by Emma Carroll
‘Are you going to tell Viscount Herges, or shall I?’ I say, nodding in the direction of the King’s man who’s watching everything at the very front of the crowd.
Pierre’s right though; a bit more practice in the orchard beforehand wouldn’t have been a bad idea. If we don’t bring in more wood from somewhere, we’ll never get this balloon up in the air.
In the end, Monsieur Joseph gives up asking for wood. We’re going to have to work with what we’ve got, which is next to nothing. Our sorry little fire is gasping to stay alight. A team of townsfolk gather around the balloon to hoist it upwards. More people fasten each of the four ropes to the posts in the ground.
‘All right, everyone! Stand by!’ Monsieur Joseph cries.
Stand by for what? I think, frustrated. They can ready themselves all they like. It won’t work without heat – proper, intense heat. And I bet Madame Delacroix is here somewhere in the crowd, writing all this down so she can share a great long list of our mistakes with the English.
A sudden breeze whips up the fire. Hot ash – a tiny whirlwind of it – falls on my new dress, burning through the fabric and making me yelp, though I’m more worried it’ll land on Coco.
‘Watch it!’ I warn Pierre, whose red jacket is streaked with grey. All around us people are now patting their clothes and hair.
‘Arrggh! I’m alight!’ a woman cries.
‘It’s on your bonnet! Take it off!’ The man next to her pulls it from her head and flings it to the ground.
More garments quickly follow. Hats, bonnets, even pairs of shoes come hurling through the air, landing very close to, even in, the fire. Some are smouldering, others are properly alight. There are jackets, waistcoats, a parasol.
‘Keep ’em coming!’ I yell, for I can see what’s happening. As the pile of clothes grow, so do the flames. The heat, at last, begins to build. One thing’s clear – the people of Annonay’s clothes burn far better than their wood.
The balloon, no longer lying flat on the ground, billows, twitches, begins to rise. Through the opening at the bottom, the fire’s heat pours in, making the shape fill up just like the undergarments did when hung over the stove.
Yet this is no petticoat. It grows and grows till it towers above us, an enormous, brightly coloured teardrop. It’s a strange, remarkable, not-quite-real sight.
Now the balloon’s full, it fidgets to rise higher. Still tied down, the four ropes holding it over the fire stretch tight, the posts they’re fastened to shifting in the ground.
I watch. Wait. Will it on in my head. Any moment now, any moment . . .
But Monsieur Joseph is cautious. He checks the ropes, the fire, makes notes in his book. He shakes his head at his brother, who’s fretting and pacing.
‘Come on, come on,’ I mutter.
Though the bag stays tied down, it’s fighting back, turning and twisting with growing strength. The crowd is getting restless. It’s too hot this close to the fire; sweat pours down my back.
At last, when the balloon looks fit to burst, Monsieur Joseph raises one finger. It’s such a little signal; I almost miss it. Though there’s no mistaking the rush for the ropes. Nor the roar that goes up into the sky.
For a split second, the balloon hovers. Then it’s off. It rises quickly above our heads, travelling across the marketplace.
‘Follow it, Magpie! You’re the fastest runner!’ Monsieur Joseph cries. ‘See where it lands!’
‘Oui, monsieur!’
Ducking between legs, clawing past shoulders, I tear across the marketplace fast as I can. Everyone else is standing stock-still, heads back, mouths open. Even the boy midway through picking someone’s pocket stops to stare at the sky.
At the crowd’s edge, I slow down to check the balloon’s progress. The balloon’s risen fast in the last few minutes, its reds, blues and golds brilliant above the rooftops, looking for all the world like it’ll never return to earth again. Watching, I feel myself grow lighter, as if part of me is up there with it, with nothing but the clouds for company.
If only.
When we checked earlier, the wind was a south-easterly. Now it’s turned to more of a southerly, directing the balloon towards the river. Struggling to keep it in sight, I start running again. The street down to the river is shady, narrow. Twice I almost slip over. ‘Sorry, Coco,’ I say, because for him it’s a bumpy ride. Shoes – even servants’ ones – are useless for running in. In the end, I kick them off to go barefoot.
