by Emma Carroll
I’m up there with it. Or at least my heart is, fluttering away like a skylark. I know what it’s like to see rooftops, trees, rivers from above, animals so small they look like toys. I know that funny, lurching feeling and the strange, breathy quiet. It makes my toes tingle.
‘Zut alors, look at it!’ Pierre gasps.
‘Don’t speak!’ I yell. ‘Keep counting!’
Suddenly though, things don’t look right. Our egg shape is at a queer angle. What should’ve been nicely puffed paper is collapsing in on itself.
‘No!’ I’m desperate for it to stay flying. ‘Keep going!’
But the paper is covered in spreading dark patches. The steam, I realize, has made the paper wet. Our prototype isn’t strong any more. One of the ropes tears away, leaving the dish hanging. The whole thing sinks steadily, swooping between the trees, bumping over the yard wall. I scramble down the tree just in time to hear plop-crack as it hits the cobbles.
‘I counted two minutes and twelve seconds of flight!’ Pierre cries.
‘It’s a start,’ I admit. We’ve done all right, but I can’t help but think it’s not enough to impress the King.
Pierre though, grins from ear to ear. ‘It flew, Voltaire!’ he says, scooping up his duck and sitting him on his shoulder like some conquering hero. ‘Our experiment worked!’
In the yard, we’re greeted with a mess of broken china and splattered paper. Pierre prods it with his foot.
‘Leave it. I’ll tidy up,’ I tell him, bustling him inside; I don’t want him to see I’m disappointed. We need to do better next time. And that’s the problem – there aren’t many ‘next times’ before it’s too late.
Our experiment was better than Monsieur Joseph’s effort earlier, I tell myself as I start sweeping. The steam must be doing something right.
‘MAGPIE!’
I go stiff. The shriek coming from behind me is Madame Verte’s. She’s heading my way, her footsteps the fast, furious kind that tell me I’m in trouble. I brace myself for a thick ear, so when she pushes two empty buckets into my hands instead, I’m startled.
‘Water!’ she cries. ‘Quickly! Get heating as much as you can!’
I nod and take the buckets. I don’t ask why. Then she’s turned heel and rushed back inside and I just hope she didn’t see what remains of the blue and white serving dish when, honest to God, she almost stepped in it.
Back in the kitchen, Odette’s adding more wood to the stove. It’s already blazing: the heat coming off it makes me sweat.
‘We need that water upstairs for Madame M,’ Odette says, wiping her brow. ‘Bring it up when it’s hot, can you? Quick as you like!’
I realize with growing dread this isn’t bathwater we’re heating.
‘Is she all right?’ I ask.
Odette’s eyes fill with tears. ‘We’ve sent for the doctor – he’s with her now.’
Despite the scorching stove, the water takes forever to warm. As I wait, toes tapping, I churn over what Pierre told me about his mama. Such a pity she can’t have more babies. Poor Pierre, too. He’d make a smashing big brother. Which then gets me thinking about being a sister myself. Not that it’d ever happen, but I wouldn’t half mind finding out.
On the stairs, I meet Odette, who takes the pails of water from me, giving me an armful of bloody sheets in return.
‘Don’t look so horrified,’ she says, smiling. ‘The doctor’s just told us he thinks the baby will be fine.’
I’m so glad I start to well up myself.
Madame Verte then appears with orders from Monsieur Joseph for a celebratory lunch to be served tomorrow.
‘Let me help, will you? I’d really like to,’ I say.
‘You’re a good girl, Magpie,’ Madame Verte pats me on the shoulder, then turns to Odette. ‘When you’ve taken that water in, can you send word to Monsieur Couteau? We need him here first thing tomorrow.’
Odette frowns. ‘The butcher? I can wring a chicken’s neck good as he can.’
‘We’re not having chicken,’ Madame Verte announces. ‘We’re having lamb.’
It takes a moment to sink in. We’ve only got one lamb.
‘You can’t eat Lancelot!’ I burst out.
‘Lancelot?’ Odette’s eyebrows shoot up. ‘Who’s that?’
But I’m frantic. ‘She’s the prettiest sheep you’ll ever see! And honestly, she’s kind too and nibbles your feet! Coco adores her! Please, you can’t do this!’
