by Blake Ferre
Henri cleared his throat, legs wavering beneath him. “A word?”
“Time is money. What do you need?” The woman frowned, clearly unimpressed by him. “Well? Out with it.”
Henri could see nothing past the morbid reminder on her fingers. “Could you perhaps…wash your hands?” He pressed his knuckles to his mouth, struggling to hold back the memories of his sister that fateful morning. The crimson staining her gown. “I beg of you.”
The woman glanced at her knife and grunted. “No sense in that, is there? You get used to it.”
Henri feigned agreement with a simple nod, but he’d not likely grow accustomed to death. He shuddered at the mere thought of constant exposure to this horrid place.
Her eyes grew wide when she lowered her gaze to Henri’s uniform. “Citizen, forgive me. How may I help you? Please, follow me so we can speak in private.” She thankfully set the knife on the counter and guided him toward a vacant storage room.
“Is Giraud here?” Henri dug his finger under his cravat, desperate for the cool, early-winter breeze from outside to ease his onslaught of nausea.
“No. I do most of the work around here, anyway.”
Henri glanced over his shoulder before posing the next question. “Have you ever heard of an organization called the Scarlet Crest?”
The sudden halt of her heavy breathing was answer enough. She closed her eyes and shook her head, backing deeper into the maze of wood beams that jutted in every direction. Henri tried not to look at the uncut carcasses hanging from the rafters. Holding his hand over his nose, he felt tears stream from his eyes at the foul stench.
“Can’t handle the stink?” The woman laughed. “My brother says that’s the smell of money.” She took a deep breath and patted her belly. “Keeps us fed.”
Henri nodded, making every attempt not to lose his morning meal. “I won’t take much of your time.” He sucked in shallow breaths, hoping to avoid the odor.
Mon Dieu, she wiped her stained hands on her apron, splotching large streaks on the cloth without concern. He had half a mind to believe the Scarlet Crest knew of his ailment, almost as though their leader had planted that message and sent Henri here on purpose.
He slapped his palm on the nearest wooden beam and held back the bile that climbed his throat. Of course. De Vesey knew about Henri’s squeamishness. After their dalliance at Crimson Rose, he’d left the room, knowing Henri would be free to sneak and find the note.
Henri’s heart twisted and stretched, eliciting a pain far worse than the foul display around him. He’d thought de Vesey was better than this. That beyond the minor acts of treason, he was a man of honor.
Minor acts of treason?
“Citizen? You look unwell.”
“Are you working for de Vesey?” Henri snapped, still clinging to the wood beam like his life depended on it.
“De Vesey? Could possibly supply his household. I’d have to check the books.”
“Not for meat. Are you a part of it?”
“Part of what? I’m sorry, citizen. Whatever you’re looking for, you won’t find it here.”
Henri took a deep breath, instantly regretting it. The coppery stench nearly made him retch. A fog settled over his vision. The room stretched and contracted. The amusement in the woman’s eyes didn’t escape him.
“If you’re helping him, it won’t end well for you.” Henri cleared his throat. If the scent of death and blood hadn’t been so stifling, he would have cornered her. “If a person betrays their country, can you truly consider them to be good?” The words sliced his soul as the question challenged his own feelings about de Vesey. About Henri’s own actions.
“I’ve no idea what you’re going on about.”
He mustered a step forward, backing her closer to the carcasses that lined the wall. In spite of her trade, he was surprised by the butcher’s eased composure, given the gruesome display around her. It appeared the dead bodies were little more than window dressings in her eyes.
Another step, and his boot met something slick. He winced, not wanting to see what it was. Henri willed himself not to faint. It wasn’t human blood. He could do this.
“Imagine that. An officer afraid of the sight of a little blood.” She clicked her tongue. “Given the nature of your duties, I’m surprised animal carcasses bother you. I’m sure you’ve seen your fair share of butchery at the Place de la Révolution. Why, it’s only a few blocks away, and the crowd’s gathering.”
