by Emma Carroll
‘Pretty much, yes. You said some funny things in your sleep, too, something about gold coins and the deal being done? Does that mean anything to you?’
I shake my head. Yet the feeling of dread grows stronger. Just around the corner of what I can remember is someone I’d rather not meet again. If it’s known I’m here, they’ll come looking for me and I don’t wish any trouble on Pierre’s family.
‘Well ta for everything, but I’d better be off,’ I say, swinging my legs over the side of the bed.
I try to stand but the floor has other plans. It tilts like a ship in a storm, making me drop down onto the bed again.
‘Nice try,’ Pierre says. ‘You’re not going anywhere until you’re better.’
‘I am better,’ I protest. ‘It’s decent of your family to take me in and all, but just tell me what you’ve done with my rooster and we’ll be on our way.’
‘That bird you gave to Papa? The one that sleeps all the time?’ Pierre asks. ‘He followed us home. We can’t get rid of him.’
‘Is he all right?’
Pierre nods. ‘He’s been waiting outside your bedroom door all this time. He’s pining for you, Magpie.’
Poor Coco. I’m almost teary. ‘Can I see him?’
Pierre opens the door. And there, just outside, is my dear orange-feathered friend. If a rooster’s face could fill with joy, his does just that. Before Pierre can even catch him, he’s dashed into the room and up onto the bed, where he settles into the crook of my good arm like we’ve never been apart. Instantly, I’m feeling better, and try again to get out of bed, but still don’t manage it.
‘Stop being so stubborn. You need to rest,’ Pierre tells me. ‘You fell a long way that day, helping us with our prototype.’
That funny word again.
It jogs my memory some more, and slowly, bit by bit, the fog inside my head begins to clear. Now I can picture ropes trailing along the ground. The wind was too strong for us, wasn’t it, the white object filled up with too much air or . . . or . . . something . . . and it was moving too fast, and lifting away from the ground.
But it isn’t the falling part I remember most. It’s the bit before – the flying part – that comes back to me the strongest. The field slipping away from me, the look of wonder on Pierre and his father’s faces. It was the most incredible, magical thing that’s ever happened to me. My heart thumps just from thinking about it.
‘I’d help again, too, honest I would,’ I say. ‘Shame you fell when you did because it was fantastic up there in the air. You’d love it.’
‘Believe me, I wouldn’t,’ Pierre replies. ‘No one was meant to fly that day, and I’ve no plans to repeat the experience. It’s completely unsafe.’
‘Maybe one day it will be, though.’
He quickly changes the subject. ‘I don’t mean to be rude Magpie, but you smell like an old donkey. No, actually, worse than an old donkey.’
‘Well, you smell like . . .’ The truth is he’s so clean he doesn’t smell of anything.
Half an hour later, a sullen-faced servant girl arrives. She’s sweating under her arms and down her back like she’s got a fever – no wonder when I see the tin bath she’s dragging behind her.
‘Brought this all the way up from the basement so you’d better be grateful,’ she says, scowling at me.
Dumping the bath, she disappears, returning again and again with jugs of hot water until it’s filled. On one of these trips she forgets to shut the door and I overhear her talking in the passageway.
‘I’m carrying this bathwater and can’t do nothing else, Madame Verte,’ she complains. ‘There’s the animals to feed and Monsieur Joseph’s gone all strange – one minute he wants his pencils sharpened, the next he’s shouting and screwing up paper and saying he can’t make his designs work any more.’
‘It’s this obsession with flying, Odette,’ replies an older woman. ‘Ever since his notes disappeared that night he’s more or less given up. But he won’t go back to working at the mill. He just sits up in his study all day, staring out of the window.’
My ears prick at this. Missing notes? Sounds familiar.
And the final bit of the puzzle comes to me, click, clunk, like opening a lock with a hairpin. Which was exactly how I broke in here that night, wasn’t it, though I’m not proud of it now. In fact, I’m out and out ashamed. Those papers I took – the different skies, the object floating in each one – were designs for Pierre’s father’s flying creation, weren’t they?
I groan miserably. I’ve done a shoddy thing, even by my usual low standards.