Odette snorts. Madame Verte folds her arms. ‘What’s all this silliness?’
‘She’s named the sheep Lancelot!’ Odette laughs.
They look at me like I’m madder than the King of England.
9
From that moment on I’m downright miserable. It’s daft, I know, because I’ve never ever turned my nose up at a lamb chop. And with a baby Montgolfier on the way now, there’s lots to be glad about. Yet the next morning, seeing Lancelot in the orchard like she doesn’t know what’s coming, makes it ten times worse. As usual, she bounds over and starts nosing my pockets for scraps. Then she butts Coco who’s still asleep in his sling. She doesn’t stop until he finally pokes his head out.
‘You’d better say your goodbyes,’ I tell her, scratching the spot she likes between the ears.
Reaching up, she nuzzles Coco’s head oh so gently I can hardly bear to watch. Perhaps they do know what’s coming, after all.
Thinking it’s best to get on with it, I give Lancelot a quick brush down, check her feet, her teeth. Under Madame Verte’s instructions I take her to the yard to weigh her. She comes in at just under twenty-eight pounds – Madame Verte was hoping she’d be thirty, at least – yet she’s a fine healthy specimen with a good solid rump and strong flanks. And even now I can’t help noticing her sweet nature, the sort you’d expect from a loyal pet dog. It’s this that makes it so hard.
Just as I’m slipping a rope over her head, the front gate clanks shut. Normally it’s a job to hear it from the orchard, but I’m on high alert: Monsieur Couteau’s due any time. Sick with dread, I go to the orchard gate to check, just as a horse and rider pull up at the back door. Unless the butcher rides expensive looking steeds and dresses like Viscount Herges, then this visitor definitely isn’t him.
Then comes the shout, ‘Urgent message from the King!’ And my panic turns into a different sort. I race into the yard, leaving Lancelot right where she is.
‘I’ll take it!’ I offer, trying all the world this time to convince him I do have a brain. Thankfully he doesn’t seem to remember me.
But before Viscount Herges can give me the note, the back door opens. Pierre, his father and his uncle stumble out into the morning, looking like they’ve already done a big fat slice of celebrating and not yet been to bed.
Frantic, I pull faces at Pierre. We can’t let his father or uncle read that note. If they do, then they’ll know what we’ve been up to, and we’re not ready for that yet.
It’s too late.
Monsieur Etienne has the letter in his hand. He cracks open the wax seal, shakes out the folded paper, draws himself up to his full, enormous height. At his elbow, Monsieur Joseph manages a weak smile.
‘A message from King Louis, eh? This is an unexpected honour,’ he says, though doesn’t sound convinced.
Finally, Pierre catches on. His face drops. He looks to me. All I can do is shrug, helpless. We’re about to be rumbled.
Clearing his throat Monsieur Etienne reads, ‘“Monsieurs Montgolfier, Since our last correspondence events have taken a sorry turn here at Versailles . . .”’ Monsieur Etienne stops, confused. ‘Last correspondence? Have you written on our behalf and not told me, brother?’
I keep my eyes glued to the ground.
‘Why would I write to the King?’ Monsieur Joseph asks. ‘Good grief, I’ve been wanting to call a halt to our work, not draw attention to it!’
‘“. . . News that your invention for flight is progressing with a speed to rival the English is very pleasing to hear”,’
Monsieur Etienne reads on. In the silence that follows, I risk glancing at Monsieur Joseph who looks like someone’s just walloped him across the back of the head with a frying pan. Monsieur Etienne holds the letter at arm’s length, scowling. It’s Pierre who speaks first.
‘We wrote to him,’ he says meekly. ‘Magpie and I. A message came a few days ago wanting news of our invention and we replied to it.’
I wince.
‘You did what?’ Monsieur Joseph gasps. ‘Why? How?’
‘It was my idea,’ I speak up, not wanting Pierre to take the blame. ‘We told the King we were making progress. And now we’ve done a test, see, with hot water and it makes the flying last longer.’
‘Progress?’ Monsieur Joseph almost laughs. Then he remembers Viscount Herges, who’s still here, looking alarmed, and calls Odette to take him inside for refreshments. I dread to think what the Viscount makes of us, or what he’ll tell the King.
