by Kat Dunn
He peeled off his dark red broadcloth riding coat and waistcoat, dripping rainwater over the floor. Beneath, his shirt was soaked through, clinging to his chest.
Camille folded her arms, keeping her distance. ‘You shouldn’t have come.’
‘So you said.’
‘So go home.’
‘I am home, if I’m with you.’
He pressed a kiss to her lips. She could feel the heat of his skin through the wet fabric, smell the rain in his hair. His lips were chapped and a little rough, and in a flash she saw herself younger, kissing James under the shade of a willow tree, thinking nothing could be more perfect.
She pulled back, guilt rushing in.
‘What are you even doing here? What are you expecting to happen?’
He shrugged. ‘I didn’t exactly have a plan. It’s you and me, we always figure things out. Getting to you was the most important bit.’
‘James, are you trying to rescue me?’
He brushed the back of his fingers against her cheek, trailing down to the delicate skin of her neck and the ridge of her collarbone. Her breath caught in her throat.
‘I wouldn’t dare.’
She shook the feeling off and removed his hand. ‘Good.’
‘Only it does look a bit like you might need, well…’ He gestured at the mould blossoming across the ceiling cornices, and the broken window through which the smell of sewage was acute. ‘A bit of help.’
‘I have all the help I need.’
‘Those people? Are they your friends?’
‘They’re my…’ Camille trailed off. How could she expect James to understand the battalion? He’d been safe in England while they’d all been through hell. ‘We’re on a job together.’
‘What do you mean, job?’
‘I’ll explain later.’
He hesitated, chewing his lip in a too-familiar gesture. ‘All right. Are you sure you’re okay, Cam?’
‘Perfectly. I’m sorry – it’s been a long day. You surprised me. You can stay here tonight, if you like. You don’t look like you’ve slept in a while.’
‘No. The thought of you drove me on.’
‘Stop that.’
‘Okay, okay, fewer romantic gestures. I hear you.’ He looked around the room again, at the silk wall hangings that had rotted through with damp, the salvaged furniture flaking paint and gold leaf, Ada’s lurching wardrobe with her few, carefully hung dresses. ‘I suppose life isn’t exactly romantic these days. I passed a riot outside a bakery only this morning. I knew things in Paris would have changed since I was last here but, my god, Camille, it’s a nightmare.’
‘I am well aware of the situation.’
‘I’d hoped someone would have taken you in. It’s not right that you’ve been left to fend for yourself. I mean, this isn’t exactly the kind of life you’re used to, is it?’
She bristled. ‘You have no idea what I’ve got used to.’
‘Cam, things are not okay here. You can’t seriously mean to stay. Tell me honestly, is this really what you want?’
‘I chose this life. It may look awful to you but this is a life that’s entirely mine. My choice. I’m not sure you can understand what it means to get to live exactly as you want.’ Involuntarily, the memory of Ada brushing her lips against the skin of her neck up on the roof came into her head. Then a spike of guilt.
James’s expression darkened. Before she could reply he spoke again. ‘If this is the life you’ve chosen … is that your way of telling me you don’t want me in it any more?’
‘I – that’s not…’ She folded her arms. ‘I don’t have time for this. Stay tonight, then tomorrow go home. You can bunk up with Al and Guil. It’s not safe for you in Paris and I can’t handle any distractions right now.’
He rubbed the back of his neck. ‘Ah – it’s not that easy, I’m afraid. Spent the last of my money getting here. It’s not cheap bribing your way across the Channel when there’s a war on.’
‘Exactly! There’s a damn war on, not to mention a revolution – if anyone finds you, you could be executed as an English spy.’
‘I suppose that means you’ll have to let me stay hidden with you.’
‘Now isn’t a good time.’
‘You mean this “job” you’re doing? Will you tell me what it is? Maybe I can help you.’
‘You can’t.’
‘Not if you don’t tell me about it.’
She let out an exasperated sigh, then sat down on the edge of the bed. He wasn’t going to understand the battalion, but what did it hurt to tell him? The more she avoided it, the more it felt like somehow she was ashamed.
