by Amanda Dykes
“Yes,” Jones continued. “The Marquis was seen one night in the middle of that siege of Paris, entering a train station where the balloons were kept. This man, once the hero of the people and well-loved of the aristocracy, now bore pauper’s clothes and carried only one of his treasures.”
“A diamond,” I guessed. “A scepter?”
“His son. Two, maybe three years old. They flew into the night, it is presumed, and have never been heard from again. No one knows what became of them. Their Paris château sat empty for decades, his riches left to gather dust or be pillaged. The family line just . . . stopped.” And Jones stopped, his tale halting as he weighed his next words. But it was his gaze that finished the story for him. He looked at the sleeping lady, then at the journal in his hands.
“At least, that’s what people believed. That they disappeared in exile to another country, or perished in the trying. It’s a great mystery, so much so it’s almost legendary here.”
“I don’t like all this talk of wealthy people disappearing,” I said. “First this cheese family—”
“They’re not cheeses,” Jones said.
“—then the children of the tsar of Russia—who is next? A fellow doesn’t like to wonder these things, but for all that is good, is it going to be me? Money makes one a target, you know.” Sound pious. “Money is the root of all evil,” I whispered, infusing great gravity into the phrase.
The two gawked at me. This was probably one of those moments Mother was always speaking of, urging me to rein in my tongue. Well, Mother, if you think it, say it. That’s what I always say.
“You’re hardly one of the Romanovs,” Jones said. “And besides, we’re only getting the news in snatches in the trenches, and our translations are hardly reliable. Who knows what’s really happened? More pertinent are the Fontinelles. They really did disappear from existence. Unless . . .” He trailed off.
Petticrew stopped his pacing. “Unless what?”
Jones hesitated, rubbing his eyes behind his spectacles. “I could be wrong. But that fabric she’s wearing on her apron . . .”
“Rather fancy for a peasant,” I piped up. Jones wasn’t going to steal all the thunder.
“More than that. The French and their balloons, they were known to be extravagant. Works of art, really. The one Fontinelle escaped in was called the Colombe de Nuit.”
I searched my rusty French. It had been acquired from an aged tutor who liked to use children’s books about a zoo as his texts. I was utterly victorious in failing to pay attention back then, but a few of the words had stuck, despite my best efforts to the contrary. “The night dove?”
He nodded. “It was ornate. It had been the Marquis’s, and was made of red and gold silks, with large embellishments.”
We all looked together at the Angel of Argonne, at her tattered apron. It was faded and threadbare, but despite age and wear, the colors showing through were a tired scarlet and a lackluster gold . . . with a scrap of some sort of white cording looping in the corner.
“What are you saying?” I said. “She was the young tot who escaped in the balloon?”
“No . . . too long ago. That would’ve been . . . 1870, somewhere near there. It would have been a generation before her.”
“The child grew up and had a child,” Matthew said, the last piece of the puzzle clicking into place. He picked up a crudely framed painting and I craned to see it—a girl lit with sunlight and smiles, hair dark and coiling. Clearly a younger version of the Angel.
“Mireilles,” Petticrew said. He could have spoken up, let us all clearly hear the name he read from the bottom of the portrait. His mouth moved around the name again, this time silently—mee-ray.
At the sound of her name, she stirred. Her eyes opened. We froze, the three of us, as her blue eyes moved slowly around her surroundings and she rubbed her head.
At that moment, the potato soup, such as it was, bubbled in such a way that it sent the spoon within sliding. That served to jolt her upright and as she registered three men in foreign uniforms all gathered in what was presumably her cottage—she scrambled like a scared animal, pressing her back far into the planked corner.
“It’s alright,” Matthew said.
She leaned forward, gaze wary. Slowly, she gripped the fire poker next to her bed and wrapped her fingers tight around it. She was a fighter, and all the better for it in times like these, I say. Couldn’t quite say the same for myself.
“We’re here to help,” Petticrew tried again.
She narrowed her eyes, tilting her head slightly, murmuring something in French.