Henri held back a slew of curses. It wouldn’t do to confess his weakness. Normal citizens celebrated the executions. Henri could hardly believe his own thoughts. How and why was it considered normal?
The woman fidgeted with her apron, rubbing more grime on the already-stained fabric. “I don’t want no harm to come to no one.” She glanced toward the doorway, and Henri followed her gaze. The young worker he’d seen outside gave the woman a nod. When the apprentice’s eyes caught Henri’s, he quickly turned on his heel and ran off.
“Eager boy. So excited to see the next…er…executions.” She pressed her lips together, looking down.
Something about this whole situation seemed wrong. Though she’d encouraged Henri to head to the scaffold, she didn’t appear wholly comfortable with the idea herself.
Sensing her weakness, Henri pressed for more information. “Do you have any letters? Is the Scarlet Crest communicating through this shop? Through your brother? The apprentices?”
“N-no.” Her voice wavered. “Of c-course not. I already told you—I’ve no knowledge of such things.”
Henri sensed the woman was hiding something. “Is Giraud expected soon?”
“Just myself and our apprentices. They’re new.” She cleared her throat. “I assure you, we’ve nothing to do with a Scarlet Crest.”
Henri dipped his chin, stepping away from her. He knew she was lying, but he also noticed the way she kept looking at the corner of the room. He tilted his head toward the door. “Leave me. I’ll return to speak with Giraud at another time. If you notice anything suspicious, come find me at the Committee offices. Ask for Citoyen Chevalier.”
The woman bobbed her head, the skin below her chin wiggling from the hasty motion as she hobbled out of the room. Once she was out of sight, he crept to the corner of the closet, holding his sleeve over his mouth and nose. There, sitting in a pool of dark crimson, was a little metal box with double roses engraved on the top. Just as the message had assured. He knelt, careful not to tarnish his clothing with the filth, and shook the box. Finding it empty, he pulled the missive from his pocket and slipped it inside a slender opening.
His chest warmed at his small victory, though nothing happened. What had he expected—some sort of light to beam from it, igniting the magic of the mysterious traitor?
Unable to stomach the stench of fresh slaughter any longer, he hurried out of the room and slipped past the back door. Once outside, he sucked in a deep breath. His hands still shook, but he’d finally escaped.
The moment he encountered de Vesey again, Henri would confront the rogue for his pesky games. Clearly, the missive had been planted, playing on his weakness, sending him to this horrid trap. Henri never should have succumbed to his desires. Aristos were cruel and inevitably aimed to ruin men like Henri.
The roar of the growing crowd two streets down pulsed in Henri’s head. He ought to leave. He’d never journeyed this close to the Place de la Révolution during an execution.
As he commenced his trek to the Committee offices, a crash drew his attention in the opposite direction. A person in a deep crimson cloak fled down the alley, heading toward the mayhem.
The cloak flapped in the wind, luring Henri’s curiosity. Could it be that a member of the Scarlet Crest had followed him here? Pushing forward, Henri willed his gaze on the flashes of red as the figure retreated.
A thump and a crash were followed by th
e cheers of the crowd. The blur of forms in the guise of colors, shadows, and light wavered around him. Bodies, so many chanting, haggard figures surrounded him. Red, blue, and white spotted his vision. Colors he’d once found patriotic were now taunting reminders of the gore at the scaffold. Of the lives lost on the battlefield.
Another thump and crash. The eruption of joy. Celebration. Henri wrapped his hands around his stomach, casting aside nightmarish memories of the battlefield. He bumped into the frenzied citizens nearest to him. Ignoring their cheers, he forced his way toward his mark. This was Henri’s chance to catch a member of the Scarlet Crest. Perhaps even their leader.
The next crash of the blade resonated through Henri’s arms, a warning for him to retreat. He closed his eyes and ignored the whirring noise, the stench of blood, and the fury that surrounded him.
“Death to the aristos!” The haggard cry rattled his insides.