At the river’s edge, I check the balloon’s position again. It looks like it’s lost a bit of height. The sky above Annonay bristles with church spires but luckily our balloon just about clears them all. Half-running, half-staring upwards, I keep following. As Annonay dwindles to a single shack and a pigsty, the balloon drops further. I’m hard on its heels.
By now the balloon is wrinkling. It looks less of a teardrop and more like an old potato. The air, the heat is seeping out. Already this flight’s lasted far longer than any of the others, but I can’t bear for it to be over yet.
‘Just one more field!’ I will the balloon on. ‘Go on, you can do it!’
The balloon drifts over a wall. Over a field of sheep. Leaning heavily to one side, it’s only twenty or so feet off the ground.
Scrambling over the wall, I force my legs onwards. The sheep don’t look up – not at me, nor the huge cotton bag that lumbers past, just above their heads. In the field beyond though, someone is shouting. Two men in shirt-sleeves have stopped turning hay to stare in total amazement.
‘What is it?’ one of them cries. He’s got his pitchfork raised like the balloon’s a wolf he’s trying to fend off. I’m worried he’s going to do it some damage.
‘It’s the moon fallen from the sky!’ the other man gasps.
And fall it does. It hits the ground with a mighty thud. There’s a rush of air as the fabric spills out, blasting me with dust. I reel backwards, shaken, spluttering.
Gradually, the balloon settles on the grass. All around it, the sheep carry on eating as if it’s the most normal sight in the world. In his sling, Coco is fast asleep. To me, though, this is a thing of wonder. I feel proud and all choked up. It’s taken weeks of preparation, bad tempers, secrets and experiments, but in the end the design has worked.
There’s a crowd of people now striding up the field towards me, with Pierre, Monsieur Joseph and Monsieur Etienne leading the way. Their smiles are so huge I can see them from here. And who can blame them?
We did it. We made the balloon fly.
13
Just after five o’clock, when the heat’s leaving the day, everything is loaded onto Viscount Herges’ coach. Versailles and King Louis await. It’s the smartest vehicle I’ve ever seen – leather seats and windows you can open, pulled by four horses so white they must’ve been scrubbed. I’m still dazzled by what’s happened today, and watching this latest part of it still feels like I’m in a dream.
‘Chop chop, Magpie!’ Madame Verte says, snapping me out of it. ‘Fetch the last box down, will you? It’s upstairs in the study.’
Instantly, I know which box she means. She doesn’t need to tell me where to find it, either. I’m thrown into proper turmoil as I climb the stairs.
It’s on the desk as I go in. The red leather is scuffed and faded, the brass details old-looking. I run my fingers across it and before I know it, I’m checking if it’s open. Of course it isn’t: it’s locked. As a box alone, I don’t suppose it’s worth much. But it’s not the box that’s important, it’s what’s inside.
Madame Delacroix will return, I know she will. And it comes back to me in a rush that surprises me because I’ve not had the thought again in weeks: would it be better for everyone if I gave her the box, after all? What harm could it do now? We’re ahead of the English by days. The prototype is going to Versailles, with all the designers and helpers the King’s hired, the Montgolfiers can probably get by without their notes. At least then, Madame Delacroix might leave us alone.
Glancing around the room,
I see the study windows are open. It wouldn’t be hard to believe a thief had climbed inside and taken the box. I could say it was a robbery, like the one they’d had before. When the Montgolfiers are gone, l’ll slip out and find Madame Delacroix to give her the box to get rid of her once and for all.
It’s not my finest idea but I’ve run out of any others. First, I need to hide the box, though, so I choose the small, unused bedroom at the end of the landing. Just as I reach it, Madame Verte calls up the stairs, ‘Hurry with that box, Magpie! They’re waiting!’
‘Coming!’ I shift the box onto my other hip. It’s still as awkward as hell to carry, and heavy too, like they’ve packed every single notebook they’ve ever owned inside.
It’s then the door to the next bedroom along swings open. In the doorway is a woman in a nightgown with a shawl over her shoulders. I almost drop the box in surprise. ‘Madame M!’
She smiles. She’s got Pierre’s dancing dark eyes, though everything else about her is as frail as china.
