Everything That Burns

by Gita Trelease

  Sophie seemed stricken, as if the events of the last few hours had caused Camille to lose her mind. “Whatever do you mean?”

  “The Marvels, of course,” she insisted.

  The people she needed most to understand looked back at her blankly.

  “Since I won’t be there for the performance at the square, I had an idea for you. An innovation.” Please, she begged silently, please understand me.

  Rosier took out his pipe. “Do tell.”

  “What if,” she said quickly, “instead of puppets, you used living actors?”

  “Ah!” He took a drag on his pipe and she could almost hear the gears of his mind clicking. “I can see it now! Some of the actors might walk on stilts to give them the height the larger puppets had. And the flight of the white bird we call Mademoiselle l’Oiseau could be especially spectacular, non? To see her soar away?”

  Like a mirror to Rosier’s own, bright understanding flashed in Sophie’s face. There wheels were spinning too, and in the midst of her own despair Camille was filled with a bright joy: whatever happened, the two of them were perfect together.

  “It is really too bad!” Sophie exclaimed. “I know how much you wanted to be there in your dress with the white feathers.”

  The guard paid them no heed, but continued to pick dirt from his nails.

  “Yes,” Camille said, rapidly searching their faces to make certain they truly understood. “It is a shame I will not get a chance to wear it.”

  “And your gilt-and-cream carriage!” exclaimed Sophie. “How you will miss that!”

  “She will miss many things, you pack of idiots,” the guard said roughly. “Namely her own life.”

  “Of course, of course!” Cautiously, Rosier turned his back on the guard. “Still, I cannot forget how you said you wished to fly once more!”

  “Exactly!” Camille said.

  “She’ll fly from the noose!” the guard guffawed.

  Under cover of her hat, Sophie nodded seriously at Rosier. “We will be watching from the far side of the square! Just—look out for marvels. And think: lots of feathers!”

  “Do not fear, we will advertise widely, by poster and crier,” Rosier announced, “so that all of Paris will know when it is to be performed—even the flown-away pigeons! Who knows? Perhaps we can incorporate them into our show.”

  It was a brilliant idea. Advertising would let Lazare and Foudriard know to come to the performance. And there were enough roles for all of them to disappear into the show. “Thank you,” Camille said. “Will the spectacle be traveling, after the performance? I had thought to give the house away.”

  Sophie frowned slightly, and Camille silently pleaded for her to make the leap. “Oh yes,” she said finally. “I’ve already starting packing. The neighborhood just doesn’t suit us anymore, does it?”

  “Perfect.” Camille kissed them both—Rosier knuckling tears from his cheeks—and bid them both adieu. She pressed her palms together, as if she might keep the warmth of them with her a little longer.

  The guard turned the key in the lock.

  Shadows filled her cell. The walls shifted closer until it felt as though they brushed against her skirts. Close, like the sides of a coffin. The plan they’d concocting was the best they could think of. But what if it wasn’t enough? What if at the end of the square was not an escape, but the silent darkness of death?

  This might be her last night on earth.

  The last night she might be in the world with those she loved, even if they were far away. Her breaths might now be numbered. Each one subtracted from the total, like the ticking of a clock running down. This might be the last cold day. She might never again feel the sun freckling her cheeks. Be dazzled by the gold of Sophie’s hair. Feel Lazare’s body against hers, feel her own desire unfurling like slow fire. Never again feel magic transport her out of the ordinary and into the marvelous.

  She clenched her fingers around the cold bars at the window. Her clammy fingers stuck to the metal and the pain brought her back to the cell. Whatever time she had left, she was not going to spend it thinking of death.

  * * *

  Instead, after dinner, she asked for a walk. One of the guards jeered, “It won’t be your last time under the open sky, but it will be your last chance to enjoy it.” Even at this hour, there were still a few women strolling the paths in the dusky courtyard. Camille kept to herself, relishing the kiss of the night air on her skin. But as she passed one of the tall shrubs that grew along the wall, someone slipped out from between their shadows and caught hold of her sleeve.

