by Zoë Archer
“Funny little tradition of mine,” Marco replied. “I send my friends gifts on my birthday. Reminds them how important I am.”
This lessened the shopkeeper’s misgivings—slightly. “Which champagne, monsieur?”
“Veuve Clicquot. Seventy-four.” A pricey vintage, but if everything went according to plan, the cost would be covered by Les Grillons themselves.
At this, the wine merchant looked far more pleased. “Of course, monsieur.”
Marco paid, and, to ensure lack of suspicion, left the shop. He flagged a cab.
“We’ll be following someone,” he said to the driver. “Five francs if you keep yourself from being seen.”
“We’ll be like ghosts, monsieur,” the cabman answered.
Eventually, the delivery wagon from the shop pulled out from an alley. True to the cabman’s word, he kept a discreet distance, always with several other vehicles or horses between them. Marco kept his gaze sharp for any Grillons operatives on the street. If he was spotted, the plan would come crashing down.
The first delivery was made to an impressive house in Saint-Germain—though whether it was Reynard’s home or Cluzet’s, Marco couldn’t tell. The second delivery was made to a home in the sixteenth arrondissement. Clearly, both Reynard and Cluzet didn’t lack for ill-gotten wealth. Both homes were also well guarded.
Now he had his addresses. But it wouldn’t be an easy task to get inside them.
After dismissing the cab, and giving the driver an additional franc for services rendered, part of him had wanted to stay out, simply because he could. Because he wanted to prove something to Bronwyn.
But another part of him—louder and more demanding than the first—needed to return to her. He’d had the absurd idea of telling her about how he’d located the homes of Reynard and Cluzet, sharing his techniques for discovering what he’d needed to know. But spies and Nemesis agents didn’t talk to each other about the how and why of what they did. It was supposed to be a given that they’d have a task and complete it successfully. No accolades. No admiration. Just confidence in one another’s abilities.
Yet he wanted to see the pleasure in her eyes—as he knew he’d see—when he explained how he’d collected the information he wanted. All without resorting to any violence.
Knowing that she’d be hungry after their long voyage, he’d stopped to buy food, and felt matrimonial as hell as he’d carried it back to the toy shop, and to her. She had greeted him with silence when he’d returned. He’d hoped—foolishly—that she’d forgotten their argument, or absolved him of any perceived wrongdoing. But she still remembered that he hadn’t wanted to take her case at the beginning.
The rest of the meal had been an exercise in discomfort. Every topic he brought up, she answered monosyllabically, until he stopped talking altogether.
Worst of all, more than anything else, was the hurt in her eyes when she looked at him. That he’d put that pain there. And the mistrust he saw in her face. Damn it, he was here to help her—felt things for her that he’d never felt before—yet it seemed as though he needed to beg for forgiveness.
He actually looked forward to breaking into Cluzet’s and Reynard’s homes tonight. It’d be dangerous, but those perils seemed minor compared to navigating the rocky shoals of a woman’s heart.
Once they’d finished their meal, he and Bronwyn waited several tense, silent hours.
Like any men of means, Reynard and Cluzet likely spent their evenings out, enjoying the many pleasures Paris had to offer. Marco hadn’t seen any sign that either man had family, which meant it was all the more probable that they wouldn’t be home when the clock struck midnight.
He could leave Bronwyn behind. No. She might not be an experienced housebreaker, but she was more secure with him than left alone, even at the abandoned safe house. And she could serve as an extra set of eyes, having become quite perceptive over these past weeks.
“Leave some of your petticoats behind,” he said, breaking the silence. “They’ll hinder your movement and make too much noise.”
Wordlessly, she did as he suggested, though he died a little inside when she reached up her own skirts and shimmied out of two layers of starched cotton.
So, with her movement somewhat silenced, they crept out into the darkened streets of Paris.
It would be a long walk to the home in Saint-Germain, but better that than attract attention by hiring a carriage. The early spring air held a bite to it, and their breath misted as they walked.