Odette’s talking again: ‘I reckon it’s the accident. Never mind what happened to that Magpie – from what I’ve heard, Pierre nearly came a cropper, too.’
‘Can’t risk losing the only son, can they?’ Madame Verte agrees.
‘Only child by the way Madame Montgolfier’s been recently. She don’t need anything else to fret about, that’s for sure.’
When Odette stomps back into the room, I try to make it look like I’ve not been listening. She hands me a lump of something wrapped in paper. I sniff it warily.
‘It’s soap.’ She stares in disbelief. From her apron pocket, she produces a pair of shears and comes at me with them.
Horrified, I shrink back into the pillows. ‘What are those for?’
‘Your hair. Madame Verte says it’s to come off. You’ve got lice.’
‘I haven’t.’ But I’m instantly scratching my head. I’m crawling with lice, of course I am.
She makes me get out of bed and sit on an upright chair. She isn’t gentle with the shears, either. Soon the floor’s covered in so much hair I can’t imagine there’s any left on my head. With a look of disgust, she sweeps it into a bucket for burning.
I’m wearing a nightgown-type slip, the sleeves of which roll up easily so Odette can take the strapping off my bad arm. Before I know it, she’s whipped the nightgown off too. And I’m stood there, starkers and shivering.
‘No looking,’ I warn her.
She rolls her eyes. ‘I’ve got better things to gawp at than your scrawny body.’
By now, though, I’m almost glad to get into the bath. It feels like sitting in a giant, lukewarm puddle, and that’s the nice bit. When Odette scrubs my back I’m sure she’s mistaken me for a stone floor.
Afterwards, she gives me a clean nightgown. The bath has left me so wobbly-weak I’m glad to get back into bed. Right on cue, Voltaire the duck’s head appears round the door, then Pierre’s.
‘You look better.’ He grins. ‘Can we come in now?’
I give a weary shrug. I suppose boys like him, and their ducks, don’t have much else to do all day. Taking the seat by the bed again, Pierre passes me a little mirror, the sort that’d make a few coins for its silver. ‘Have you seen yourself?’
Reluctantly, I take the mirror. I’ve seen enough of my reflection in shop windows and horse troughs to know I’m no beauty. Still, it comes as a shock to see myself without hair. Don’t think I’m vain, but my eyes look way too big and my freckles stand out like tea-leaves on my cheeks. I’m all sharpness and shadows. I thrust the mirror back at Pierre.
‘I look like a boy,’ I mutter, hugging Coco to me. At least he doesn’t seem to mind. Yet Voltaire, who’s sat importantly on Pierre’s knee, quacks. ‘See, even your duck thinks so.’
‘You look better than you did before,’ Pierre remarks.
I tense up: what before does he mean? Before the bath? Before, downstairs by the back door when I tried to steal the box? What if the scarf round my face didn’t fool him? Does that mean he knows who I am?
Once again, I get the feeling that this bedroom – this lovely, comfortable bedroom – is a trap.
‘I’m not under arrest, am I?’ I ask nervously.
‘Arrest?’ Pierre frowns. Thinks about it. ‘Well, I suppose that rather depends on what you are.’
‘What I am?’
‘All that talk of gold coins in your sleep. You c
ould be a spy, working for someone.’
I cough back a laugh. ‘A spy?’ He’s definitely been reading too many books. But at least he doesn’t seem to think I’m a thief, and I’m glad. I’ve never cared for people’s good opinions before, but Pierre’s somehow seems to matter.
‘I mean it,’ Pierre says. ‘There are spies out there. We’ve had one break in here already recently, which made us realize the threat is real, though thankfully the papers stolen weren’t too vital.’
‘Really?’ My voice is a strangled squeak. ‘That’s … um … shocking.’
Heat spreads across my neck: I yank the covers up to hide it. I might as well have a big ‘guilty’ sign hanging over my head.
Amazingly, Pierre doesn’t seem to notice.
‘It was, Magpie. So we have to be doubly careful from now on,’ he explains, because he’s far too nice to think I might not be on his side.
And I have to admit, this talk of spies is intriguing. I wriggle up into a half-sitting position. ‘What’re they after, these spies?’
‘Knowledge,’ Pierre replies. ‘We’re not the only ones trying to invent a way to fly, you know. There’s a race on. And no one wants to be second.’