‘Fine. If it will get you to stop being a fool and go somewhere safe, I’ll explain. When I said I chose this, I mean I chose to stay here and help people who ended up like I did, on the wrong end of the Revolutionary Tribunal. Rescuing them, if I can – we can. Me and my friends out there.’
James let out a soft whistle and sat next to her.
‘Cam, that’s…’
‘Foolish?’
‘I was going to say brave.’ He gave her a lopsided smile and looped their fingers.
She looked at their hands together, the familiarity of it and the strength of his grip. ‘Things have changed, James. So much has happened since we were… I’m not – I don’t…’
She should tell him about Ada. She owed him that much at least. But she couldn’t find the words. What if he reacted badly? Caused a scene? With Olympe in hiding, she couldn’t risk any attention being drawn to the battalion.
‘I need some time,’ she finished awkwardly.
‘Of course.’ He pressed a chaste kiss against her forehead. ‘I’ve missed you.’
She didn’t meet his eye. ‘I’ve missed you too.’
Before he could say anything else, she got up to leave. ‘When this job is done, I’ll see if we can help you get home.’
‘Come back with me, Cam,’ he said suddenly. ‘You know you always have a place with us.’
Her heart stuttered. Because his house was her home too, in many ways.
She turned away.
No. That was the past. The battalion was her future.
‘Stay put and keep out of our way.’
Camille shut the door behind her and shut away the pang of homesickness for a life long gone.
But the memory of James’s lips against hers lingered still.
2
The Parlour, Au Petit Suisse
Oh God, fiancé.
Ada could barely draw in a ragged breath around the shock.
She watched this stranger call Camille ‘Cam’, reach for her hand, move into her space as if he belonged there. Her Cam, hers to touch and tease and snap at and love. Couldn’t he tell Camille was incredibly uncomfortable? Why did he keep holding her hand? If he was her fiancé he should be able to tell when she was uncomfortable.
Ada really disliked him.
Camille bundled him out of the parlour, and Ada sank onto a chaise longue, burying her face in her hands.
A chair scraped against the floor followed by the glug of liquid into a glass.
‘Chin up, Ada.’ Al set the glass on the arm of her seat. ‘I think he’s about to get dumped.’
Ada made an incoherent noise into her hands. ‘She wrote him letters. Even after we came here, she wrote to him. I’m such an idiot.’
‘Oh, I don’t think so. It’s common enough in monied circles to have a few side pieces. I wouldn’t worry yourself about this Teutonic slab of British beef.’ He tossed her a walnut. ‘Not very subtle. You get bored of boys like him quickly enough.’
The walnut hit her head and dropped into her lap.
‘Oh my god.’
‘I think my mother had about three of his type a week. They’d always turn up with pineapples and ice cream and toys for us children, and then I’d never see them again. It’s actually probably a good thing she decided I was a disgusting aberration, or she’d steal all my boyfriends.’
‘Al, can you plea
se shut up right now.’
‘What? I’m trying to help.’
Raised voices came from the other room.
‘I told you. Definitely breaking his heart as we speak.’
They listened to the muffled argument. Then a door slammed, and Camille reappeared.
For a beat, Ada thought about going to her. It felt a lifetime ago that she was rushing across the room to kiss a river-soaked Camille.
Then she thought about James kissing Camille, as he probably had. More than once. Ada stared at her feet. Fiancé. She felt so spectacularly stupid. She could feel everyone staring at her out of the corner of their eye.
Well, everyone but Camille.
‘This man ... James,’ started Guil. ‘Can you trust him?’
Ada was grateful to him for breaking the silence. And that he didn’t say fiancé. She didn’t know what she’d do if she heard that word again.
‘I’m still thinking about it.’
‘We could use an ally—’
‘I’m not talking about him now.’ Camille cut him off.
The battalion sat in silence, so many questions hanging unspoken between them.
Camille stood abruptly and started pacing.