God damn it, but it felt wrong—this distance between them. Once, he would’ve welcomed it. He could’ve gone about the mission without concerning himself with someone else’s thoughts, feelings. Unnecessary chatter before a job was an unwelcome distraction. Now … now he wanted more, even if was to note the weather.
They finally reached the tall, stylish home. Velvet curtains hung in the window, and the brass fittings all gleamed impressively in the lamplight. On either side of the home stood equally tasteful, expensive houses.
“Crime pays well,” Bronwyn murmured. Her first words of the night, and he clutched them tight, like dropped gems.
“Better than honest work,” he answered.
He saw her eye the large man standing on the front step. Not even bothering to conceal himself. “We won’t be going through the front door.”
“Or the back. Someone will be posted there, too.”
“Then how do we get in?” she wondered.
“Through there.” He pointed to one of the houses two doors down. Still clinging to the shadows, he edged into the mews that ran behind all the fine homes. Bronwyn followed.
Iron fences faced the mews, with thick gates there to keep out unwanted visitors. There was a heavy lock on the gate, but Marco chose the faster option and hopped over the fence. He carried a small phial of lubricant, which he dropped onto the gates’ hinges. Then he opened the gate for Bronwyn. It swung open noiselessly.
They stepped into a narrow garden with a dry fountain and espaliered trees. The lights in the house were all dark, even the ones in the kitchen and attic, where the servants might be found. At the back door, he picked the lock, then let them into the house itself.
Bronwyn stuck close to him as they moved up through the town home. He pointed to the floor to indicate that she should step only where he stepped, and she seemed to understand his direction, because the floors kept silent beneath her feet. The house might be elegant and richly furnished, but it was still at least a century old, with the squeaky floors that accompanied a building of its age.
They slipped up from the servants’ lower level, up through the public rooms, and the stairs that led to the family’s private apartments. But he guided them higher still, moving to the narrow servants’ staircase. Here was the greatest danger. Despite the fact that the lights were out, there was always the possibility that one of the family could summon a servant in the middle of the night. But they didn’t encounter anyone as they went higher, all the way to the attic itself.
He picked another lock—this one separating the menservants’ rooms from the female servants’ chambers. No one was awake doing needlework, as maids sometimes had to do once the family was abed. So Marco paced onward to a narrow door at the end of the corridor. This was unlocked, so it was a simple matter to open it and step through.
Then he and Bronwyn were on the roof. Her fewer petticoats made it much simpler for her to climb out. Paris spread out around them, glittering and shadowed, with the river to the north, and the low hulking form of Notre Dame squatting on the Ile de la Cité also close by. Though he was no stranger to a rooftop view of Paris, it was a novelty for Bronwyn, so he stood with her for several moments as she took in the panorama. Selfish of him, really, and a torment, because he much preferred the wonderment on her face to any picturesque view, and as she looked around, he watched her—the small smile curving the corners of her lips, the brightness of her eyes.
“Lovely as this is,” she whispered, “what are we doing up
here? The home you said we want is there.” She pointed two houses down.
“Can’t get in through the bottom,” he answered in a low voice. “So we’re going in through the top.”
Her eyes widened as she realized what he meant. This was an old part of the city, and the houses crowded close together. The home on which they currently stood shared a wall with its neighbor, which meant that crossing from one roof to the other would be as easy as a stroll. But a distance of about eight feet separated the neighbor’s roof from the Grillons operative’s home.
“You said you ran in school,” he continued. “Did you jump, too?”
“A little, but it’s been many years since I’ve put that skill to the test.” Her voice still sounded distant, strained, but whether it was because of the height or him, he couldn’t tell.
“Tonight’s the night.”
He half expected her to protest, or insist that she’d stay on the neighbor’s roof while Marco took care of his business inside the Grillons man’s house. Instead, she swallowed hard, then nodded.
