by Emma Carroll
I shake my head. ‘I won’t do it.’
‘You know how some things are important to us, Magpie?’ She says it gently. Yet the squeeze she gives Coco’s feet makes him flinch in pain.
‘Stop it!’ I cry.
‘I need that box,’ she says.
I can’t bear to see Coco upside down any longer. But I won’t go against the Montgolfiers, either. I can’t thieve from the very people who’ve given me this chance of a life where, for once, I’m not a criminal.
‘I can’t work for you,’ I say again. My voice is shaking. ‘I’m working here now. Anyway, you never did pay me.’
She tightens her grip on Coco once more. Though I beg her to stop, she keeps squeezing. I can’t stand it. Just when I’m about to punch her, she says, ‘How about I go inside and tell your new master what you really are, eh? What you took from here that night?’
My clenched fist falls to my side. She knows she’s hit home.
‘You don’t want that, do you? But because I’m feeling generous, Magpie, I’ll give you a few more days.’
The back door slams. Someone’s coming: I glance behind to see who. Madame Delacroix lets go of Coco, who falls fluttering at my feet. By the time I’ve scooped him up, kissed and soothed him, she’s gone.
Madame Verte is at the orchard gate, holding a couple of empty pails. ‘Vite, Magpie! I need you! More water please!’
‘Coming, Madame Verte.’ I’m glad to be summoned.
The rest of the morning I’m flat-out busy collecting fruit, water, firewood, but I can’t stop thinking about Madame Delacroix’s demand. The thief in me knows I could get the box for her. It wouldn’t be as hard as last time now I’m actually living in the house. I could pretend to be on an errand or wait till night-time again. I’m not even bothered about the payment. I just want her to leave Coco and me alone.
But.
I can’t repay the Montgolfiers like this. Just thinking about it gives me the guilts so bad I feel sick. It’s awful enough knowing I’ve stolen from them before. I couldn’t live with myself if I did it again.
Why does she want the blasted box, anyway? What wrong have the Montgolfiers done her that’s so set her on revenge?
The thing I do know is this: she only mentioned going back for the box once she’d seen the drawings. Which makes me think this is all about the invention. It’s too much of a coincidence to be anything else, though the papers I’d snatched in panic weren’t the right ones.
No, the drawings she wants are still in the box. Perhaps she’s a spy like Pierre was talking about: if so, then this decides it for me, fair and square. There’s no way I’ll steal information so she can sell it to the English. I might be a thief but I’m not about to become a traitor to France.
By the time the town clocks strike two, the sky is a hard, hot blue. I’m exhausted.
‘Rest time, Magpie!’ Madame Verte calls from the back step.
Inside, the other servants are sat around the kitchen table eating, but it’s too clattery and noisy, like the inside of my head. What I need is quiet.
Taking my bread and cheese back out to the orchard, I sit cross-legged under the fruit trees. Coco and Lancelot keep me company as I dream up ways of avoiding Madame Delacroix.
‘What would you do, eh?’ I ask the sheep as I feed her my bread crusts. She looks like she’s chewing it over, before nuzzling my foot, so gentle and kind, my eyes fill up. If only people were as thoughtful as sheep.
We’ve just finished eating when Pierre appears. He flops down dramatically like he’s got something important to say. Voltaire does the same, which makes Coco dart underneath Lancelot’s fleece to hide.
From his jacket pocket, Pierre pulls out a news-sheet and spreads it over the grass. ‘Today’s news, Magpie,’ he sounds stressed, ‘is of a most awful kind.’
I don’t like his tone.
‘We’ve got serious competition,’ he says grimly. ‘The English have already built a true-to-scale model of their flying machine. Reports from across the Channel say they’re now within days of a practice flight. Days!’
Horrified, I glance down at the news-sheet. He’s right, this is awful news, though to my eyes it’s all just a jumble of ink on the page, until Pierre gestures to the big words in bold. ‘Our only hope is this bit.’
‘What bit?’
‘It says the current model keeps losing air. They can’t get it to stay aloft for longer than a few minutes – yet. But that’s the point – they’re working on it. And we’re not.’
