Sky Chasers

by Emma Carroll

  ‘Put the brooch on, Magpie,’ Pierre says suddenly. ‘Go on. I can tell you like it.’

  I grin, head on one side. ‘Really? Should I?’ and I’m thinking, why not? It can’t hurt.

  But first I’d better find something half reasonable to pin it to.

  Taking the guard’s advice, I search the trunk. It’s full of old stiff fabrics and yet more dust. The frock that fits me best is made of blue calico. It’s been inside the trunk quite some time because we find mice nesting in the skirts. Once I’ve tucked them safely back inside an old jacket, and shaken out the frock, it looks passable. More than passable when I’ve yanked it on and pinned the gold feather to the front of it, at the place just above my heart.

  ‘Voila!’ I say to Pierre. ‘How does it look?’

  ‘Like it was made for you.’ He smiles, lies back on the bed, eyes already closing sleepily.

  The brooch cheers up the plain calico no end. It cheers me up, too, to wear something so lovely and pretty and not, for once, be thinking how much it’s worth or who to sell it on to. I almost feel a bit lightheaded, suddenly. It’s a nice sensation, like I’m about to be lifted off my feet.

  Best enjoy it, I tell myself, because it’s the closest I’m going to get to flying.

  24

  Just before dawn, I wake up feeling stiff and cold. This floor’s not the comfiest I’ve ever slept on. Nor am I used to sleeping without Coco in the crook of my arm. I miss him. And I bet Pierre misses Voltaire too, though right now he’s still asleep. When I remember what’s happening today, the thrill of it hits me hard.

  I’m fully awake and on my feet in an instant. The window, still open from the night before, lets in a draught that smells smoky. On eager tiptoes, I look outside. It’s a beautiful morning. The weather is fine – clear blue sky, and sunshine so perfect it makes my blood sing.

  After yesterday’s round-up, I can’t imagine any English spies left in the world to ruin things. So in a couple of hours’ time when the balloon takes off, I’m going to enjoy it. After all, we’re in a room with a great view of the sky.

  Our animals will be fine, I tell myself. Better this than the butcher’s block.

  With a bit of heaving, I manage to climb out onto the roof. It’s a good thing I’m not scared of heights. The rooftop’s at least sixty feet off the ground and isn’t flat at all. It’s full of gutters and gulleys and more attic windows that pop out of the roofline like eyes in a toad’s head. It’s magic up here, our own secret world where we can see everything but no one sees us.

  I look down.

  Our window is slap-bang above the palace’s central courtyard, and if I shuffle forwards on my backside I can see right over the edge. I can’t believe our luck. From here we should even be able to see Coco and Voltaire being brought out for the flight. We couldn’t have nabbed a better spot if we’d tried.

  ‘Pierre!’ I call over my shoulder. ‘Get yourself out here! It’s amazing!’

  It’s still quite early, yet down in the courtyard the final preparations are in full swing. Servants scurry about with trays, men on ladders put up flags and hang flowers. Hundreds of chairs have been set up around the fountain.

  ‘Pierre!’ I try again. ‘Wake up or you’ll miss Voltaire!’

  Already the crowds are beginning to arrive. Carriages pull up, people come on foot. There’s a long line of traffic all the way down the drive. This isn’t Annonay marketplace: today is on a whole different, mind-boggling scale.

  The balloon has to work.

  Yet I’m suddenly struck by all the horrific things that could go wrong. The fire might spread. The balloon could crash into the crowd. Or what if it doesn’t take off at all and the Montgolfiers are the laughing stock of France? If anything does fail there’s tens of thousands of people to witness it. It’ll be all over the news-sheets in no time.

  It’s not helping, thinking like this. I take a deep breath. English spies and stolen notebooks aren’t going to ruin today. Even so, I do a quick scan of the light summer frocks and tall grey wigs in the crowd for a woman who’d stand out like a crow amongst this lot.

  Behind me, a scrabble. A grunt. Pierre, awake at last, squeezes himself through the window. I pat a place for him to sit beside me. But he stays back, clinging to the window frame for dear life.

  ‘No chance,’ he says. ‘I’m not sitting that near the edge. Not even for Voltaire.’

  ‘You won’t see anything from back there,’ I plead, holding out my hand.

  He won’t have it, though. He won’t even move. Just being up here is making him go a funny shade of green.