‘You must be Magpie,’ she says. ‘I’ve heard wondrous things about you – and your rooster.’
I feel a blush coming on. More so when Coco pokes his head out of the sling, which makes her laugh.
‘You’re going downstairs with that luggage, I take it?’ she asks. Coming through the door, she closes it behind her, and before I know it she’s tucked her thin little arm through mine. ‘Help me, would you? I want to say a proper goodbye to my husband.’
There’s nothing I can do but keep walking, the box under one arm, Madame M on the other.
‘What are you doing out of bed?’ Monsieur Joseph cries when we appear on the front drive. But he hugs her, carefully, of course. When they pull apart and she tidies his jacket lapels, I feel a lump grow in my throat.
The box is taken from me and put on the back of the carriage, where already other boxes and baskets are piled high. The Montgolfiers’ prototype, dusty but still in one piece, is at the top, covered in oilcloth. The red box is strapped up there too, balancing like a cherry on a madeleine.
And now everyone’s milling around saying final goodbyes. Any minute the box will be gone.
Which is when the answer comes to me clear as day: never mind the box, it’s me who should go. What if I vanish with it? That’s the answer, and it’ll be safer for everyone, wouldn’t it? I’m only bringing trouble to this fine household.
I walk up to Monsieur Joseph, bold as you like. ‘Can I hitch a ride to Paris, please, monsieur?’
He looks startled. ‘Umm . . . yes . . . but . . .’
‘You’ve been so kind, taking me in and all,’ I say in a rush. ‘But it’s time to move on.’
‘Are you absolutely sure?’ he asks.
‘Yes, monsieur. This isn’t my home and I’ve family in Paris I’ve been meaning to track down,’ both are stonking lies.
Thankfully, the carriage is ready to leave so there’s no time for second thoughts. I’ve nothing to take with me, just the maid’s frock I’d changed back into earlier. Odette and Madame Verte say hasty, kind au revoirs. Pierre, though, is completely stunned.
‘What’s brought this on? I thought you liked it here, Magpie!’ Pierre cries, his voice wobbling. ‘We need you. You’re our lucky charm.’
‘And you’re mine,’ I tell him. He’s the only friend I’ve ever had.
‘Time to go,’ the driver announces, picking up his reins.
I give Pierre’s arm a squeeze. It’s easier than looking at his face.
As the Montgolfier brothers climb into the carriage, I offer to close the gate behind us. It feels odd walking down the drive one last time. A few months ago, when I’d crept down it in the dead of night, the plan was to be in and gone again, job done. It’s peculiar how things work out.
Once the gate’s shut, the carriage door swings open.
‘In you get, Magpie,’ Monsieur Joseph says from inside.
It looks a bit poky in there, to be honest, what with Monsieur Joseph and Viscount Herges crammed into one seat, Monsieur Etienne sprawled across the other. I can’t see where Coco and I are meant to sit.
‘We’ll ride outside,’ I decide, thinking it best.
The driver offers me a hand up to sit next to him. I take it, scrambling onto the narrow seat, which has a sort of sill where you put your feet.
‘How long’s the journey?’ I ask.
‘Three days and plenty more changes of horses,’ he replies.
It sounds like a lifetime.
Once we join the main road out of town, the driver flicks his whip. And we’re off. The horses race forwards with such speed, the force throws me back in my seat. Instantly, I’m regretting my decision to sit outside. Every stone, every pothole, sends my guts flying. What with holding on to Coco with one hand, and the seat with the other, I’m sure I’m hurtling towards hell. All I can think is: three days of this? I’ll never make it to Paris alive.
Yet by some miracle, I manage the first twenty miles. And then, with fresh horses, the next twenty and the next. Each time we stop I prise myself off the seat and stagger to the ground.
The worst part of stopping is it gives me chance to think. I tell myself I’ve done right to leave Annonay. I couldn’t stay with the Montgolfiers for ever – my past was always going to catch up with me in the end. At least this way the break is clean.
And to be going to Paris! What luck!
Except I can’t get excited about a city I don’t know. It’ll be big, cold, nothing like Annonay. The coaching inns we’ve called at – rowdy, drunken places – remind me of life on the streets, the life I’m going back to. My heart is sinking fast. And if I think of the dearest friend I’ve left behind, I’m actually not far off despair.