The air was heavy in his lungs, each inhale excruciating. When he opened his eyes, the cloaked phantom was nowhere in sight. Henri exhaled and faced the Place de la Révolution in all its madness. The guillotine’s blade darkened into a menacing silhouette under the cruel sunlight’s glare as the executioner lifted it back into position.
Shivers raced down Henri’s spine. The trap had been worse than he’d feared. The Scarlet Crest had brought him directly to the place of his living nightmares.
He recalled what their leaders had assured. The guillotine offered all citizens, rich or poor, a quick death with a single slice. It was said the victims felt no pain, though he hardly saw how anyone might possibly survive to confirm or deny the fact. But watching the mayhem around him, Henri wondered if perhaps the guillotine had made death too easy.
His steps quickened as he neared the edge of the crowd. A few officers on horseback passed by, and he thought, for a moment, that one looked like Luc. His heart warred between wanting to strangle de Vesey for his involvement in this and wanting to beg for his comforting embrace.
Another wave of echoing cries barraged his ears.
Henri spotted a man at the scaffold, hair glistening with copper waves. De Vesey’s face came to mind. The executioner guided the man to lie down on a flat board, placing his head in the stocks. Henri quickly glanced away before he saw too much. His heart trampled his soul. Unfathomable as it was, the thought of losing de Vesey crushed him. He had no doubt if the aristo continued down this path, he’d land himself on that very stage.
Staggering backward, he retreated, no longer caring about the man in scarlet or any other traitors. Not even the scent of blood haunted Henri as much as the vision of de Vesey’s last stand.
When he reached the Committee offices, Henri’s head spun. Somehow, he managed to reach his desk, but he feared his cohort might return to find Henri out of sorts. The last thing he needed was to encourage Luc’s suspicions.
Henri’s fingers trembled as he sorted the stack of denouncements on his desk. No matter the nature of the treasonous accusations, he envisioned his own name scrawled on every page. He rubbed his eyes, desperate to clear his wandering mind. He’d done nothing wrong—had committed no crime. His nerves were simply rattled by the slaughter he’d witnessed at the guillotine.
Traitor. Scoundrel. Rogue. A sheen of sweat dampened his skin, seeping through his shirt. He needed to concentrate on his work. Dabbing his brow with his sleeve, Henri feared if he continued to follow de Vesey, it would only be a matter of time before he found himself at the guillotine.
A bead of sweat trickled down his brow, plopping onto the next accusation. The name bent and blurred before his eyes until it was nearly unrecognizable. The letters shifted until another name appeared. De Vesey.
A frozen wall formed inside his chest, and his earlier vision of de Vesey standing upon the bloodstained scaffold haunted him once more.
A door slammed in the hall, and Henri nearly jumped out of his seat. He clutched his chest and inhaled several shaky breaths. He never should have burned the forged citizenship certificates in front of the aristo. And he most certainly shouldn’t have kissed or fondled the man. What had he been thinking? Thinking? Ha! He hadn’t been thinking at all, which made things even worse.
De Vesey had a way about him that purged every rational thought from Henri’s mind until nothing but that pesky longing remained. He needed to forget those kisses and those soiled breeches.
A loud crash came from the room next door, resonating through the walls. Porcelain knickknacks clinked on the shelf overhead. Startled, Henri braced himself on his chair, knocking the papers off his desk. Incroyable.
He inhaled a deep breath and dabbed his brow with his sleeve. A stray page from the cluttered pile floated in front of him. As he read it, he allowed the words to blur. The accused had spoken concerns about the number of executions—hardly treasonous. How many of these people were like Henri? De Vesey had warned that his friends weren’t the enemy. Henri didn’t think he was a bad person. He didn’t feel like a traitor. And yet, by current law, he likely was.
The door swung open with a thud, and Luc stomped inside. “Oh good. No paramours stowed in the office.”
Henri’s lungs burned, and his heart thudded so loud he hardly heard the rest of Luc’s taunt, fearing his cohort might find the true betrayal. He’d bedded the enemy and lied on de Vesey’s behalf.