When he’s safely out of earshot, Monsieur Joseph lets rip. ‘This is absurd! The prototype’s not ready! How DARE you tell the King of France it is!’
‘But we thought . . .’ I hesitate. What did we think? That our experiment with a bit of paper and a serving dish would save the day?
A wave of despair hits me. Thieving from these good people was wrong enough. This, though – lying to the king – well and truly takes the cake. We’re completely out of our depth.
‘There’s more in the letter,’ Monsieur Etienne tells us. I don’t want to hear it. Nor does Pierre, who lets out a groan. ‘“We are counting on you not simply to make the whole of France proud, but to also raise the spirits of a heartbroken Queen. My wife has sunk into a depression over the loss of her favourite pet. Her only remaining interest is in your flying machine, which I believe will be the best and only solution to her grief. I have, therefore, promised to host a demonstration here, at our Palace, in a week’s time . . .”’
One week?
This is getting worse by the second.
‘Impossible!’ Monsieur Joseph cries. ‘We could hardly make the journey to Paris in that time – and that’s if we actually had a prototype to take with us.’
‘Which we don’t,’ Pierre mutters.
What an absolute dog’s breakfast we’ve made of things. Now we’re in this right up to our necks, which makes me think of prisons and those chopping machines again. I feel ill.
‘We could ask for more time,’ Monsieur Etienne suggests. ‘Another few weeks?’
Bizarrely, he doesn’t seem ruffled by the message. In fact he’s looking. . . well . . . excitable. I wonder if he’s still drunk from celebrating.
‘Don’t you see? This interest from the King could be our golden opportunity!’ Monsieur Etienne’s face lights up. ‘Think of the crowds at Versailles! The important guests! The news reporters! It’ll be all round the world in no time!’
I’m not sure what to make of this sudden heart-change.
Monsieur Joseph is less than convinced. ‘The prototype’s not safe—’
‘So we make it safe!’ Monsieur Etienne replies. ‘Anyway, there won’t be another accident because no one’s asking us to send people up in the air. The English aren’t that far ahead of us. It’s the prototype that needs to fly, that’s all!’
‘Are you mad? How can we make a prototype in a week?’ Monsieur Joseph cries.
‘We’ll help,’ I say. ‘Won’t we, Pierre?’ He nods eagerly, but Monsieur Joseph doesn’t so much as glance our way.
‘Just think Joseph, we’ll be the ones who invented the first flying machine – us, not the English. And,’ Monsieur Etienne raises a finger dramatically, ‘Think of your unborn child. If his father is a national hero, then his future will be blessed.’
His? I think. What if the baby’s a girl? What will her future be? Whatever happens though, Monsieur Etienne’s speech seems to have worked.
‘All right, but we can’t be rushed,’ Monsieur Joseph mutters. ‘We’ll need to ask for more time. Nor can we be dictated to by Marie Antoinette’s whims.’
‘It’s not a crime to be upset over an animal,’ I point out
Pierre agrees: ‘I’d be heartbroken if anything happened to Voltaire.’
We discuss what message to send. There’s no denying the excitement that’s suddenly buzzing between us as we all start to talk at once.
Then I see a lone man walking down the drive towards us. The sun glints off the knives strapped across his chest: this must be Monsieur Couteau. The grin on my face freezes right there.
‘Magpie? You all right?’ Pierre asks.
Under his arm is Voltaire: this gives me a sudden, desperate idea.
‘Send the Queen a new pet.’ I say before I’ve thought it through. ‘That’s what we should do. As a gift, I mean.’
Monsieur Etienne raises his eyebrows. ‘A pet?’
‘If we send her an animal to replace the one that died, she might feel happier to wait for us.’
Pierre – kind Pierre – sees my point: ‘It might buy us a bit more time, Papa.’
Monsieur Joseph rubs his face wearily. ‘What do you suggest we send, Magpie?’
I try not to look at Monsieur Etienne. Or at the butcher who’s now reached us.
‘Send Lancelot the lamb,’ I reply. ‘ We can buy the chops in if we have to.’
Monsieur Joseph chews it over, slowly, painfully, till I can hardly bear it.
‘We must send her, Papa!’ Pierre agrees. ‘She’s a fine-looking beast – perfect for the Queen’s model farm.’