He took her hand, and she stiffened in his grip. But he led her across the steeply slanted slate roofs, ensuring as much as he could that they both balanced lightly and carefully.
“What if I slip?” she whispered as they edged along the roofs.
“I’ll catch you.”
If she understood his deeper meaning, she didn’t show it. Instead, she moved very slowly.
He didn’t try to urge her to go faster. Haste would only make her more nervous. Still holding her hand, he murmured, “During intelligence training, they’d take us onto rooftops day after day. Most of us—me included—were terrified. I’d never walked on the roof of a five-story building before.”
“Yet I’m the one shaking now.”
“Because you haven’t practiced the way I have. They told us on that first day that nerves were the enemies of housebreakers and spies. Fear steals confidence. The more dangerous a situation, the more you need every ounce of confidence.”
He kept talking as they walked slowly over the roof. A false step could send either of them plummeting to the ground below. There was always the possibility one could survive a plunge like that, but if one did, the best one could hope for was shattered legs or a broken back, if one’s head didn’t split open on the pavement.
So they took their time, despite his desire to move faster. She didn’t turn back and she didn’t stop. Just kept going.
Until, finally, they reached the edge of the roof, with the Grillons operative’s just beyond. The houses themselves were actually eight feet apart, but the overhang of the roofs left the distance as five feet.
She hesitated. “I don’t know if I can do this.” She sidled back, and her hand clasped in his grew damp.
“You wait here,” he offered.
“Someone might see me.”
“Not at this hour of the night, and not from this angle.”
“But if I stay, you’ll be alone in there.”
Her concern—even if she was still angry with him—touched something raw and unprotected within him.
“I was alone tracking down Reynard’s and Cluzet’s addresses today,” he noted. And he’d broken into countless houses, embassies, and military installations on his own.
Drawing a deep breath, she shook her head. “I’ll go with you. You should have someone watching your back.”
It was probably the nicest thing anyone had ever said to him. Certainly no woman, other than a Nemesis agent, had ever given his safety so much thought.
“It’s easy as hopping puddles,” he said. “Use the muscles of your legs to push yourself forward. Watch.”
There wasn’t room to take a running start, so he crouched low, then sprang, shoving off with the balls of his feet. For a moment, he flew, empty space all around him. Then he landed in another crouch on the opposite roof, gathering his balance in an instant. Rising up, he turned.
She stared at him from across the gap, her eyes as wide as the moon.
“You are part feline,” she said.
“Just a man.”
“More than that.”
He shook his head. “No special gifts or magic powers. Perfectly ordinary.”
“That’s not true, and you know it.”
“And you’re stalling. Remember what I told you. Use your legs. Push with the balls of your feet. Don’t worry about the landing. I’m here.” He held out his hands.
She breathed in once. Tucked up her skirt, revealing more of her legs, and crouched. A look of fearful determination on her face.
He’d never admit it to her, but his heart pounded. What if she couldn’t make it? She might fall short, and then literally fall. If that happened, he’d dive after her. There was a gutter on the other roof—he could hook his feet into that as he leaped forward, giving him some purchase, as he grabbed for her hands.
And then she jumped. Time stopped as she seemed to hang in the air—both the most terrifying thing he’d ever seen, and the most beautiful. Bronwyn in flight.
But he couldn’t be distracted. As soon as she flew toward him, her hands reaching for his, he grabbed her. He braced himself, and her whole body hit him. But he remained standing, keeping them both upright. Her heart beat furiously against his chest as she clung to him.
“There, now,” he said, one hand cradling her head, the other pressed against the small of her back. “You flew like a bird. Like a sparrow.”
Though she shook, she managed to say, “P-please don’t call me that. Say I’m … an eagle … instead.”
“An eagle then. And here we both are, exactly where we want to be.” He pressed a kiss to the crown of her head. “Brava, fragola.”
He thought she might correct him on calling her this, too, but she only said, “Thank you.”