  “Henriette!” Camille stared uncomprehending at the forger with her halo of fair hair. “Have they arrested you, too?”

  “Shhh!” Taking Camille’s hand, Henriette slid a small packet into her sleeve. “A boy with a pipe came to Flotsam House and commissioned four of those. When he told me one was for you, I said I’d bring it myself. Walk with me?”

  Side by side they kept to the wall, like any other prisoners. “But how did you get in?”

  Henriette’s face shone. “Claudine.”

  There is no lock that can keep its secrets from me. Together these girls were formidable. “And she will let you out again?”

  “She is waiting for my whistle.” When they passed out of view of the guards, Henriette said, “I don’t know what you and your friends are planning. It’s better that I don’t. I volunteered to come not only to give you the paper, but because I wanted to thank you for what you did for me.”

  “There’s no need, truly—”

  She held up her hand, ink-stained like Camille’s. “Before you say it was nothing, let me speak. I’ve never been ashamed of what I do. But when we talked about my forgeries, you made a mirror and held it up for me to see myself. You gave me a new story.”

  “We all need that, sometimes.”

  “Well.” Henriette smoothed her hair, blinking hard. “Whatever happens, thank you for that. I’ll tell the other girls how brave you were in court. Like you were one of us.”

  It was the highest compliment she could have given her, Camille knew. “Thank you, Henriette.”

  She hesitated. “One more thing. Paris has your name in its dirty mouth and it means to see you swing. Whatever you do, be careful.”

  How could she be careful when she did not know what would happen? She would have to walk to her death and hope that it would, at the very last moment, be averted. Each step toward the gallows would be a step toward a possible freedom—or toward a certain death. Camille couldn’t have admitted it to Sophie, or to Rosier. But she felt she could say it to this fierce girl who’d once stared death in the eye. “I’m frightened of tomorrow, Henriette.”

  Henriette’s face softened. “Fear isn’t anything bad. Fear is what keeps a rabbit still when the fox comes, and fear is what tells it to run. It’s only a part of your own self, that wants to live. You can’t let it take over, but I know you won’t. You’re strong. Let that fear live inside you right along with your bravery.”

  Camille exhaled. “I’ll try.”

  “Good,” said Henriette simply. “I’ll go then.”

  Camille caught hold of her coat. “Have you seen Giselle? The guards would tell me nothing.”

  “I saw her an hour ago.” Henriette stared into the distance, the horror of the visit plain on her face. “She may have lost her wits. She only repeats that Odette betrayed us girls at Flotsam House, betrayed the revolution … and betrayed you. All she’ll say is that she’ll accompany you to the scaffold. I don’t think there’s anything else we can do.”

  Wasn’t there? “One more thing—”

  Henriette stopped. She seemed very small in the lightless courtyard.

  “It isn’t much. You would have found out soon enough. My lawyer was instructed to tell you. Before I left the court, I made certain of it: I have given my house to all of you. It belongs to the Lost Girls now, each of you by name.”

  “Your house?” Her mouth fell open in shock.

&
nbsp; “If you don’t want it,” Camille said in a rush, “sell it and divide the money.”

  Henriette laughed, gleefully as a small child. “Sell a house like that? Odette told us about it when she tried to convince us you were an evil magician. But all we could think of was the warm rooms and the feather beds, the cook, and a roof that doesn’t leak.” Wonderingly, she shook her head. “I can hardly believe it. Such a gift—thank you.”

  Was that a tear in the forger’s eye? “It was never really mine, that house. Though in the end, I did love it. I hope you will be happy there.”

  “More than happy. Au revoir, then, princess, and bonne chance.” Henriette gave Camille a secretive smile as she slowly crossed the prison yard. When she reached the ancient yew by the wall, she began to whistle.

  * * *

  In her cell that night, Camille carefully removed the object from her sleeve. It was a passport with a false name. She felt along the paper’s fold. A tiny bump, where something had been hidden. With her fingernail, she slit the back of it. Inside lay a tiny knife. A gift from sharp-eyed Claudine, she was certain. A blade like that could pick a lock. Or slice a rope.