‘We’ve been on the back foot since this whole thing with Olympe started, and I don’t like it. If we keep stumbling around in the dark, we’ll be in trouble before we can do anything about it. As far as I’m concerned this is still a job like any other, only the rescue bit is bigger than we thought. We’ve had difficult jobs before – who snatched the Comtesse de Vaubernier at the very moment the National Guard turned up to arrest her? Us. Who kidnapped Louis de Noailles as he walked out of the Tribunal hall itself? Us! God – who managed to get the entire Sévérac family out of Paris when half the city was hunting for them? Us! It’s always us. When things seem impossible, who else is there? If we don’t help Olympe, then no one will.’
She stopped in front of Al, who looked up at her warily.
‘And what do we need to do a job well? Information.’
He returned her gaze impassively. ‘So read a book.’
‘I need your contacts. Who the hell is this duc and why does he want Olympe? Someone must know something.’
‘I’ll just go and have a chat with all my not-yet-executed entirely relaxed aristocrat friends, then, shall I?’
‘Or your demi-monde criminal friends, whoever has the information. That’s what you said you could offer the battalion, isn’t it? Information. Sources.’
‘Here’s me thinking that you kept me around because you liked me.’ He hid his gaze in his drink. ‘Or was it guilt because your second-rate lawyer of a father couldn’t get my family out of their charges? I forget.’
Camille narrowed her eyes. ‘It certainly wasn’t for your winning personality. Information. Can you get it or not?’
Al retreated to the window seat, grumbling. ‘Your wish is my command.’
She turned to the rest of the battalion.
Her bright grin was so wide it was as if all the candlelight and sharpened blades in the room had come together.
‘We’re in trouble, but it’s time to do what we do best. No fate. No destiny. Everything is a choice, and this time, we choose not to give up. We choose to fight.’
3
The Bedroom, Au Petit Suisse
By candlelight, Camille’s face was as flawless as the polished stone heads that had been lopped off the west facade of Notre Dame. She lay in bed beside Ada, eyes shining and unreadable in the dark. It was less than a year ago that Ada had watched men scale rickety ladders to destroy statues of saints with hammer and chisel, turning the cathedral into the Temple of Reason. The heads had plopped to the earth below like cannonballs, each a short sharp punctuation to the end of religion and the rise of the cult of the Supreme Being.
Ada liked the new statues of the Goddess of Liberty that had taken the Virgin Mary’s place on the altars inside. They were bright and powerful and young. She was hardly religious, and the vanishing of Mass on Sundays – and Sunday itself – hadn’t bothered her. But there was still something mournful and raw about the row of decapitated stone heads lined up on the grass, not so very far away from the human heads that were piling up in the Place de la Révolution. She ran her finger gently along the column of Camille’s throat. Smooth, and cold like stone.
‘Hey.’ Camille’s voice was soft and low, a brush of warm air against Ada’s lips.
‘Hi.’
‘I’ve missed you.’
Cautiously, she looped an arm around Ada’s waist. Ada wasn’t sure how she felt about that.
‘I didn’t go anywhere.’
‘I know. Sorry. That was a stupid thing to say.’
Ada wondered if Camille ever looked at her the way she looked at Camille. With Camille, it was impossible to tell. She was as likely thinking about some plan or calculating their next risk.
Watching Camille go off to talk to James in private, some part of her desperately wanted to know what had happened. The other part couldn’t bear knowing.
He was sleeping on the floor of Guil and Al’s room, while Olympe was on a settle in the front room, tucked under a blanket where she’d fallen asleep in front of the fire.
‘I’ve missed you too.’
Camille smiled, and kissed the corner of her mouth.
‘I—’ A wheezing cough stopped her before she could speak.
‘Are you okay? Your chest—’
‘I’m fine. It’s nothing.’ Ada knew Camille should never have gone in the river. She knew what shock and the wet and the cold could do to her. But she didn’t care about herself, Ada knew that. And she didn’t think about anyone else who might care about her.
‘I’m sorry I never told you about James. It was in the past and I thought that was gone for ever…’ Camille broke off coughing.
‘I thought you said you told me everything?’
‘I did tell you everything – everything important.’
‘And a fiancé isn’t important?’