Luc tilted his chin to the side and smirked. “What were you up to, Chevalier? You look guilty of something.”
Henri brushed his coat sleeves and shrugged. “I was going through these accusations.” He motioned toward the sprawled mess on his desk.
Luc swept a page from the nearest pile. “It’s best you accept that I’ll be promoted soon, and you’ll be stuck here. If you’re lucky. You’re not like the other officers, Chevalier.”
Henri gripped the bottom of his chair to cease the rattling caused by his twitching legs.
Luc flung his hand in the air. “Once I’m in charge, you won’t be granted special privileges for your silly little squeamish condition. I intend to build your strength. The capitaine did you a disservice by coddling you.”
“Citizen!” A young, ratty-clothed boy bustled into the room, gasping for breath. “You told me to tell you if anyone dropped by the theater. Two men are there now!”
“You don’t say.” Luc rubbed his hands together.
“They just arrived. You’d better hurry.” The child held a dirty palm toward Luc. “I’m hungry, citizen.”
Luc scowled, handing over a coin. “Come, Chevalier. We’re heading back to the theater.” He puckered his lips, twisting them toward his nose. “Could be Ashford’s actor friends. Maybe a part of this Scarlet Crest nonsense.”
De Vesey. Henri’s heart pounded so hard he could barely think.
Chapter Twelve
Huddled beside Quill while they hid behind an unoccupied carriage just outside the boarded-up theater, Perrin pondered the letter that had awaited them at his home that morning.
Dearest friends,
Our friend’s new residence is a difficult loss for us, but having an ally on the inside will be of great value when the time comes for a visit. We continue tomorrow night, as planned.
With the theater’s new ownership, I’ve a most urgent request. There is a script holding names of those who are “marked” hidden beneath the stage. I need you to retrieve it and destroy it before the “new owners” find it.
Stay three steps ahead of any traps.
The Scarlet Crest
That last bit about staying ahead of traps had Perrin worried. He assumed it was meant as some form of clue. A direction to help them find the script. The note had referred to Ashford’s prison cell as a new residence, after all. And the theater’s “new owners” likely referred to the Committee. But it was also plausible the Scarlet Crest’s leader anticipated another ambush.
And then there was that strange missive he’d asked Perr
in to leave for Chevalier. Lord only knew what scheming their leader had in mind for the officer. Not that Perrin ought to care.
“There must be an easier way inside.” Quill rubbed the sides of his forehead with his gloved fingers.
The carriage jostled as the coachman above snored in his seat. The bottle tucked in the crook of his arm and the scent of whiskey assured he’d not awaken anytime soon.
Perrin peered around the back wheel. Across the street, a guard was posted in front of the theater, his back slouched against the brick wall. From time to time he scratched his nose. Lines of exhaustion emphasized the boredom glazed over his eyes.
“I wish he’d simply take a piss.” Quill kicked a stone into the street.
“You didn’t have to come.” Perrin had protested his involvement. “I think I can manage finding the script.”
“You’ll need someone to keep watch for an ambush. We still don’t know who our elusive leader is or what he meant by staying ahead of traps.”
“Your point is made.”
Quill scratched his thighs like a cat with fleas. “La, these trousers are itchy. I hope our friends were able to procure a gown for tomorrow night’s mission. I’m beginning to miss my petticoats. People should simply wear skirts all the time. It’s terribly irritating to walk around with fabric squeezing your legs and…other places.” He crossed his arms over his chest and pouted.
“I’ve come to think you’d prefer prancing about naked.”
“Now there’s a fine idea. Though I’d be devastated by the loss of accessorizing. I’ve a need for color in my life.”
Perrin rolled his eyes, though his inner laughter lessened his nerves about breaking into the theater. “If you intend on seeing this through, why don’t you set that colorful mind of yours into devising a plan?”
“Bribe him.” Quill shrugged. “Look at him. He’s scrawny as a tadpole, probably hasn’t had a decent meal in months. It’s not like you can’t afford to buy his silence.”