Of course. She did not understand.
Me. This was for me! My time to shine. I blessed the aged tutor and his zoological handbooks, and dusted off my vocabulary properly. “L’heure de repas!” I declared, mentally double-checking. Yes, that was from the page with the zookeeper toting a pail of fish to the seals. It is feeding time! Glancing around, I saw a fork on the block behind me and picked it up, pointing it at her for emphasis.
She recoiled, aghast, and pulled the fire poker in front of her like a gate closing us away.
“What did you say to her?” Matthew hissed.
“I told her it was feeding time.” She recoiled farther, even as I spoke in English.
He socked me on the shoulder. “And you’re pointing your fork at her.”
Realization set in and my face grew hot. “No, no,” I said, offering her the smile that always earned me an eyelash bat or two from the ladies in Covent Garden. I gestured toward the potato pot. “For you!” And pointed at her. I twirled the fork in my hand, so that the prongs faced the pot, and not her.
Now she looked at me as if I belonged in Bedlam, with a proper diagnosis of insanity. I grinned wider, and she recoiled farther. It was as if every time she heard me speak—me! George Piccadilly, jolly old dunce that I am—it planted more fear. Was it my voice? My accent?
“You’re making it worse.” Matthew again. He dipped a ladle into the pot, poured the poor excuse for a stew into a chipped bowl, and held it out at his arm’s full extension, crossing the room slowly, cautiously. A peace offering.
“For you,” he said, pointing from the bowl to the young woman, and leaving it at the foot of her bed before backing up to a safe distance.
She eyed it and him, and for a moment I expected she’d fling the hot liquid at Matthew and we’d all run screaming for the ill-assured safety of the trenches. No fury like a woman’s scorn, and all that. Surely Shakespeare had been speaking prophetically of this supposed lost heiress, caked in grime and curled up like a wild creature.
But she pulled the bowl toward herself and, after an instant of looking at it with suspicion, raised it to her lips and took a cautious sip. And another . . . and another . . . until soon, her hunger took over and she seemed to forget us.
Which was most satisfactory. I wasn’t keen on death by fire poker. “Come on,” I whispered. “Now’s our chance. Let’s go!” She did keep a close eye on Petticrew, but it was now or never.
I was out the door lickety-split and ready to run—and was close to the edge of the cottage’s clearing before I realized I was alone. In the same moment, I turned and ran straight into the solid form of a soldier.
“Sorry, mate,” I said. I offered my hand and pulled him up, looking over my shoulder to see if the others followed yet. “Did Sarge send you? I know we’re late, but the thing of it is—”
A hand gripped my arm. Twisted fierce and pinned me down on the forest floor . . . where I looked up into the sunlit picture of a grey German uniform.
13
Matthew
Just that chipped bowl between her and me. She drank the broth, such as it was, and barely took her eyes off of me over the rim. It was easy to forget, standing there, that a war raged on just miles away. This place felt outside of time and reality as I stayed there in that stalemate of a staring match, each of us watching to see what the other would do.
George had barreled out the front door, and the res
ult was an influx of peace. Even the girl—Mireilles, I reminded myself—seemed to breathe a very small bit easier. Jones stood at the bookshelf, absorbed in the pages, mumbling something about a family crest.
And I—I was caught. Anchored here, and yet lit by the Flame. My old friend, my old fiend. That driving force within. It told me to get her to safety. And yet . . . where was such a thing, in such a time? No place was safe.
As she set her bowl down, I made to step nearer, remove the bowl, show her we were there to help. But Hank Jones, the face of a thousand sons of America, beat me to it. He approached with a book open, and his expression more so.
“The book,” he said, pointing at it. “Is it yours?” He gestured toward her.
She narrowed her eyes, still as a statue as she assessed him. Then, apparently finding he posed no significant threat, she gave a small nod. “Mon Grand-père.”
I saw the way she cast a glance at a small frame that hung on the wall near me. There was such sadness in that look, in the way she bit her lip and for a moment was not a force but a wounded soul.