Monsieur Joseph rolls his shoulders, glances at Monsieur Etienne who, amazingly, nods.
‘It’s an unusual way to do business,’ he admits. ‘But it’s probably the best bargaining chip we’ve got.’
I almost sag with relief as Pierre and I beam at each other – big, fat, stupid-happy grins.
Convincing Viscount Herges is harder work: ‘How on earth am I meant to carry a sheep all the way back to Paris?’
Yet before he can refuse entirely, we’ve organized a cart and wooden crate and Monsieur Couteau is sent away, his butcher’s knives still sparkling clean. I give Lancelot a kiss on the muzzle, while Coco lands a peck on her ear. Voltaire keeps his distance from them both. I don’t think he ever approved.
Feeling choked, I say to Lancelot, ‘Be good. Be beautiful. Win the Queen’s heart and make her happy again.’
Lancelot gazes up the driveway. She’s not upset in the slightest, as far as I can tell. In fact – and I can’t believe I’ve never noticed it before – with her chin in the air, she looks almost like royalty herself.
‘You’ve sent our lamb to the Queen of France?’ Madame Verte thinks it’s a joke when I tell her. Her and Odette laugh so hard they have to dab their faces dry with their aprons. When she realizes I’m serious I’m told to go to the market for chops.
‘Going to give them names too, are you?’ Odette asks, which sets them both off again.
And, you know what, I don’t mind. In fact, for once, I see the funny side.
10
The letter to the King changes everything. It’s as if a pair of giant hands has seized the Montgolfiers and given them a very decent shake. The celebration lunch is postponed: instead, over the next few weeks, the house becomes a whirlwind of notetaking, shape-designing, dropping different-sized paper objects from the top of staircases in the hope that one at least will float on air.
We’re all agreed now that hot air rises better than cold air. And that the heat needs to be the dry kind, though with this comes the risk of fire. What’s needed is some way of keeping that hot air inside the prototype, which Monsieur Etienne has named ‘le balloon’.
Each day, as I do my chores, Pierre seeks me out to tell me the latest developments.
‘It’s more like a teardrop, only upside down,’ Pierre explains one afternoon, drawing the shape with his toe in the dirt. ‘But they’re stuck on what to make it from – paper or cotton.’
I think of the laundry rack, full of undergarme
nts. How the silk items floated up far better than the cotton ones. Paper, when we’d used it, didn’t rise the same way, either.
I look at Pierre. ‘Silk.’
‘Pardon?’
‘You need to make your object from stronger stuff than paper but not as strong or as heavy as cotton – silk. It’s about the strength of the material,’ I add, in case he hasn’t got it.
Pierre stares at me, amazed. ‘How do you know these things, Magpie?’
‘I keep my eyes open, that’s all.’
Though really it’s living on the streets that’s done it. You watch and listen. Look out for the things other people miss. Then, just when I don’t want her to, Madame Delacroix looms in my head. The hairs lift on my arms like when the sun’s gone in.
‘Listen.’ I drop my voice, scanning the gate, the hedges, the orchard just in case. ‘Your pa and uncle are being careful, aren’t they? With the drawings and the plans? They’re not telling anyone?’
Pierre laughs. ‘Of course they’re being careful!’
‘I hope so, because word gets around. Secrets get out.’
He sees I’m serious. ‘What are you trying to tell me, Magpie?’ And he looks right at me, then, like he knows something’s wrong. I wonder – just for a moment – if I could tell him about Madame Delacroix. But I can’t. Of course I can’t. It’d mean admitting everything.
‘We should do the opposite,’ I blurt out. ‘If we can’t keep it secret, we should let everyone know. If everything’s done in the open there’ll be no secrets for the English to steal.’
Later that week, during a break in the balloon preparations, the celebration lunch is finally served. As it’s a blazing summer’s day, we’ve set up tables in the orchard that are groaning under all the food: tarts, cold meat, pastries, herb omelettes, salad from the garden, peaches, pistachio cake, and a platter of sizzling lamb chops.
Madame Verte, Odette and I are invited to stay and eat our meal at the far end of the table.
‘Take that blasted chicken bag off for once,’ Odette mutters to me. Reluctantly, I do as she says.