My heart sinks, then bobs right up again when I remember Monsieur Etienne’s face on the stairs. ‘Has your uncle told you about the laundry?’
Pierre looks puzzled. ‘Laundry?’
All right, so he hasn’t. I’m irked. Shouldn’t Monsieur Etienne be exploring last week’s discovery? Seeing where it leads?
So, I tell Pierre the whole story. Even when I’ve finished, he still looks confused. ‘You’ve been studying my mother’s undergarments?’
‘She has a lot of them,’ I remark.
‘That’s because she rarely gets out of bed to wear anything else.’
I’d guessed as much, having seen the trays go up and down stairs at meal times. No one has ever said what’s wrong with her, though.
‘Is she dying?’ I ask.
‘Zut alors, Magpie!’ Pierre yelps. ‘Must you be so direct?’
‘Sorry.’ I flush, embarassed.
He’s quiet for a moment, fidgeting with a stalk of grass. ‘Her babies come too soon, that’s the problem. It’s why I’ve got no brothers or sisters.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say again because it’s awful sad. No wonder Monsieur Joseph was so shaken by Pierre falling from the rope that day. It must’ve given him the shock of his life.
‘Anyway,’ Pierre says more brightly. ‘Tell me about the laundry again – and do it slowly this time.’
I’m about to start when the sound of hoof beats distracts us both. Coming down the driveway is a cloud of dust with legs – four of them, to be exact. It’s a person on horseback. Both eager to see who it is, we go to the orchard gate.
The horse clatters into the yard, sending chickens flapping in all directions. Jumping down, the rider leads his horse to the water trough. They look like they’ve come a long way – the horse is sweaty and drinks deeply. The man is brown with dust.
‘Take this letter to your master, will you?’ he says, holding out a surprisingly clean, white letter. ‘It’s from Versailles. News has reached the King of the Montgolfiers’ flying creation. He is intrigued to know more by reply of post.’
I eye him suspiciously. The man’s far too grubby to have come from the King. As if we’d hand over information just like that! How do we know he’s not thick with the English?
‘The King?’ I fold my arms. I’m getting wise to this business now. ‘What, as in King Louis of France?’
The messenger gives me a long, snooty look. ‘Is there someone here with a brain I can speak to?’
‘I’ll take the message,’ Pierre pipes up.
‘No you won’t!’ I hiss under my breath. ‘We don’t know who he is yet.’
‘For the love of all that’s sacred!’ the man cries, waving the letter at us. ‘I’m Viscount Herges, assistant to the King!’
‘You expect us to believe—’
Pierre cuts in. ‘What an honour to receive news from Versailles, merci.’ And he takes the offered letter, which I see now is sealed with the royal symbol – the one that’s on real coins and badly faked ones.
I feel the blood drain from my face. This man really is the King’s messenger. I’m totally agog. I would’ve stayed staring in amazement, too, but luckily Pierre seizes my arm.
‘We’ll take the message to my father at once,’ Pierre says. ‘He’s working very hard. We can hardly tear him away from his study to eat!’
This isn’t true, and we both know it. Monsieur Joseph shuffles about the house each day looking more worried than ever. And Mo
nsieur Etienne, enthusiastic though he is, doesn’t seem to have actually done anything. Everything’s just as it was: stuck.
Leaving Viscount Herges with his horse, we hurry inside. Safe in the kitchen, Pierre stops to turn the letter anxiously in his hand. ‘I can’t give this to Papa, Magpie.’
Now I’m the one who’s puzzled. Surely a personal letter from the King is a good thing? One look at Pierre and I see it’s not.
‘You heard what was in today’s news-sheet,’ he wails. ‘The English are just days away from beating us. They’ll be the ones with their names in the history books. Can you imagine how terrible that will be for France?’
I admit it does sound bad.
‘It’s obviously why the King’s got involved,’ Pierre says, sounding more gloomy by the second. ‘He’s putting the pressure on us.’
‘That might be a good thing, though?’ I dare to suggest.
Pierre shakes his head. ‘It’ll panic Papa, that’s all it’ll do. He’ll shrink into himself and then we’ll make even less progress.’
I’m not sure that’s possible.