“Your grandfather’s,” I said. I touched the frame and let my hand linger as I silently asked permission. She nodded. I pulled the frame from the wall and studied the likeness of a young man, painted some years ago, judging by the yellowed edges of the paper. There was kindness about him but also the look of one who would brook no nonsense. Crossing the room, I handed the frame to her, feeling the way her hand trembled beneath mine as she took it.
Up close, I saw better how her eyes were circled in darkness beneath them, as the dirt had begun to flake off, and her pallor revealed that she had lived to the edge of all she had left, so pale and gaunt was she.
I’d seen such a look before, once. Many years ago.
She stroked the frame with her thumb, swiping quickly at her eyes with her free hand. And I knew—this had been who she had buried, hours before, with her own two hands. It was the dirt of his grave that lined her fingernails as she held his picture now.
Fingers I wished I could hold, to bring some measure of comfort. But knowing me, I’d only inflict clumsy awkward pain, somehow.
“Is that him?” Hank asked. I wished I’d thought to ask. But I already knew the answer. He pointed at the book, then at the frame, and she nodded affirmation.
He leaned in and studied the young face, his own expression registering disbelief.
“It’s true,” he said, speaking this time to me. “It’s him.”
“The balloon man?” I asked and wished the words back. I made him sound like a carnival spectacle. “The Marquis,” I corrected myself.
“Yes. I’m certain. That is—almost certain.”
“What does that mean for her?” I lowered my voice out of respect for her, though I knew she couldn’t understand our words.
“It means—” Hank shook his head. “I’m not sure. It might mean a fortune awaits her. It might not.”
He went on about “might” and “could” and all the possibilities, but I looked at her holding that picture, alone in this cabin, and knew what it did mean.
She was alone.
“Help!” The cry from outside was so jarring that she dropped the frame. I was at the door in a second, outside, weapon raised. Jones was right behind me. We silenced our footsteps as we’d been trained, scanning the borders of the view.
There, at the edge, was George Piccadilly. Hands raised, the bayonet of a German pointed right at him.
In an instant, Jones and I had him in our sights, weapons fixed and the cold click of gun registers bouncing off the trees. Jones was a surprisingly quick draw. Whether from taking part in our drills or always scratching away with that pen, I couldn’t say.
The German looked about my age. Had a wedding band on his finger. Was following his own commanding officer’s orders, no doubt, just as we were.
I hated that this war meant we so often had to point a weapon at a mirror in the flesh.
But something changed the next instant. The door creaked open slowly behind us, across the clearing. No. “Don’t show yourself,” I whispered through clenched teeth under my breath, knowing full well she would neither hear nor understand.
But sheer surprise registered on the soldier’s face, showing me it was too late. The surprise was followed swiftly by interest—his eyes making free to roam over what he was seeing. Or rather, who he was seeing. And the roaming turned to lingering. I knew full well why, and what thoughts ran through his mind, no matter the language barrier.
The solitary good thing about his antics was that his guard was down. I made my move, thrusting my own bayonet so close it touched his throat, a millimeter away from piercing.
“Go,” I said.
“Shouldn’t we take him?” This, from George Piccadilly, who scrambled up and away like a crab on his back, struggling to stand. Jones thrust out a hand and pulled him up. “He’s outnumbered. Surely we could—you know. Prisoner, and all that.”
But I did not like the way the man’s mouth curved up into a cold smile, as if he knew something we did not.
Not budging my weapon, I stared down the perimeter of the clearing. “We don’t know if he’s the one outnumbered . . . or if we are,” I said in a low tone and waited for them to take my meaning. “We let him go, we might have a chance to get out of here. And”—I jerked my head back toward the cottage—“to take her with us.”
Not in a thousand years would I leave her unattended now. There was no telling who now knew her whereabouts, nor what fate would befall a woman alone out here in the crosshairs of what General Pershing planned to be the major turning point in this never-ending war. We all felt it—this invisible unspoken something over and under and all around us, telling us we were treading on that turning point. That it was, perhaps, a months-long turning point, and the very air we breathed marched it onward even now.