  So much would have to come together. And there would need to be magic of a kind she had never worked. But the girls, at least, believed in her to escape.

  The rest of her thoughts were malevolent with shadows. Lazare caught or hurt, in hiding somewhere, Chandon and the others gone to ground while Sophie and Rosier prepared for whatever, be it freedom or be it death, that would happen tomorrow. The city she loved, the city she’d believed in, was a city turned inside out, its ugly seams showing. Its streets and alleys and innumerable rooms were thick with ghosts she could not bear to listen to. Broken-necked and bleeding. Swaying from trees and lampposts, slain in courtrooms. Each day there would be more, rising on cold and silent feet. Murders and executions, hatred and righteousness, and rivers of endless sorrow.

  It was right that she was going. Wherever that might be.

  For in Paris, there was nothing left but ruin.

  53

  The red tumbrel clattered over the cobblestones.

  In it, six prisoners crowded together. Shoulder to shoulder, knees pushed against knees. As the low-slung cart lurched along, their heads bobbed grimly. Each sat with their hands in their lap, their wrists tied. Some women wore only their chemises, having sold their dresses for food while they were in prison. Others wore their brave and gaudy best.

  Stuck between two women convicted of having more than one husband sat Camille. When they took her from her cell that morning, no one had shoved a red traitor’s coat over her head. Or cut her hair. Instead, she’d been taken to the executioner’s assistant.

  “You’re the first magician,” he told her as she was forced to sit in a chair in front of him, “but certainly not the last. I better make it good, for I’ll be setting the standard for all that come after.” Someone had given him a small pot of blue paint, and with his finger he drew a crude tear under her eye. Next he roughly rubbed her hands with coal until they were black. She tried not to think of the last time she’d seen these signs.

  Fetching a shard of mirror, he held it up to her, as her hands were bound to the chair and she could hold nothing. “What do you think?”

  Lightly freckled skin, sickly white. Lank russet hair. A purple bruise yellowing on her jaw, a blue tear spilling from a terrified eye. A magician. A ghost. “You satisfied?”

  She swallowed.

  “You know, I’m not.” Unscrewing a jar of rouge, he jammed a finger in it. “I keep this for the ladies.” On her cheeks he traced two bright circles. Then he pressed his filthy finger to her lips. She turned her face away.

  It was no use. There was nowhere to go. He caught her chin with his free hand and wrenched it toward him. Slowly, excruciatingly, he painted her lips scarlet. And when he was done he held her tight and kissed her hard and long on the mouth. Tears leaked from her shut eyes.

  I am a ghost, she told herself. I am not here.

  “Fais de beaux rêves,” he’d said as he stood. “Sweet dreams.”

  “Magician!” the crowd screamed as the cart rattled on. “Death to the bloodsuckers!”

  Beside her sat Giselle. She still wore her yellow-striped dress, now stained rust-red with Odette’s blood. Her quick smile had vanished. Instead her hazel eyes were wide as the sky, as if she were already gone.

  “Giselle.” When she didn’t answer, Camille knocked her knee against hers. “Giselle!”

  Giselle watched the buildings pass by.

  “Listen to me, Giselle.” Camille clasped the other girl’s hands.

  Vaguely she said, “What is it?”

  “Come with me. I am going to escape.”

  “To what place?” she wondered. “There is nothing safe anymore, you know that?”

  The cart jolted over a hole in the road, knocking their shoulders together.

  “I’m going far away. You deserve better than this.”

  “I’ve been running my whole life. Now there is a price to pay. There always is, in the end.” Fierce tears trembled on her lashes as she looked away. “I knew what the cost would be. I made that choice.”

  “Make another one!” Camille urged. “Your dreams are still waiting to be lived. If you don’t want to come with us, I already told Henriette—my house belongs to all of you. A place for Céline to grow up, and for you to do what you want.” She squeezed Giselle’s fingers, hard. “Look at me.”

  Giselle did. As if, for a moment, there was something she might trust.

