On the table beside her lay the small, wrapped package Lazare had entrusted to her.
She shook it gently, but it made no sound. Tomorrow would be soon enough to give it to him. Until then, she did not wish to part with it. Dropping it into the hidden pocket, its weight was like a talisman. A wish for good luck and a safe landing.
Almost imperceptibly, the sky beyond her window lightened.
She took another sip of coffee. As she did so, her fingers brushed against a piece of paper, lying on the cup’s saucer. Where had it come from? It was a ragged scrap, densely printed with words. A piece of rubbish? In the corner was written 345; clearly, it’d been torn from a book. Strange. She rose, intending to toss it on the fire, when a prickling on the back of her neck made her turn it over. On the reverse—page 346—in the margin, was scribbled:
Balloon
Champ de Mars
She frowned. What did it mean? And who had written it? She didn’t recognize the handwriting. Could it have been one of the servants? She hadn’t told them about Lazare’s journey—he had asked her not to say anything, and she had told no one but Sophie, and last night, Rosier. Besides, why would one of the servants care?
Then she remembered.
After she and Lazare had argued, and she’d rushed from the room to try to stop him in the park, the servants had been outside in the hall, flattening themselves against the wall as she ran past. Adèle had called after her to know if Camille were well, if there was something she might do. But there had been others—she tried to recall. The late-afternoon hall, the dust motes suspended in the wash of light through the circular window. Adèle, Daumier, a housemaid. Odette.
Odette, in the printing room, furious at the nobles leaving France. Those émigrés are traitors and cowards. Odette, warning Camille that she had made an enemy of her.
Down the hall she raced. She threw open the door to the room where Odette had slept. It had been cleaned, the bed stripped and covered, the moonlight-blue curtains drawn. Nothing out of place, as if Odette had never existed. Camille opened the garderobe doors: empty. The drawers in the bureau, one after another: nothing. Odette had taken everything with her when Camille had asked her to leave. Except, she realized, a book lying on the small table by the bed.
It was the gothic romance Camille had been reading when Lazare was in Lille, The Castles of Athlin and Dunbayne. She picked it up, and opened it—her own name stared up at her from the flyleaf. But what else had she expected to see?
Something, she thought. A sign.
From the hall came the faintest sound, the feathery brush of a moth’s wing: Hurry.
Roughly she felt along the tops of the pages. She flipped to the page where her bookmark lay, thinking maybe Odette had placed it there it to mark some important passage. That it might be a thread, a clue to guide her, but the bookmark lay exactly where she had left it. It was the evening before they reached the castle—
The font. It was the same as on the scrap she’d found. Quickly she paged forward: 300, 342—345. Along the margin was scrawled: Tell the police to watch for him.
The bottom corner was torn away.
What had Odette said to her next? Imagine if we had a net to catch them in.
Lazare was in terrible danger.
Racing into the hall, she rang the bell that hung there. The sound echoed through the house until the ringing tolled like a summons. “Daumier!” she shouted as she raced down the stairs. “I need the carriage immediately!”
44
When the horses pulled to a stop at the Champ des Mars, the sun had not yet risen over its flat expanse. In the vague dawn light, the wide band of river gleamed like tarnished silver. Arcing over the marching ground, the sky was the palest blue, almost gray, the only clouds low and inconsequential along the horizon.
On the enormous empty field there was no sign of a balloon. Or, thankfully, any solider or police. Just a low wagon, its one shaggy horse dozing, its driver watching the sky. Shakily, she exhaled. If she had to be wrong about something, she was glad to be wrong about this.
“You came after all!” Rosier exclaimed. “You have changed your mind about Lazare?”
“I had a sudden fear that something had gone wrong. But all is as it should be?”
Rosier nodded, and checked his pocket watch. “Ten minutes.”
“Really? Can you be so precise?”
“One can hope! Who knows what marvels await us?” Tucking his watch back under his coat, he said, “It doesn’t matter to me if he arrives on time or not—such a long journey!—but that he arrives.”
