by Kat Dunn
‘Left, then two rights, and you’ll come to an iron door. That’s the one.’
Camille hesitated.
Somewhere in the prison was Ada. She didn’t know if she was captured, let alone alive. Their plan relied on them getting in and out as quickly as possible. If she changed things to look for Ada, they might miss their chance to rescue Olympe. They could fail. A curl of pride flared in her belly.
Ada knew that. She knew the plan and she could look after herself.
But leaving Ada behind felt worse than failure.
Guil brushed his fingers against her arm.
‘Go get the girl,’ he said. ‘I’ll get Ada and Al.’
‘That’s not the plan.’
‘So change it.’
She reached for her father’s pistol, wanting the comfort of its handle against her palm. ‘All right. Don’t get into trouble.’
Guil squeezed her shoulder then set off back up the stairs.
Before she lost her nerve, Camille strode deeper into the dungeons on her own. Left, then two rights, and there was the iron door. Low and heavy with rust caking the rivets that held it together, and moss growing between the damp-slick stones around it. Steadying her shaking fingers, she hunkered next to Olympe’s cell and took out her lock picks.
This was the plan. There was no fate. No destiny. Everything was a choice.
Guil and Ada and Al could make their own choices, and she would make hers.
The lock snicked open, and she slipped inside.
It was show time.
3
A Courtyard in the Conciergerie
Ada and Al pelted hand in hand across the courtyard, sending a brood of hens flapping out of their way. The balloon crash had taken the guards by such surprise they’d had a clear minute after tumbling the last few metres from the basket to pick themselves out of the wreckage and make a dash for it. Beyond that, Ada didn’t have much of a plan. She could just about picture the map of the prison they’d studied, but breaking out was a hell of a lot harder than breaking in. They doubled back through a span of vaulted archways into a courtyard by the Tour de l’Horloge. The prison encircled them in stone and gothic spires. Behind them, a clutch of soldiers was gaining ground, brandishing muskets and yelling. The wreckage of their balloon was strewn across the cobbles, the smashed remnants of the basket hanging by its ropes from the rooftop. There should be a gate here somewhere, if Ada hadn’t mixed things up completely. Then in front of them, another troop emerged, blocking their way.
Without thinking, Ada flung herself right through a door into a cramped corridor, dragging Al with her. They raced down it, but there was only a spiral staircase at the end. They couldn’t go back – the soldiers would be following. They had to go down.
She took the steps two at a time and crashed straight into a soldier on his way up. They both lost their footing and fell, landing in a bruised and tangled heap.
Slowly, the soldier stirred. Ada swallowed against the ball of panic in her throat – then frowned.
‘Guil?’
Al joined them at the bottom of the stairs, staring at them in confusion.
‘You were supposed to cause a diversion, not crash the balloon,’ said Guil, extracting himself and standing up.
Al grinned. ‘And you were supposed to stick with Cam and get our damsel in distress out safely. Looks like we’re all bad at our jobs.’
Ada pulled herself to her feet. A sheen of sweat coated Guil’s face and his fingers were flexing by his side.
‘How are you here?’ she asked. ‘What’s going on? Where’s Cam?’
‘With Olympe. The plan is still the plan.’ He looked down his nose at Al. ‘I came to help you two idiots.’
‘Cam’s okay?’ Ada asked again.
Guil nodded and opened his mouth to speak, but Al cut in.
‘Not to be that person, but we’ve got company.’ He jerked his head at the shadows curling round the stairs.
‘We have to lead them away,’ said Guil. ‘Camille’s down here breaking into Olympe’s cell. We need to go.’
Ada thought for a moment.
The corridor branched left and right. The cellars spread across most of the building, from the oubliettes where the poorest prisoners were dumped, to the old Merovingian palace and the catacombs of the Sainte-Chapelle. That was north from where they’d crashed. They could get out through the chapel. Probably.
‘This way!’
She pulled the boys left.
‘So what do we do now?’ asked Al as they dashed through passageways.
‘Cam knows what she’s doing,’ replied Ada. It made her feel sick to think of leaving without her, but she knew it would be what Camille wanted. ‘We need to get out. Not a bad thing if we cause a scene doing it.’
They turned down the last twist of corridor – into a dead end.
There was a locked door in front of them. Behind, the footsteps of the soldiers drew closer.
‘Somehow,’ said Al, ‘I don’t think that’s going to be a problem.’
Ada pulled a pin from her hair and kneeled to work on the lock.
‘Do you still remember how to do that?’ asked Al.
‘I’ve done it before when I’ve had to,’ replied Ada through gritted teeth. ‘I can do it again.’
‘What’s through there?’
‘I don’t know. Prisoners, probably.’
‘Well, that’s good. Let them all out and swamp the soldiers. That should be enough of a scene.’
A soldier came round the corner, musket in hand. But Guil was ready for him. He fired, hitting the soldier in the thigh. He crumpled with a yelp and fumbled with his musket. Guil lined up another shot, as another uniform appeared round the edge of the stone wall and hooked his hands under the fallen man’s armpits to haul him back to safety. Guil’s bullet snipped the wall above his head, sending a shower of fragments skittering down. Their bright white uniforms vanished and Guil fell back to reload. The white of his borrowed uniform trousers and waistcoat were smudged with dirt, and he’d loosened the red necktie.