  It was hard to believe when the world went against you. To keep making the choice to live, over and over again. To hope. “Do not throw away your chance.”

  Giselle clenched her hands into fists. “Won’t they search for me at the house?”

  “You never mentioned the other girls to the police, did you? Anything about Flotsam House?”

  “Never.”

  “In the beginning, then, be careful. Hide in the attics if you must. But the wardrobes are full of dresses, shoes, hats. Go out in disguise. Be whoever you wish to be. Perhaps they’ll catch you. Or perhaps they won’t. But it’s better than giving up now.”

  Giselle paled. “We’re nearly there.”

  Camille craned her neck. “Do you see a carriage?”

  “Not that,” Giselle replied, awe in her voice. “The gallows.”

  At the end of the narrow street, the open space of the square unfolded into sky. Trust, she told herself as her stomach clenched. Trust. They will be there. You have the little knife, she told herself, but fear clawed at her and the words wheeled away like frightened birds.

  Everywhere, the crowd: seething and jostling and demanding. Hands grasping at the prisoners’ clothes. A woman with scissors in her hand snatching at Camille’s red hair, hoping to cut a souvenir. Just in time, Camille yanked it away.

  “I’ll get it when they cut your body down, traîtresse!” the woman spat.

  The cart lurched, and Camille struggled to see. Where was the carriage? “Please,” she begged. She only realized she’d spoken aloud when Giselle rested her head on Camille’s shoulder.

  “Are you waiting for the sign?” Giselle asked.

  “It will be a golden carriage.” It sounded impossible, like something out of a fairy tale.

  “It shall come.”

  The tumbrel rattled into the square, and a deafening roar rose up from those gathered for the execution. Men, women, and children so small their mothers held them by the hand. A man was selling meat pies, the aroma delicious and sickening. Several girls sold tricolor rosettes made of ribbon. Through the crowd ambled a juggler in a black-and-white striped suit, calling singsong, “Marvels are coming! Pay attention! Marvels are coming!”

  Beyond the juggler rose the platform, and on it, the gallows’ ebony beams, its keen circle of rope. Nearby stood the broad-shouldered executioner, his hood thrown back, large hands easy at his sides. There should have been no one else there on that grim
stage with him, but there was. Four scarlet-cloaked guards of the Comité, like crows come to the gallows to watch her die. At their feet, the silent, waiting hounds.

  The tumbrel jolted to a stop. Giselle swayed, caught hold of Camille’s shoulder.

  “What’s happening?” one of the women said, hope in her voice. “Why have we stopped?

  An old woman grunted. “A carriage, all white and gold, that’s blocking the way! The horses are rearing up!”

  Relief flooded through Camille. Now.

  She raised her eyebrows at Giselle, who nodded. Héloïse’s little knife lay tucked in her sleeve, and she shook it out into her lap. “Quick,” she said to Giselle, “cut the rope!” Taking the tiny knife, Giselle sawed through the bindings. In a moment, Camille was free, and, willing her hands not to shake, she sliced the ropes that bound Giselle. “Now run,” she hissed as she cut through another set of cords and gave the knife to the startled woman next to her. “This is your chance!”

  Without a backward glance, Giselle stepped out over the edge and dropped into the crowd. Camille stood, swaying, and then leaped away, the other prisoners overturning the cart as they jumped after her, the spectators in an uproar. Dogs howling like wolves. The jailor shouted for help, but the people, who’d come for entertainment, cheered. As they roared and pounded their thousand feet, Camille fled.

  People got in her way, and she went around. The platform was empty and the Comité crows scattered. Red flashed as the guards moved through the crowd, fanning out. Hunting their prize. Not daring to draw attention to herself by running, she forced herself to walk, agonizingly slowly, pretending that she too was enjoying the spectacle. Inside she trembled with the terror of knowing they were an arm’s-length away. If she were caught by the Comité they would make an example of her, she had no doubt.

  Very close, a scarlet cloak snapped in the wind.

  Fear is what keeps a rabbit still when the fox comes, and fear is what tells it to run.