To the west the sky revealed nothing, and she no longer knew what to think about the torn paper. She felt certain Odette had scribbled the notes. But perhaps she hadn’t known what to do with them after? Would the police have believed her? “Still, I worry, Rosier—”
“Do not—Lazare is the hero of this story, and you, its heroine!” His clever eyes sought hers. “Your friend’s death was a great tragedy. As is the threat to magicians and to the revolution itself. But your story ends happily nevertheless, I know it—we are waiting only for the final scene. An apology, perhaps, as the boy descends in his balloon from the theater’s fly loft. A kiss! Then the curtains swing closed and the play is done. Fin!”
She wanted so much to believe his version of the story. Was there only one last scene to be performed before the play ended: danger averted, lovers reunited, the curtains closing, applause reverberating in her chest? Why then did it feel as if she were instead blundering in the dark behind the stage, trapped between props and scenery, her arms outstretched, fingertips searching but touching nothing?
She’d thought she’d stayed just far enough ahead of the wave of violence to be safe. But no matter how fast she ran, the red tide poured after her. She could no longer say she was outpacing the tide. It had filled her shoes and bloodied the hem of her skirts.
“I am worried about the ending.” She held out her hand and Rosier clasped it, tight.
He scanned the sky. “Worry is for smaller souls than yours.” Suddenly he pointed. “Look! He must have been blown off course—he’s coming from the south!”
The balloon was very close, and dropping. This one was the blue of a night sky, the silk painted with stars, as if the music box he’d given her had come to life. It had to be a sign, she thought. A sign that good things were finally coming.
Lazare stood at the basket’s railing, spyglass in hand. She remembered the first time she saw him, when his balloon had been hurtling toward the ground. Now he waved happily as he worked the release valve, smoothly, easily, lowering the balloon until it settled gently on the ground.
“Fantastique!” Rosier shouted. “What a landing!”
She could not look away from Lazare. His smile gleamed wide against the dusky bronze of his skin, worry—over her?—tightening the lines of his handsome face. She had imagined they would talk, she would wait for his explanations, examine them for flaws, all the while protecting herself from more hurt … but she could already see the apology in the tense lines of his shoulders.
My heart.
She picked up her skirts and ran. Lazare leaped lightly over the side of the basket and raced toward her. When they reached one another, he swung her off her feet.
Clutching her to him, he said, “I thought you would not come. I don’t think I have ever been happier to see anyone.”
She kissed him, hard and fierce, and he laughed.
“I feel the same.” She ran her hands down his neck, along the breadth of his shoulders, down his strong arms to his elegant, capable hands. He is here. Whole, and unhurt. “I wish we had not parted like that, in anger—”
“I thought of nothing else when I was away. What I said—” His gaze went to the line of trees by the river.
“What is it?”
He squinted in the direction of the rising sun. Under her palm, his heart beat.
“Attention!” Rosier shouted. There was high note of panic in his voice. �
��Riders!”
Lazare’s body stiffened against hers. “Don’t turn around, my love.”
She tried to, but he held her tightly against him. “Is it the police?” His heart beat fast, fast, faster. “Tell me!”
“Somehow they must have found out I took the Cazalès—”
Odette had found a way.
Had Camille not let her in, this would not have happened. She had undone the wards without even knowing she had imperiled him. “You must go,” she urged. “Take my carriage and get away!” She put both hands flat on his chest and pushed, but he didn’t move. “If you won’t go home, at least get back in the balloon!”
“I won’t run, Camille.”
Out of the corner of her eye she saw the police: four silhouettes against the dawn sky, the dangerous, dull shine of pistols in their hands. The thumping of their horses’ hooves, their shouts … all at once, the night of Blaise’s murder came roaring back. His blood black in the torchlight, his broken neck, everything gone, gone, gone.
Lazare’s brown eyes shone with tears. “I may never have another chance to tell you.”
“But I cannot bear it if they take you. You have only just come home,” she sobbed as she pummeled him on the shoulder. “Go away, Lazare!”