‘Exactly – he isn’t important.’
Ada glanced away. Her father’s money was still waiting for her. Camille wasn’t the only one keeping secrets. But still, it hurt.
‘You wrote to him.’
‘Not for months, I swear. He knew my parents, I had to tell him what had happened.’
‘And what did you tell him about us?’
Camille was silent.
That was answer enough. The silence lengthened, until Camille spoke.
‘Please can we not do this?’ She pulled Ada closer so Ada could feel the heat of her skin and the catch of her breath through her thin nightdress. ‘I love you. I chose you.’ She pressed a kiss to Ada’s cheek, then her mouth. ‘Do you love me?’
‘Yes. Of course I do.’
‘Then that’s all that matters.’
‘Cam…’
‘Please, Ada. We both nearly died. I want to be near you.’
Ada bit her lip, warring with her own desire. Then nodded.
‘I want you too.’
Camille covered her mouth with her own, hand sliding down to her hip. Ada shivered in pleasure, sinking into the kiss despite herself. Camille nudged a leg between hers and Ada let herself be swept away.
4
The Théâtre Patriotique, Boulevard du Temple
17 Prairial, Year II, three days until the deadline
A boy made of glossy porcelain was wheeled onto the stage and positioned in front of the chattering audience. In front of him, the stagehands fitted a sheet of paper to a writing desk and filled the well with ink. Then they retreated into the wings. A hush spread through the parterre audience and the twelve-sous gallery ticket holders. Ada fiddled with a loose thread in her cuff. After a few tense moments, the boy began to move. His arm shifted and his hand extended from a frilled cuff to dip a quill nib into the ink. Then he moved back and put pen to paper. He repeated this action until black marks marched across the paper, his glassy eyes flicking bac
k and forth. It was uncanny. The way his eyes moved, blank and unseeing but carefully fixed on his work, made the hairs stand up on the back of Ada’s neck.
Ada knew how it worked: her mother had taught her about clockwork through illustrations of cogs and gears. It was an automaton, a strange mechanical creation that moved, danced, played miniature instruments, even acted out whole scenes. A porcelain figure mounted on top of a box containing the clockwork mechanism that drove the movement.
The handler appeared next to his automaton to summon a series of fluttering young women and boisterous young men onstage to examine the machine, verify that it wrote meaningful French. They held up the paper, read it aloud, exclaimed over a tiny portrait of a dog. Remarkable, impossible, ingenious.
Ada shivered. Compared to Olympe and her abilities, the porcelain boy was nothing more than a toy.
The morning after James’s arrival, the battalion had ventured out to the Théâtre Patriotique, where they were scheduled to meet one of Al’s contacts. They had three days to come up with a plan. Olympe had taken some persuading to leave the safety of the rooms over the Au Petit Suisse and Ada had agreed it was better for them to stay behind rather than run the risk of another encounter with the Royalists or Revolutionaries. But Guil had pointed out that even the best-run army needed some occasional rest and relaxation to keep morale up and now the gang was squished in to watch the matinee variety performance, carefully hidden from sight of the rest of the audience.
Camille had had little patience when Olympe resisted.
‘I’m sorry, but we don’t have time for this. If we’re going to have any chance of getting you out of here, you need to get used to the world again, and quickly. I understand it’s a big risk, but it’s a bigger risk to be unprepared.’ She had held Olympe’s gaze. ‘You’ve survived far worse than this.’
‘But if Docteur Comtois sees us…’
‘Don’t make yourself a new prison. You can’t spend your life hiding.’
‘No. But—’
‘If we see any sign of him – or the Royalists – we’ll go. Okay?’
Olympe had reluctantly agreed and sat deep in thought while Ada painted her in a thick layer of powder, and dressed her in gloves, a stiff, washed-out pink caraco jacket with long sleeves, and a shawl to cover her neck. She’d finished the outfit with a broad-brimmed hat and lace veil to hide Olympe’s eyes. The outing would serve as a trial run to see if they could smuggle her through the city unnoticed. So far, the disguise was just about holding.