Late the next night, we stop by a stream to water the horses, and I’m suddenly, violently sick. As we get ready to move on, the driver shakes his head. ‘You ain’t sitting with me.’
‘I’m not ill,’ I tell him. ‘My guts just aren’t used to carriages.’
‘I ain’t risking it. Ask them Montgolfiers if you can ride inside.’
But it’s fresh air I’m wanting, not a cramped, stuffy carriage.
I take a weary breath. ‘Where else can I sit outside?’
He jerks his thumb at the back of the coach where the luggage is, piled so high it’s weighing the back wheels down. Top of the pile is the red valuables box; I can think of comfier things to sit on, frankly, and it must show in my face because the driver says, ‘Your choice. It’s that or walk to Paris,’ which isn’t a choice at all.
The swaying and bouncing’s even worse up here. Eventually, though, I fall asleep and when I open my eyes it’s nearly daylight. Down by my feet is the oilcloth, the one they’ve wrapped the balloon in. From underneath it, I feel something move. Thinking it’s a trunk coming loose, I lift a corner with my toe.
Hands shoot out to grab me by the ankles. There’s a quack. Something feathery flies up into my face.
‘What the—?’ The shock nearly sends me overboard.
Voltaire lands on my lap. Coco, sensing him, lashes out with his feet. A human head and shoulders appear next. It takes a moment for my brain to catch up.
‘Pierre?’
He’s beaming from ear to ear like a halfwit.
‘How long have you been there?’ I gasp, glad and horrified. ‘Since Annonay?’
He nods. ‘I slipped onboard when you were opening the gate.’
There’s no room for him to sit beside me, so he stays where he is. I hand him back Voltaire before there’s a fight between the two birds.
‘So no one knows you’ve come?’ I ask.
‘Not yet.’
He’s looking awful pleased with himself too, but I’m worried for his poor mama. ‘You should’ve told someone,’ I say.
‘You didn’t tell anyone you were leaving,’ he argues. ‘You just decided and went – in minutes.’
‘That’s different,’ I mutter. Doesn’t he realize he’s better off back in Annonay? I’d gi
ve my right arm – and my left – for all that he has, for a family that cared where I was.
‘You’re not pleased I’m here, are you?’ he says sulkily.
‘Why are you here?’
‘To go to Versailles, of course. To see the balloon flight. You must come with me, Magpie, oh say you will! Don’t go to Paris!’
‘But your papa doesn’t know you’re here.’
Pierre shrugs. ‘It’ll be a nice surprise for him.’
I’m not so sure.
Just then the carriage skids to a halt. We’re on a country road, not a building in sight.
‘What’s going on?’ Pierre asks.
‘I don’t know.’
We’re at a standstill. Leaning round the side of the carriage, I call out to the driver. Then breathe in sharply. A man wearing dark clothes is standing in front of the horses, his lower face covered with a scarf. He’s wearing a triangular hat on his head. Funny how I notice these details before I realize what’s in his hand. It’s a pistol, and he’s pointing it at me.
14
‘You, boy! Climb down at once!’
Glimpsing my short-haired head around the side of the carriage, it’s an easy mistake to make, though I don’t move.
‘What’s going on? Why’ve we stopped?’ Pierre whispers.
‘Stop asking questions!’ I hiss. Truth is I’ve never been robbed before – it’s always been me doing the stealing.
‘Get back under the oilcloth,’ I order Pierre.
‘Where’re you going?’
I lick my dry lips. ‘I haven’t decided yet.’
From the front of the carriage, I hear the driver yelp. Then footsteps approaching. I keep still. The footsteps stop as, with a clunk, the carriage door opens.
‘Step outside, messieurs!’ The robber’s voice is rough, as if he’s forcing it to sound that way. ‘Hurry up. I’ve not got all day!’
The carriage rocks as Viscount Herges, Monsieur Joseph and Monsieur Etienne climb out.
‘We have a little money.’ This from Monsieur Etienne. ‘Here, take my purse. I have a silver hat pin and there’s a ruby in this ring.’