  ‘Oh come on—’

  He cuts across me, ‘SACRÉ BLEU!’

  It makes me jump. ‘What’s the matter?’

  He refuses to let go of the window frame even to point. But I see where he’s looking, at a spot beyond the house, beyond the courtyards. Blocking my view in that direction is of a row of chimney pots, but when I stand up, I can see right over the top to the ground below.

  At first, I think something’s happened to the grass down there. It’s not green. It’s bright blue. There are patterns on it – gold ones. And this odd-looking grass runs from the courtyard edge all the way to the first set of garden steps.

  Then I realize. ‘Oh . . . my . . .’

  ‘Exactly,’ Pierre finishes. ‘Isn’t it incredible?’

  What we’re staring at is the completed balloon laid out flat, ready to be filled with air. No wonder the King hired so many people to help make it. This version is vast. It’s not done in the Montgolfier’s colours this time, but the King’s own sky blue and gold. Every inch of fabric is patterned with leaves and cherubs and swathes of ribbons. It reminds me of the King’s rooms where we met him yesterday: the paper on the walls looks just like this. Quite honestly, it’s a work of art.

  ‘Imagine what it’ll look like in the air!’ Pierre’s starting to sound excited. I’m the one worrying now, about the fire they’ll need to get this huge thing airborne, because it’s a mistake we’ve made before. If the balloon comes down too soon, it’ll mean the flight’s a failure. If it drops too quickly, it’ll put our living passengers at risk, and I don’t dare mention that to Pierre.

  I shift forwards for a better look at the preparations. There is a fire down there, that much I can see – and smell – it’s where the smokiness I smelled earlier is coming from. So far, it’s burning well. But it needs to stay that way.

  ‘I just hope they’ve got enough fuel,’ I mutter anxiously.

  Pierre nods to the left of the fire. ‘You have seen their woodpile, haven’t you?’

  I have now.

  It’s not a woodpile, it’s a wood mountain. And still servants are coming with armfuls of logs, handcarts piled high with junk – fence posts, rotten hay, what looks like old leather saddles. There are no rules as to what to burn, we learned that from Annonay. I’m relieved it’s been taken on board.

  From the courtyard come cheers, applause, the roar of voices. Excited, I nudge Pierre; he nudges back and grins. Moments later, we see the reason for all the noise. It’s the Montgolfiers. They’re walking round from the courtyard to our side of the Palace, shoulders straight, chins up. They look different – braver, more determined, ‘Like soldiers going to battle,’ I murmur to Pierre. I can tell he’s pleased by that idea.

  The Montgolfiers stop by the fire. Shake their heads. Give orders. Pierre and I crane our necks to watch. Monsieur Joseph, in a blue and gold coat that fits too tightly, keeps checking a scrap of paper in his hand. In the end, he’s had to make do without the notebooks. But then he never did much like writing notes and, as things have turned out, maybe it’s better that way.

  Monsieur Etienne, ever the showman, wanders round the entire balloon, hands behind his back like he’s on an evening stroll. He stops every few paces to inspect some detail. Guards, servants, important-looking men all hover beside him, hanging on his every word. So do we. Not that we can hear what’s said, but we’re watching, holdi
ng our breath.

  At last it seems he’s happy.

  A nod to Monsieur Joseph and more servants rush forward to attach the ropes. You can almost taste the tension in the air. And oh how I wish I was down there in the thick of it. Far easier that, than standing here doing nothing. My feet fidget endlessly. I smooth my frock, touch the brooch still pinned to the front of it. I wish everything would just hurry up.

  Two servants then appear round the side of the Palace carrying an enormous wicker basket on their shoulders.

  ‘What’s that for?’ Pierre asks.

  ‘It’s what they’ll put the animals in, I expect,’ I reply, which brings on another wave of nerves because each time we’ve tried to tie things to the bottom of the balloon, well, let’s just say it hasn’t gone to plan. Though I don’t remind Pierre of this fact.

  The passengers come next.

  People stand back to let them through, clapping and cheering and waving flags. It’s Lancelot I see first, as Ginger Moustache leads her towards the balloon. Muzzle held high, she carries herself like she’s already famous. She’s enjoying all the attention, I can tell.

  Servants carrying crates follow behind. In one, I can just about see a dark orange shape, not moving. I feel a pang in my chest for Coco.