‘What about Monsieur Etienne?’ I ask. ‘Can’t he do some work on the hot air idea? He’s got my sketches to follow.’
Pierre rolls his eyes. ‘Uncle Etienne’s a businessman, Magpie. He knows the price of everything, who to speak to, how to sell an idea. But he knows next to nothing about science. That’s probably why he didn’t tell me about the undergarments. He won’t have understood it well enough to explain it.’
‘Oh!’ I’m completely taken aback and, I don’t mind admitting, almost a bit pleased. So much for girls like me knowing nothing. But it doesn’t help us. Poor Pierre looks frustrated enough to cry.
‘If we let King Louis down. If we don’t make France proud, well . . .’ he trails off.
‘Well, what?’
‘The King has prisons for people who displease him. There’s talk too of a new execution device that cuts off heads in one swoop.’
It sounds a bit far-fetched to me, but I can see how upset Pierre is.
‘Tell you what. You do the writing, I’ll think up the words,’ I say, rolling up my sleeves.
He looks horrified. ‘We answer the letter, d’you mean? Surely that’s forgery.’
I give him my best hard stare.
‘But Magpie, we can’t—’
I interrupt. ‘That Viscount person’s outside waiting for a reply.’
So, taking a deep breath, Pierre cracks open the wax seal. Unfolded, the paper smells of leather and horse sweat. Just seeing the King’s writing looping across the page is enough to amaze me. The message is short. I insist Pierre read it out loud.
Monsieurs Montgolfier,
My sources tell me our English neighbours across the Channel are on the cusp of a great aeronautical discovery. I am certain you share my concern that this is not good news for France. All we can hope is that they do not solve the issue of maintaining air inside the bag. I trust you will join me in praying for such an outcome.
Meanwhile, I have it on good authority that you are advancing with your own invention. It is in the very best interests of our nation that your work should be soon completed in preparation for a test flight here at Versailles.
The first bit we as good as know from the news-sheet. The last part though sends us both into a spin.
‘Versailles?’ I gasp. ‘Alors!’
Pierre’s gone such a pasty colour I’m worried he’s about to faint.
‘Right,’ I say, because sounding purposeful helps. ‘Let’s get started.’
Searching the kitchen table drawers, Pierre can’t find a pen or ink.
‘Use pencil.’ I give him one from Madame Verte’s pot. ‘And keep it brief – your papa’s too busy to write at length, remember.’
‘All right, Mademoiselle Bright Ideas, what shall we say?’
I think for a moment. ‘Dear King . . . no . . . Your Majesty is better . . . Air issue almost remedied. You shall be the very first to know of our . . .’ I pause. ‘What’s a fancy word for very soon?’
‘Imminent.’
‘. . . of our imminent success. Expect to hear from us within days.’
The letter done, Pierre folds it neatly and takes it back outside.
‘What do we do now?’ Pierre asks as we watch Viscount Herges disappear off down the driveway.
‘That stonking great lie we just told?’ I reply confidently, ‘We make sure it comes true.’
8
Yet before we get chance to start work, Monsieur Joseph makes a surprise announcement: he is building a brand-new prototype, after all.
‘He’s determined to find a way to fill the structure with warm air.’ Pierre brings me the news in the kitchen garden where I’m cutting salad for lunch. ‘It’s the heat part of things he’s interested in.’
‘I wonder where he got that idea from,’ I remark, though I’m thrilled something’s happening at last.
A couple of afternoons later, Monsieur Joseph holds a test flight outside. All of us household staff gather in the yard because we’re not going to miss this for the world. The prototype is a rectangle shape, made of paper moulded onto a wooden frame. The plan, so Monsieur Joseph announces, is to create smoke from a fire. The smoke, being warm air, should cause the prototype to lift.
Should.
I’m expecting a bonfire, but what Monsieur Joseph attaches with ropes to the base of the paper shape is a shallow metal tray about the size of a cartwheel. On it, Monsieur Etienne places red-hot coals from the kitchen range. The whole thing looks wobbly, clumsy. Yet amazingly, on the count of three when the Montgolfiers release it, the prototype rises.