‘Who’re they working for?’
‘The English.’ Pierre blows out a sigh. ‘Though they’re not having much more luck than us, by the sounds of things. They can’t keep their structure inflated, either. Nor have they worked out the weight issue.’
I frown. ‘Weight issue?’
‘How much the structure can tolerate, so it’s able to get off the ground for a decent flight, but isn’t at the complete mercy of the weather.’
‘The wind, you mean?’ I say, thinking how the object had been tossed about like a scrap of paper.
‘Exactly.’
‘So the English are trying to steal your ideas, are they?’
‘I know they are, Magpie. I’ve seen them. Spies are easy enough to spot if you know the signs.’
‘Go on, then.’ I’m trying not to smile. ‘How d’you spot a spy?’
‘People acting out of place. Who let slip information that they couldn’t possibly know. Or . . .’ Pierre raises an eyebrow, ‘ . . . who sneak about in the middle of the night.’
‘Right. I see.’ I’m serious again. This spying lark sounds a lot like thieving. It’s taking something that’s not yours.
Though part of me thinks it sounds a bit farfetched, I honestly can’t forget what it felt like to fly. And like anything in this life that’s worth something, it’s not long before other people start circling, sniffing, wanting it for themselves. A thief like me knows that all too well.
5
Another few days and I’m well enough to get up properly. First thing I do is open the window, breathing in all the early morning I can get. Today’s sky is a beauty, pale blue and pink-flecked, the kind that promises another fine Annonay spring day. These weeks of being indoors have softened me up. I’m slower, sleepier, which is no good if you count on sharp wits to get by. Funny too how not being hungry all the time gives you a chance to think about other things – like flying, and how that object might’ve stayed longer in the air. Not that it’s my concern. I’ve poked my nose around here too much already.
Something down by the orchard catches my eye. It’s under the trees. A grey shape that’s there, then gone again. A shadow, probably, though it makes me suddenly afraid. I try not to think it’s Madame Delacroix, though I bet it won’t be long before our paths cross again.
Then Pierre arrives in a whirlwind of curly hair and coat-tails. Voltaire has to waddle fast to keep up.
‘Vite, Magpie!’ Pierre cries. ‘Papa’s asked to see you.’
I’m taken aback. ‘What for?’
‘I don’t know. But you’re to call him Monsieur Joseph, and wear these.’ He thrusts a bundle of clothes at me. ‘You are well enough, aren’t you?’
‘I think so.’ I’m actually glad of the distraction. ‘Look away then, while I get dressed.’
As Pierre turns around, I shake out the frock he’s given me. It’s like the ones Odette the servant wears, with a muslin cap to match: I don’t fancy myself in it much.
‘Where’s my own stuff?’ I ask. I’d a perfectly decent frock on when I’d got here. ‘Can’t I wear that?’
Pierre glances down at Voltaire: ‘Will you tell her, or shall I?’
The duck quacks; it sounds like a rude word, and I can’t help sniggering.
Pierre, though, keeps a very straight face. ‘Your old dress had lice in it, that’s what Voltaire’s trying to tell you. And it was rotten under the arms.’
‘Rubbish!’ I tell him. ‘That was my best dress.’
It was my only one, too.
The study looks different in daylight. Above our heads are three attic windows, each one full of sky: no wonder Monsieur Joseph spends his time staring out of them. Everything else – the papers, the books, the mess of the place – is just as I remembered, and it makes me both edgy and at ease. The man sitting at the desk I recognize as Pierre’s father. From the strain on his waistcoat buttons, I’d say he’s done more eating than running across fields recently. Despite all the mess around him, his desk is completely clear: no pens, no pencils, no paper, no notebooks. He’s obviously not working, Odette and Madame Verte were right. All over again I feel bad about the papers, because he needs them more than I ever did. My guilts aren’t helped by seeing the red valuables box on a nearby shelf, though I try not to stare.
‘The duck waits outside,’ Monsieur Joseph says. He clicks his fingers at Voltaire, who shakes his tail feathers in disgust.
‘Oh Papa,’ Pierre pleads. ‘You know how he likes to feel included.’