He dropped his head, his breath ragged against her ear. “I cannot leave you. Camille, I was wrong in what I said—forgive me.”
“Please go!” she wept. “They are nearly upon us!”
She could feel the soldiers now. The pounding of hooves on the grass. Thundering side by side, almost there.
Think! She and Lazare could escape to the Hôtel Séguin. Blaise had promised it would protect her. But she couldn’t go there, where Odette would know to find her. Where else, where else?
There was another safe house.
“Quick, Lazare, to the carriage!” She pulled him with her. “If you love me, run!”
The black-and gold carriage waited, very close. From his perch at the top, the coachman saw them coming and steadied the horses. The police changed course, veering to cut them off. Stampeding closer, they shouted for them to stop in the name of the law.
Ten strides. Five. Four.
They were almost there. Over her shoulder, Camille shouted to Rosier, “Go to Sophie!” and was gratified to see him race to the waiting wagon.
Three. Two. One—and Lazare was wrenching open the carriage door, Camille leaping inside. The far horse whinnied, half rearing, as the coachman cracked his whip. Gathering themselves, the horses plunged forward before Camille and Lazare had even closed the door. They fell back against the seat as the carriage tore off across the field. Clods of dirt kicked up against the windows as the Champ de Mars rushed away.
“Dieu,” Lazare said, stunned. “Where now?”
“Somewhere safe.” She pulled down the glass of the window. “Hold me, will you?”
Once she felt Lazare’s firm grip on the back of her coat, she called to the coachman, “The graveyard of Saint-Julien-le-Pauvre!”
His answer was a crack of the whip. The horses galloped even harder toward the secret boneyard entrance to Chandon’s house, Bellefleur. With one hand, she gripped the window frame. With the other, she reached into her dress’s secret pocket. From it she pulled a piece of paper. She crumpled it, placed it in her hand, her fingers cupped gently around it, willing it not to blow away. Then she made her urgent wish.
Sudden heat burned her palm and she released the flare. The fiery paper rose straight up into the sky, impossibly high, where it glittered like the morning star.
Help us.
45
Flickering with lantern glow, a rectangle of darkness yawned below them.
Apprehension in his voice, Lazare asked, “What is this place?”
“A crypt, and a tunnel to Bellefleur. We must hurry—we can’t be seen going in.”
They had been lucky enough to lose the police in the fog that rose from the river, but she didn’t dare linger and risk them catching up. Pushing away her unease, Camille stepped into the sarcophagus. Lazare followed, pulling the lid closed behind them. Ahead, lanterns lit the way. Quickly they left behind the walls of bones and the dank of moldering earth. Soon they were running past the portraits of magicians, who observed their progress with the knowing smiles of those who had seen this before, and then pushing open the doors of Bellefleur’s great room.
For the space of a breath, she saw Blaise’s pale outline standing by the black wood bookcases. Then she blinked and there was only one magician there, pacing in front of the fireplace, purple smudges of fatigue under his eyes. Chandon’s chemise was rumpled, as if he’d slept in it, and instead of a coat, he wore a silk dressing gown figured with winged dragons. “Dieu, is that you, Sablebois?” He rushed to embrace them both. “You have been flying, I take it? I could feel the fear in the flare you sent, Camille. Tell me, what has happened?”
“I did not know where else to go,” she said. “It’s a long story. But the short of it is that we must go to Les Mots Volants tonight. I believe the book that Blaise found, the one that will teach us to make the blur, is there, but may not be for long. But before I tell you more, if there is perhaps a desk where I could write a note to my sister—Roland isn’t here, is he?”
“Not yet, that lazy eel! But he will be soon. And to even imagine that in all of this enormous medieval pile there’s not a desk for you? Come with me.”