At least it does until Madame Verte says, ‘What’s that burning smell?
‘Sacré bleu!’ Monsieur Joseph cries. ‘It’s catching fire!’
All that paper. All that wood. It burns quicker than a pork chop in a pan.
Once all the fuss and bad tempers die down, we’re back to where we started: the Montgolfiers have no more new ideas, so it’s up to Pierre and me to think of one: the King is waiting for news.
‘We need wood and string,’ I tell Pierre, as we start planning that same afternoon, ‘and as much paper as you can manage.’
For this he sets off to the Montgolfier’s mill, where apparently there’s paper in piles as high as the ceiling. We’re going to remake the original flying object, the one that caused the accident that day. Only ours will be much smaller so it’ll be quick to put together and easy to hide. We’ll also try to solve the hot air problem. Since Pierre’s refused to let his feet leave the ground ever again, it’s my job to size up trees in the orchard. I’m looking for one that’s an easy climb with a decent height on it.
‘What d’you think, Coco?’ I ask, stopping by an olive tree. ‘Will this do us?’
Coco’s answer is to stroll over to Lancelot, who’s keeping cool in the shade of a cherry tree. It’s a reasonable sized one with low branches at the base. It’s the perfect tree for our experiment; I like to think the animals helped us choose it.
It’s not long before Pierre returns with what we need. With the rest of the household now having their overdue afternoon kip, the house is still, the blinds down at the windows. We’ve probably got a clear hour to ourselves.
Joining Lancelot and Coco under the cherry tree, we get to work. The first attempts don’t go well. The paper keeps tearing. The wood won’t flex. What we end up with is a shape that looks like a hat box that someone’s stamped on.
Pierre sits back on his heels, frowning. ‘There’s no way on earth that’s going to fly.’
‘It doesn’t matter if it’s not perfect,’ I say, trying to keep his spirits up.
‘But we promised the King,’ Pierre groans. ‘We said we’d have—’
‘Imminent news,’ I interrupt. ‘Yes – and so we will if we keep trying.’
At moments like these he’s just like Monsieur Joseph. He can’t see past the worry. Voltaire, I notice, has given
up watching us and waddled off. The other two animals are sound asleep.
‘Right,’ I get to my feet, brushing dust from my skirts. ‘Pass me that paper – the big sheet of the thick stuff. Come on, look lively!’
And so, together, we try again.
This time we make an egg-shaped structure. I’ve seen shapes like it in the front few pages of Monsieur Joseph’s notebook so it’s got to be worth a try. Certainly, it’s a lot easier to make. It doesn’t look like it’ll fall to pieces, either.
‘Let’s try it with the hot water,’ I say.
‘Is the structure strong enough?’ Pierre asks.
‘Won’t know until we try.’ This I call back over my shoulder. I’m already on my way to the kitchen for what we need next. I’m after a dish with handles; the one for serving meat in is perfect. The kettle on the stove is hot, so I take that too.
Back in the orchard, we tie rope to the wooden frame of the structure, then I climb the cherry tree. It’s not easy with the bulky egg-shape under arm, and I scratch my shins to shreds on the branches. But I’m too excited to care. While I’m still just within reach, Pierre hands me up the dish full of hot water. Securing the ends of rope round the handles, the bowl now hangs beneath the structure. Voltaire seems to have reappeared in time to watch disapprovingly.
Yet we know paper floats. It’s light and strong, but doesn’t stay airborne for long. Warm air seems to make things rise – Madame M’s undergarments were proof of it. Using the two things together just might do the trick.
‘Get ready to start counting, Pierre.’ I take a deep breath. ‘Five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . .’
I swing the prototype skywards. The dish tips madly. Water spills on the branches, on me. The whole thing, somehow, drags itself free of the tree, out into the open sky. Then it drops. I groan out loud. It’s not working.
‘Watch out!’ I call to Pierre as it heads right for him.
He’s grinning. ‘No, you watch out, Magpie! It’s coming your way!’
Before my eyes, the shape’s beginning to lift again. It not the wind deciding where it goes: this time, it moves with purpose. It sails past me, past the tree itself. Soon it’s twenty feet or so above us in the air.