  ‘Bon voyage, little prince,’ I murmur.

  The crate behind carries Voltaire. Something’s not right, though. Coming from inside is an awful screechy sound. I’ve never heard him make a noise like it before. Even up on the rooftop I can hear it. Pierre does too. He goes very tense and very quiet.

  ‘He’ll be all right in a minute,’ I say quickly. ‘It’s probably just the noise of the crowd.’

  But we both know Voltaire is a brave, proud duck. It’s Coco who’ll be scared, not him.

  Pierre steps unsteadily out onto the roof.

  ‘Come and sit down,’ I say, patting the place beside me again because he’s making me nervous.

  ‘Voltaire’s terrified. Listen to him. I can’t leave him!’ Pierre cries. He’s proper upset, flinging his arms about, which only makes him wobble more.

  ‘All right,’ I say, trying to stay calm. ‘We’ll . . . we’ll . . . Just don’t do anything stupid!’

  Yet the words are barely out of my mouth before he’s swinging his legs over the edge of the roof.

  25

  One second he’s there. The next, he’s gone. I’m stuck to the spot, horrified. All I can see in my mind’s eye is the gruesome, pulpy mess Pierre’ll make when he hits the courtyard below. Yet I’m aware that no one’s screaming down there, so eventually, I tell myself to be brave and risk a look.

  Deep in the crowd I see the top of Pierre’s curly head. My legs go weak with relief. He’s upright and moving, pushing against the hordes, though he’s not making much progress. Voltaire’s crate is still a few hundred yards away: inside it, the dreadful screeching goes on.

  I need to get down there. An extra pair of elbows to dig through the crowds. Together we might reach Voltaire in time to soothe him or save him. Whatever it takes to stop that horrible noise. To my right there’s a hefty gutter pipe, perfect for shinning down, which I’m guessing was Pierre’s way off the roof. Dreaming of breeches, I tuck up my blasted skirts and follow suit.

  It’s like jumping into a fast-flowing river. The second my feet touch the ground I’m swept along by the crowd. I’m carried almost back as far as the courtyard again. Forget elbows, it takes all my strength to stay standing, and by now I’ve lost sight of Pierre.

  And still the people keep coming. Moving amongst the crowd are servants carrying platters of balloon-shaped biscuits. High above the rabble, on the Palace balconies, counts and countesses and other important types are gathering. The scene is all white wigs and fluttering fans – it’s like staring up at an enormous dovecote.

  On the central balcony is the King himself. Beside him is the Queen, wearing the most eye-popping outfit I’ve ever seen. Everything is bright blue and dazzling gold – real gold by the looks of it, just like the brooch I’m wearing. The Queen’s skirts alone are wide enough to fill the entire balcony, and as for her wig – alors, her wig! – well, it towers above her head like a thundercloud. Attached to it is what looks like a toy version of the blue and gold balloon. Gabrielle is with her, talking, laughing and wearing a smaller version of the same wig, and even that’s so tall it quivers when she turns her head.

  It’s the height of fashion, I bet people are saying, though when I think of how the Queen bargained with the King for her outfit, I’d rather have Lancelot any day of the week.

  A stroke of luck and the crowd-tide begins to turn. People are moving closer to the fire now, and using all my strength, I’m able to fight my way towards the front.

  Only ten, maybe twenty yards ahead is the balloon itself. It’s no longer flat on the ground, but is starting to float, to plump up with air. Above people’s heads, through gaps in the crowd, I glimpse gold leaves, bows, swirls. It’s so magnificent I feel a great smile spread across my face. The magic has begun.

  Everything this close to the balloon is now a whirl of action. Shouting. Pushing. Heat from the fire. Guards are ordering people to stand back. Somewhere in amongst it all, Voltaire is still complaining. And then Monsieur Etienne’s voice: ‘What the deuce is the matter with that duck?’

  Perhaps it’s because everyone’s forced to move back that I spot a sudden opening in the crowd. Elbows out, I push through. People push back, shout, try to grab or slap me.

  When I come up for air there is none, only heat, so hot it scorches through my frock. I’m right in front of the fire now yet still can’t see Pierre anywhere. It’s all guards, servants, people rushing around doing last-minute checks. And Monsieur Etienne. When he spots me he’s furious.

