged in relief. ‘Thank you.’
‘It is so nice to have you back around the house, my dear Adalaide.’
He left, and she heard the key turn in the lock.
Heart hammering, she sat at the writing desk, fingers twitching in her torn skirt as she allowed enough time to pass to hear the front
door slam again and for both her father and Dorval to be a good distance away. Then she pulled the quill from her skirts and hurried to the door.
Ada smiled as she set to work.
Her father was a fool, and she was desperately glad of it.
8
Place de la Révolution
The smell of blood was far too familiar for Camille. It ran glistening through the sawdust and cobbles, staining shoes and mixing with horse dung and ale and piss. There was a good turnout to see the day’s executions, the crowd at least five-deep around the guillotine. It was in part down to the weather, warm and bright and clear. No one wanted to stand around in the mizzle to watch a few dirty prisoners meet their end. But a bright morning, and a fresh crop of heartless aristos – well, that was something Paris would turn out to see.
Camille skirted the crowd, making for the far side of the Jardin des Tuileries and the Salle du Manège where the National Convention met. She’d dispatched James to watch for the tumbrils leaving the prison and follow Al, ready to create their distraction. Camille had her own target. Soon Comtois would leave the National Convention meeting to watch the day’s executions.
She’d given her father’s pistol to James, opting for one of Guil’s knives instead. For defence, she’d said. Easier to use in close quarters. But the truth was she didn’t know how she felt about the pistol any more. For months it had been her touchstone, the smooth pearl and wood under her hand as calming as any amount of Al’s laudanum. Now, it only filled her with a sense of wrongness, and the dread that the way she’d viewed the world was completely askew. She had chosen not to mention Molyneux’s accusations to James – god, that their parents had been having an affair – and when he knew, perhaps he wouldn’t thank her for putting the pistol in his hands.