‘Work faster, Ada.’
She ignored him, focusing on the minute movements of the pin against the tumblers in the lock. She had all but the last tumbler raised; the angle was difficult and her pin was too short to lift it fully. Her fingers were sweaty. She pressed up with the pin, forcing it against the tumbler. The pin slipped in her fingers and clinked onto the floor.
She swore.
‘Faster, but also accurately,’ hissed Al.
Ada wiped her hands on her dress and picked up the pin again. She could do this. She had the feel of the lock now. She just had to tune out Al’s twitching and the voices of the advancing soldiers and the smell of gunpowder burning her nose.
‘You’re not exactly doing anything to help.’
‘Cellar gun battles aren’t my forte. I’ll leave that to the petty criminals like you two.’
The crack of gunfire ricocheted around the corridor. Al flinched, but shifted to stand protectively in front of Ada as she worked. She heard the retort of Guil’s gun as he returned fire. Sweat trickled down the back of her neck but her hands were cold now, calves cramping from squatting.
The last tumbler was sticking again.
A bullet struck the door above her head. This time Guil’s gun didn’t answer.
‘Time’s up,’ he said. ‘I’m out of bullets.’
The soldiers edged round the corner, muskets lowered.
Al lifted his hands. ‘Well. We tried.’
Guil didn’t let go of the musket, bracing himself next to Al.
The final tumbler lifted against the pressure of her pin, and the door opened. Ada sagged in relief. They tumbled forwards, bracing for the chaos of prisoners breaking free.
But their relief was short-lived.
The room was empty.
4
Olympe’s Cell
The door to the cell closed behind Camille, sealing out the sounds of the prison. All she could hear
was the pounding of her pulse. Her first thought was that it didn’t smell quite as badly as the rest of the prison. There was fresh straw underfoot and the sweet scent of lavender covered the tang of urine. But nothing could cover the dank, death-like cold, the mildewy moisture thick in the air. The walls ran with water, worse than outside, moss and lichen blooming in the cracks. Rat droppings littered the flags beneath the straw, alongside rust-coloured splashes that Camille realised were blood. The further in she stepped, the stronger the stench of sewage.
It took her a moment to adjust to the gloom. There was only one small, slanted window high up by the ceiling, casting a square of light into the middle of the cell. It looked like the room was empty, that she’d made a mistake. Then she spotted it – a twist of rags in the corner: someone curled in a ball on a sodden pallet of hay. Camille thought for a moment it must be Olympe, but that made no sense. The person was wearing a ragged black muslin dress, a scarf wrapped tightly around her neck and a long braid of black hair hanging down her back. But instead of a head, there was a metal block. Camille blinked. No, not a block, a head-shaped oval of metal.
The hay rustled under Camille’s foot as she shifted her weight.
The person turned, and Camille finally understood what she was seeing.
It was a mask.
The front was a dented curve of iron, with three holes punched out – two for eyes and one for the mouth. There was only the faintest hint of lips behind the mask. The eyes were voids.
Camille backed up a step. Her hand rested on the grip of her pistol.
She cleared her throat.
‘Olympe Marie de l’Aubespine? I’m here to take you to safety.’
The masked creature uncoiled itself like a cat oozing from its basket, stretching limbs, joints cracking. She crouched on the floor, blank stare fixed on Camille.
She tried again.
‘Olympe? Your father sent us.’
‘I don’t have a father.’ Her voice was disconcertingly light coming from inside the metal.
She wore black gloves and black boots. Every centimetre of her skin was covered by leather or cloth, or the hideous mask. It seemed to be in two parts, hinged on one side and welded on the other. It looked heavy; Camille could tell by the way the girl slumped under its weight.
‘Well, someone sent us. You are Olympe, aren’t you?’
‘That’s what my mother called me. Do you know my mother?’
A bubble of horror and pity rose in Camille’s throat. That a wretched, nightmarish creature like this had a mother.
Camille considered her words. ‘No. Is she in the prison too?’
‘I don’t know. We used to live with the grass and trees, but the docteur said I had to come away with him.’ Her voice sounded unused.
What the hell was this? Was there some mistake? Had she come into the wrong cell? No, she’d been careful to take down the directions exactly. And this girl said she was Olympe. She mostly matched the description – small, slender, dark hair. They’d never described her face when she’d taken the job.
Camille pursed her lips and opened the door a crack to glance into the corridor. No sign of the guard.
She crossed to the girl, crushing the unease shifting in her gut.
The girl skittered into her corner, holding her gloved hands in front of her, and snarled. Camille paused, crouching like her so they were face to mask. There was something on the wall behind her. A tally, scratched into the stone, and beside it a child-like stick figure drawing of a girl in a long dress with a woman beside her. Olympe and her mother.
‘I’m not going to hurt you.’
The girl growled again as Camille reached for the mask, but she didn’t make any move to attack. ‘Does this thing come off?’
No answer.