  ‘What on EARTH? You can’t just turn up here!’ he yells.

  ‘But Pierre . . .’ I stutter. ‘It’s Voltaire . . .’

  He keeps shouting: ‘We’re not playing at this anymore, Magpie! This isn’t a little experiment in the orchard!’

  ‘If it wasn’t for our “little experiment”,’ I spit back, ‘We wouldn’t be here today!’

  Before we can say more Monsieur Joseph appears and hands me a rope. He’s angry too, I can tell, but his is the frosty, silent kind.

  ‘I don’t want to hear your excuses,’ he says. ‘Just hold this rope and do exactly as I say for once!’

  I nod. I want to help, I really do. But I’m worried about Pierre, and stuck here holding a rope I’m not sure I’ll find him.

  As the Versailles clock chimes the hour, a cannon booms, so loud I feel it through my feet. The crowd go ‘ahhh’ in excitement. On the count of three, the fabric is nudged further into the air. The ropes go taut. Above our heads, the balloon keeps growing. It’s so huge now it’s almost blocking out the sky. More fuel is added to the fire. Another wave of heat hits me. Take-off, I know, is only minutes away.

  ‘Steadyyyy with the ropes,’ Monsieur Etienne cries, like he’s soothing a nervous horse.

  There’s another great ‘oooooohhhhh!’ from the crowd, as above our heads, the balloon grows taller and fatter. Slowly, almost lazily, it rights itself until it’s in position for take-off. All that’s left to do now is to attach the passenger basket. This time, it takes more than two servants to carry it. I’m guessing the passengers are already on board.

  ‘Mind your backs!’ one of the servants cries, as we step aside to let them through.

  As the basket passes close by, I smell sheep fleece. Voltaire’s fussy quack comes from inside. Shame Pierre didn’t reach him in time, though thankfully he sounds calmer now, more his usual self. I hear Coco too, making his oh-so-familiar clucking sound like someone clearing their throat. I want to touch the basket, wish him luck. But both hands are full of rope. And as Monsieur Etienne roars: ‘Stand back for the signal!’ the basket passes on by to be tied to the balloon.

  My arms are really starting to ache. More shouting. More people running and pulling. Everything’s h
appening so fast. The cannon booms a second time: the take-off signal.

  ‘Time to loosen the ropes!’ Monsieur Etienne yells. ‘Slowly now!’

  We let them out a few inches at first. Then a few feet. What were great heaps of rope on the ground quickly unravel. As the pull of the balloon gets stronger, it’s all we can do to keep hold at all.

  Suddenly, there’s another commotion at the front of the crowd. A woman has pushed her way through. She’s shouting and waving her arms about. A cold feeling trickles down the back of my neck when I see how she really does stand out like a crow.

  ‘Stop the flight!’ Madame Delacroix yells. ‘I demand it! Stop at once!’

  She’s too late. The flight’s about to happen and there’s nothing she can do. Then, she sees me. She stops shouting and stares instead, a look that strips the skin from my bones.

  ‘You little thief!’ Madame Delacroix spits at me.

  It’s hardly an insult. Yet she’s so poisonous with it, I’m afraid. Her sights are fixed beyond me though: she’s moving in on the Montgolfiers. Monsieur Etienne, frowning, backs away. Monsieur Joseph is completely bewildered.

  ‘Listen to me, Etienne. And you, Joseph,’ she says. ‘Do as I say and you’ll have your notebooks back. I’ll walk away and you can carry on as if nothing has happened.’

  I lick my lips. She’s holding something and adjusts her grip. Her hands must be hot inside those gloves when we’re this close to the fire.

  Monsieur Etienne lunges for her. In the tail of my eye, I see a flash of silver.

  ‘Watch out!’ Monsieur Joseph cries. ‘She’s got a sword!’

  She swings the blade high above her head, then down again. Air rushes past my ear. Before I know what is happening, something cold and sharp presses against my neck.

  26

  ‘Stand back!’ Madame Delacroix snarls like a hunting dog with a dead rabbit it won’t give up. ‘Don’t any of you come near!’

  She’s got me: arm round my shoulders, sword at my throat. I can’t move a muscle. And I’m still holding this blasted balloon rope. The ache in my arms is fast becoming unbearable. I’m not sure how much longer I can hang on.