It all hinged on this forest.
Her forest.
“You heard the man,” George said, crossing his arms proudly. “Go on, then. And don’t come back. If you please, sir.”
He chose the oddest moments to let his latent polite British sensibilities surface.
The man leveled us each with a gaze so cool it was infuriating. As if he had the upper hand somehow, and we did not yet know it. With an odd smile, he raised his hands and began his backward retreat.
It was Hank Jones who followed him. The man would make a good soldier, had he not been saddled with the job of reporter. George followed suit, and by some miracle recovered from his floundering codfish ways and into a stealthy military man. He really was good, when he put his mind to it. Which he did, now. The two were near invisible, slipping into the trees and following the man.
Everything in my body told me to go, too—but something deeper anchored me there, close to the girl.
She had slipped back inside her cottage and closed the door, but I saw a slight movement at the window. Whoever she was—whether part of this fabled family Hank seemed so sure about, or truly the peasant she seemed—she was used to living out here. Part of me thought she was probably better off out here without us.
At length, the door opened again, and this time she emerged with her old gun. She did not point it at me this time but instead held it in one hand while approaching warily, a cup in hand. She did not look at me but rather studied every rock and tree in sight. I watched her do it, saw how she swept it visually in a methodical grid. This was not new territory, this vigilant living.
She drew close, but not too close, and haltingly held out the cup.
I stared, unsure if I should take it.
She thrust it farther toward me, sloshing a good bit on my boot. I smiled. This girl did not need words to communicate.
“Thank you,” I said. I raised it to my mouth and took a sip as a courtesy, but as the water slid past lips that stung with gratitude, I realized how parched my entire being was. It had been hours since I’d had anything to drink. She watched me steadily, and absurd as it was, I had to sw
allow down not just the water, but a rising laugh as well. There was no pretense here. No demurring or casting eyes politely away, and no shame in a hard and long stare. It was entirely amusing and consumingly refreshing.
I pulled the cup away from my mouth, then, astonished.
She tilted her head to the side, eyebrows pinching together ever-so-slightly as if to ask, What is it?
“Nothing,” I said, and then truly did laugh, this time at myself. The sleep deprivation was catching up to me, otherwise I wouldn’t be having a one-sided conversation like a lunatic. “It’s just—I haven’t laughed in . . .”
I shook my head, looked at the ground, where the answer buried itself somewhere in the mucky dark earth. I had no idea the last time I had felt that sensation.
And there she was, staring still, reaching to take the empty cup from my hand. Her fingers brushed mine, and I stilled.
Forget laughter. When was the last time I had felt a touch like that? Strong and soft, an offering to give water. Life. From the place of her own grief.
The answer was so far beyond just the horrors of this war, I could not put words to it.
I had never known a touch like that.
And then she pulled away, slowly. She held the cup up, asking, More?
Yes. Yes, and yes, more of this. This truth, this candid place of real and hope.
I gulped and nodded. “Please,” I said. “Thank you.” She turned to go, looking over her shoulder at me as she disappeared behind the cottage.
It was absurd, perhaps. That a fleeting touch and a cup of water in the woods could drive a man to such a place. But in that moment, I knew—I would get her to safety. I had to.
The men arrived back in the clearing, the look on their faces identical: one of doom.
“It’s bad, mate,” George said, wiping his brow with his arms.
“He wasn’t alone?” I asked, readying my weapon.
“No, he was alone,” Hank said, the voice of reason. “But judging by what we just saw, he won’t be for long. They’re moving into the forest. Readying for battle. It’s a garrison, just waiting to be inhabited. Outposts, machine gun nests, rolls of barbed wire, some already spread wide. They’ve been digging and building for . . .” He shook his head. “I don’t know how long, but we’re lucky they haven’t sniped us in the middle of the night yet, out here in all this.”