Camille inspected the hinges – solid – then the other side. The remains of what had once been a catch were melted into a blob. Even from a glance, she could sense how heavy it was, the rough edges of the metal that must bite into the skin of the girl’s neck. She couldn’t stop herself imagining what it would be like to be shut into this thing. How it must weigh on her head, crush into her skull if she tried to stay upright. How difficult each breath must be, how muffled every noise. Like being trapped underwater. Or slowly smothered.
The thought of it made her recoil. This was torture.
Gingerly, she tried tugging at the gap between the two parts of the mask, but the girl yowled in pain.
‘Who are you? Did Docteur Comtois send you? I won’t do any more tests.’
Camille moved well away from the mask. ‘My name is Camille Laroche. I was hired to rescue you by someone claiming to be your father. Looks like he was lying about that, but not that you need rescuing.’
She held out her hand. The girl hesitated, then clasped it in a cold press of leather.
Something really wasn’t right here. But it was more than that. She’d been lied to. The duc had told her a sob story as if she were some silly girl he could manipulate. As if she were one of his servants. He wasn’t a father desperate to save his child. This was something else completely. Something a whole lot darker.
She bit the inside of her cheek to keep her anger in check, and hauled the girl up, catching her as she swayed.
The job was still the job. Sick, strange, twisted, but the job. This girl sure as hell needed rescuing, and being the first person to break someone out of the Conciergerie was nearly within reach. Even the duc’s lies weren’t going to keep her from that.
‘Do you want to get out of here?’
Olympe nodded.
‘Then that’s what we’ll do.’
Olympe was still gripping her hands. Her gloves were thin and supple, and sewn to the cuff of her dress. Camille frowned, turning the girl’s hand over to inspect the join.
‘Who did this?’
‘The docteur.’
She thought about this docteur sitting on a chair as he carefully stitched the girl into a fabric cage with his curved surgical needles. Lip curling in a silent snarl, she pulled a knife from her boot and made short work of the seam holding the glove and sleeve together. The stitches were stiff and brown with dried blood and tugged through the girl’s skin like a wound. They pulled away to leave a bracelet of blood blooming around her wrist. Camille thought for a moment she might be sick.
As she snipped through the final threads, Olympe stilled and drew in a sudden breath. The hairs on the back of Camille’s neck stood up. She spun on her heel, grasping her pistol.
A soldier had appeared in the doorway.
‘Who the hell are you?’
He strode forwards, lifting his baton.
Everything happened in a heartbeat. The pistol snagged in her belt as she tried to pull it out. The guard closed the gap, ruddy face twisted in fury. Olympe’s glove drifted to the floor.
The guard’s eyes widened – not at the pistol, but at Olympe’s bare hand.
Camille started to raise the gun, but Olympe was there first. She reached out and touched the skin at the guard’s neck. Blue sparks covered her hand, jumping along her fingers, lighting up the cell and the guard’s startled face. He shook, vibrating like a tuning fork as Olympe pressed her palm flat against his skin. Her nails were long and ragged, like claws. The sparks crackled from Olympe’s mottled skin to the guard. A smell of meat burning filled the room.
Camille stilled in fascination and horror. She’d seen something like this before. Once, as a young girl, her parents had taken her to a scientific display. On the stage, a man had strung up a boy over the boards. He was swaddled in cloths and hung from pink silk cords. The scientist had applied a large sulphur globe to his feet, cranking it round so it spun against his bare soles. The boy had reached out his hand and she’d watched in amazement as first feathers, then pages of a book had risen to his fingertips. A volunteer from the audience had been called for, and her mother had nudged her up to the front. The scientist had her stand on a stool and then all the lights had been dimmed. Ca
mille had stretched her hand towards the boy’s nose as instructed. A loud crack made the crowd gasp, and a spark flew towards her outstretched hand.
Just like the sparks now burning dark spots into the guard’s skin.
‘That’s enough.’ Camille’s voice was a whisper.
Olympe shuddered and snatched back her hand. The guard collapsed. Slowly, Camille hooked her gun into her belt. Then she picked up the glove and gave it back to Olympe.
She ran a hand through her hair to hide her shaking fingers. For the first time in a very long while, Camille felt out of her depth. The world that she knew was gone. Extinguished in a flash, just like the life had died in the guard’s eyes. This was so much more than the duc lying to her about the details. A yawning, unknown expanse opened beneath her, and she felt as though she was on a narrow beam attempting to cross the chasm.
5
Underneath the Prison
‘What? Where are all the people?’ yelped Al.
Ada pushed him into the room. ‘Quick!’
The soldiers were close behind them. The boys flung themselves against the door and Ada kneeled, sliding her pins into the lock again. It was easier this time, only a few seconds’ work to lock the door as the soldiers hammered into it.
She slumped to the floor, heart racing.
Al had walked further into the room, stopping next to a stack of barrels.
‘Where are we?’
Ada looked round in confusion. They should still be in the part of the cellars where the prisoners were kept. Had she taken a wrong turn? She ran over the prison plans in her head. They’d gone left at the bottom of the stairs, to go north. Only, the stairs had twisted as they’d gone down. Left had taken them south, away from the chapel and further under the prison.