He didn’t have the heart to tell her that the most dangerous part of the night was still to come.
* * *
There was no door that led to the attic on the roof. But there were dormer windows—unlocked—and Marco used one of these to get him and Bronwyn inside. There, they found themselves in a crawl space laced with cobwebs. On his hands and knees, he led the way to a trapdoor cut into the attic.
Pulling the door ajar, he peered down into a dimly lit hallway. The fine wallpaper and carpet indicated that it wasn’t the servants’ quarters. Either the help slept in the basement, or else the Grillons man who dwelled here had live-out employees, save perhaps for a valet. But it was good news that he and Bronwyn wouldn’t likely encounter any servants roaming the corridors.
Marco closed the trapdoor when a beefy man strolled down the corridor. A guard. Armed, if the bulge in his coat was any indicator.
A moment later, the sentry disappeared, continuing on his patrol. The second the man left, Marco began a silent count in his head. He could feel Bronwyn’s fear and impatience, but this was a step that couldn’t be skipped or rushed. After ten minutes, the guard reappeared, walking in the other direction.
As soon as the sentry was gone again, Marco signaled to Bronwyn that they had ten minutes to get down from the crawl space and make their way to their destination. She nodded her understanding.
Marco waited thirty more seconds before fully opening the trapdoor and dropping down into the corridor. The guard had moved on. Marco waved at Bronwyn to descend from the crawl space. She looked momentarily dubious, but perhaps her jump from roof to roof had given her more confidence, because she slipped down from the ceiling and into his waiting arms.
She was wise in knowing that they couldn’t speak, but signaled to him, What now?
He pointed downward. If his instincts were correct—and they almost always were—the place they sought would be on the ground floor. Which left them with several stories to descend without being seen.
Conscious that there had to be more guards, Marco took Bronwyn’s hand, and together they slid toward the stairs. Not much of a surprise that the home was fitted with only the best furniture and art, as though
the occupant were an aristocrat’s younger son or perhaps a prosperous banker. Which he was, of a sort. Les Grillons had made the bulk of their fortune through loans, just like any other bank. Except their interest rates and penalties were much higher. Including murder.
He and Bronwyn reached the second floor without incident, until Marco felt a subtle shift in the atmosphere. A tiny vibration along the floor. He pulled Bronwyn into an unlocked room, easing the door shut just before another sentry passed by. Judging by the sofa and the writing table, it was a small parlor. Marco dragged her behind the sofa seconds before the guard opened the door.
A breathless moment as the sentry surveyed the room. If they were caught, either they’d be killed immediately, or else tortured and then killed. Marco could try to fight their way out, which might work, but then the whole plan would be scuppered, and they’d be left with nothing.
Yet all these thoughts he kept well buried. As they waited out the guard, Bronwyn looked with wide eyes at Marco, and he calmly gazed back. No sense in alarming her even more with all the things that could go very wrong. And a spy—or Nemesis operative—who was disconcerted by an obstacle would not only fail at their objective, they’d probably wind up dead.
So he only nodded at her, indicating that everything was fine. Which it was. He had to convince himself of that.
At last, the sentry shut the door and moved on. Marco very slowly exhaled, and Bronwyn let out a shuddering breath.
After another minute, he rose up from behind the sofa, and helped her up. Once he was convinced that everything was clear, he slipped out of the parlor, with Bronwyn close behind.
Descending the stairs, they kept close to the wall and moved quickly but cautiously. There was no place to hide on a staircase. Finally, they reached the ground floor. Marco bypassed all the rooms with open doors—sitting rooms, salons, the dining room. The one he sought would have its door closed. And locked. And so it was, once they reached it. Marco placed her hand on his shoulder and indicated that she should watch the hallway. She would give him a squeeze if she sensed anyone near. After she nodded in understanding, he knelt down to pick the lock, conscious all the while that a guard could pass by at any moment. At last, he picked the lock and let them in, then locked the door behind them.