Monsieur Joseph sighs and sits back in his seat. ‘He also has a habit of pooping all over the place.’
I catch Pierre’s eye: he pretends to look annoyed but does as his father asks. Then it’s our turn for a finger-click as we’re directed to sit in two chairs. Both are piled high with books that we have to move first.
‘What work do you do, Magpie?’ Monsieur Joseph asks.
‘Ummm . . .’ I’m unsure how to put it. He’s got the same kind face as Pierre, only older, more worried-looking. But I don’t suppose he’d want to hear the truth.
‘I’ll cut to the point,’ he says. ‘Our housekeeper Madame Verte insists we need extra help now my brother is living with us. My wife, Madame Montgolfier, is unwell currently, which also puts a strain on things.’
Odette was gossiping about this out in the corridor, wasn’t she? I feel bad all over again for not being more grateful to her. With one sick person in the house already, nursing me was extra work she didn’t need.
‘So,’ Monsieur Joseph continues. ‘Pierre thinks the position may suit you. Would you be interested?’
I puff my cheeks in surprise. Me, work here, at the Montgolfiers’ house? After I’d stolen his papers?
He doesn’t know that thief was me, though. He just thinks I’m the girl who had the nerve to keep hold of his flying machine. I’m the girl who went up into the sky. And, you know what, I reckon I could get used to being her, even if does mean I’ll have to dress like Odette.
‘Or are you expected somewhere else?’ Monsieur Joseph asks.
I think briefly of the shadow I saw under the trees.
‘No Monsieur, I’m not expected,’ I reply.
‘Bon. You’ll start work as soon as you’re able.’ He peers at me properly. ‘Are you able? Has your shoulder healed enough?’
‘’Course,’ I say quickly, before he thinks I’m not up to it.
‘Now Papa,’ Pierre steps in. ‘While we’re here, why don’t you ask Magpie about her experience of flying?’
I grin – I can’t help it – because I’ve been hoping he might ask, and truth be known, I’m dying to talk it over. But Monsieur Joseph looks suddenly uncomfortable. ‘Pierre, I really don’t think—’
‘You should listen to her,’ Pierre cuts in. ‘It might help y
ou start working again.’
‘My work is well enough – it needs no help,’ Monsieur Joseph mutters, with a shifty cough.
He’s lying.
Pierre rolls his eyes. ‘Papa, admit it. You’re stuck. You’ve done nothing since the day we brought Magpie here.’
‘Since the accident, you mean?’ Monsieur Joseph says with some force. ‘Our little experiment didn’t go well that day, did it? You’ve clearly forgotten that you and Magpie nearly died.’
Pierre flinches. ‘Of course I haven’t! I’m still having nightmares about it, but that doesn’t mean you should stop—’
‘Your dear mother would never forgive me if anything happened to you. Goodness knows, in her frail state she’d probably not survive the shock. No, I’ve decided. It’s simply too dangerous.’
‘Papa, I think you should—’
‘The design was never right,’ Monsieur Joseph interrupts again. ‘We’ve suffered so many setbacks it’s wiser to cut our losses. We shouldn’t waste any more time and effort on something that’s doomed to fail.’
They both go quiet. Pierre stares at his feet, Monsieur Joseph at the wall. I know that if I don’t say something now I’ll regret it. Because one of those setbacks was my fault and if Monsieur Joseph could just hear, for a minute, what it felt like to be up in the air, then he’d know it was worth every tiny second, every risk.
‘Umm . . . Monsieur, that day in the field,’ I stumble to find the right words, ‘with the . . . ummm . . .’
‘. . . The prototype,’ Pierre nods in encouragement. ‘Go on, keep talking. Tell him what it was like to fly.’
‘You flew too,’ I remind him. ‘What did you think of it?’
His face pales. ‘It was awful. Terrifying. But you—’
‘I loved it.’ I finish for him. ‘It was incredible. If there was a way of making it steadier, and having some sort of control over the going up bit, then you could stay up in the air, well, for hours!’
Monsieur Joseph holds up his hand like he wants me to stop. But it’s all bubbling up inside of me, though I’m struggling to explain it.
‘It was like that curtain,’ I point to the open window behind him. ‘The wind lifts it, fills it up, then lets it fall.’