Leaving the great hall behind, they went down a wood-paneled corridor with doors on both sides. One he pushed open. Beyond it waited a small sitting room, a low chair by the fireplace, and a desk beneath the many-paned oriel window. On the walls hung lifelike paintings of flowers: bright blooms, green stems, and reaching, webby roots. “Voilà—my mother’s study. Have a seat at the desk, Camille. I’ll send someone in with some wine.” He held up his hand when she started to protest. “Don’t you dare say no. I can tell you’ve had a terrible fright.”
“Thank you, Chandon,” Lazare said. “You are very kind.”
Chandon bowed, and set off down the hall, his heels snapping on the ancient floor. Soon afterward a maid came in, carrying a tray with wine and water in crystal glasses, a plate with bread and sliced hard sausage. Camille asked her to wait while she wrote to Sophie.
The desk was tidy, unlike her own, with plenty of thick paper engraved with a single poppy. In her letter, she wrote that she and Lazare were safe at Bellefleur and, describing to Sophie where she could find the valise, asked her to send it to them by messenger as soon as possible.
The letter written, Camille flung herself into the chair by the fire while they waited for Chandon to return. That was the first step accomplished. There were not many vials in the little box. Enough, if they were lucky, to slip past a guard, but they would need much more. And for that, they needed the book.
Lazare stood by the fire, leaning against the wall with his forehead pressed against it, as if it was the only way he could stay standing.
“Lazare?” she said softly. “Tell me how it went with the Cazalès.”
He came toward her carefully, as if not wanting to step on something fragile. Sitting down on the carpet, he rested wearily on the arm of her chair. “They are well. When they arrived at the inn at Dover, a letter was waiting for them from her son, the marquis. He is safely arrived in London. They are reunited now, I imagine.” The way he said it made her acutely aware of how cast apart and unsafe they were here.
“And the journey?”
Wryly, he said, “Harrowing at best. There were too many of us in the balloon.” His hand hovered over hers. Hesitating. “But that is nothing, mon âme, not compared to what happened here when I was gone.”
“My friend Blaise was murdered for being a magician.” There were other things she wished to say about him, and what had happened, but they caught in her throat like tiny, sharp bones. Her voice flat, she said, “I was betrayed. I threw a spy out of my house. I published a pamphlet that made things worse for magicians. I was frightened over so
many things. I felt so alone.”
He held out his hand to her; childishly, she put hers under her skirts. She hated the hurt that flared in his dark eyes. But he was not deterred.
“Mon trèsor, I wish it had been different. I thought I did right by taking the Cazalès.” Lazare exhaled, frustrated. “I did do right. I saved their lives. And I made some small amends for what I allowed to happen with the balloon corps.”
The fire crackled in the grate. “Your sense of honor is restored.”
“Is it? The kind of honor my father taught me to live by feels like a relic from another time.” Was it the flicker of flame on his face, or did he truly seem haunted by what had happened?
“I’m sorry. It was wrong to say that—”
“It was right to take the Cazalès and it was wrong for me to leave you. Both are true. But the thought that haunted me during that trip across France, over the stormy waters of La Manche, as I walked the streets of Dover…” His hands tightened on the arm of the chair.
She was trying to stay strong. Even if it would be easier, she could not settle by simply returning to the way things were before. She reminded herself of how she’d felt when they parted: so small. If they were to be together again, it had to be in a new way. Remade. “What was it?”
“Over and over in my mind’s eye, I imagined landing in the Champ de Mars and not seeing you there.” In the firelit room, his eyes had gone black with despair. “A magic lantern slide I never wished to see. It was worse than the sea at night—an endless expanse of nothing.”
An ember jumped out from the fire and landed on the hearth. She extinguished it with her shoe. “But you needed to go. Not just for them, but because that’s who you are: kind, caring, noble—in the right way. All the things I try to be.”
His voice dropped, rich and teasing. “You try?” He moved nearer, until he pressed against her leg. “You are.”
“Don’t distract me by sitting so close,” she said, allowing herself a small smile. “If I’d tried to make you stay? I would hate myself for forcing you to be someone for me. Instead of being someone for yourself. All my life people have wanted me to be something for them. But you—”
Everything That Burns Page 26