Sky Chasers

by Emma Carroll

  Leaving Madame Petit, I race up the stairs to our room. Sebastien’s right behind me. The mess that greets us stops us both in our tracks.

  ‘Heavens above!’ Sebastien gasps.

  I’m lost for words.

  There’s no door – it’s been smashed to pieces. A window’s broken too, glass all over the floor. The bed’s on its side, the chair thrown across the room, a chest for clothes wrenched open. Everything’s been rifled through, fast and furious.

  It’s not just Pierre that’s gone, either. The birds are missing. There’s not even a feather left behind. I shake my head, distraught.

  ‘Who could’ve done this?’ Sebastien asks.

  I glance at him sideways, the old suspicions flaring up. But he doesn’t look like he’s pretending. His jaw’s clenched with anger.

  ‘The English,’ I say bitterly. ‘They’ve been after us right from the start.’

  They haven’t taken the box, though. It’s still here on the floor, the lock torn apart, the lid open. All that’s left inside are ink stains and a dead wasp. There’s a tear in the paper lining. The notebooks, of course, are gone.

  Despairing, I bury my face in my hands. If I’d been here when the Englishman came Pierre and I would’ve fought him off together. But I wasn’t here, was I? I was fighting an argument I started. The horrid truth is that I’ve let Pierre down so badly I don’t deserve him as a friend.

  ‘You look as if you need to rest,’ Sebastien says.

  ‘What I need,’ I insist, looking up, ‘Is to go after Pierre, as quick as I can.’

  ‘We don’t know where they’ve gone,’ Sebastien points out.

  Squishing my eyes tight shut, I try to think of where the Englishman might take a boy in his nightshirt with two pet birds in tow. But all I picture is Coco stiff with terror, and Voltaire sulking, and poor Pierre begging oh-so-politely to be freed. It just makes things worse. If they’re travelling by cart like Madame Petit says they really could be anywhere by now.

  ‘Do his family live nearby?’ Sebastien asks. ‘I don’t wish to alarm you, Magpie, but he has been abducted, so we really should let his parents know.’

  I unsquish my eyes. ‘Versailles – that’s where his father is. We were supposed to be going there anyway to deliver this box.’

  Sebastien stares at what’s left of the valuables box on the floor. ‘Are you going to bring it with you?’

  ‘No point,’ I reply. ‘They’ve taken what they wanted.’

  He looks about to say something, but thinks better of it. ‘Versailles it is then. If you hurry you might just get there before the weather breaks.’

  Glancing out of the window, I see what he means. The sky’s turned a flat, hazy white. There’s not a breath of wind. In this tiny, smashed-up attic room, it feels hotter than ever.

  ‘Not on foot I won’t,’ I reply. ‘I’ll have to get wet.’

  ‘I have a horse,’ Sebastien offers.

  I think it over. I’m not completely sure of him, even now. He’s a bit too nice. A bit too well-dressed. I don’t know how to be with people like Sebastien. Life was simpler when his sort were just a pocket to pick.

  ‘I can’t ride,’ I tell him.

  He smiles his twinkly, sunshine smile. ‘But I can.’

  We go straight to the back street where Sebastien’s horse is stabled. I’d imagined a smart courtyard attached to his family’s house, but this is just a row of stalls next to a coaching inn. The whole place runs alongside the river. In this heat, the smell coming off the water – night soil and rotting fruit – makes me want to gag. It’s an odd place to keep a horse, especially for someone like Sebastien.

  The horse, though, is magnificent. He’s a huge, gentle grey named Dante, who pricks his ears at us and makes a whiffling noise when you say his name. Sebastien acts fast. Before you know it, Dante is saddled up ready and we’re both on his back. Sitting astride him is like doing the splits. I’m glad of these breeches, after all.

  We leave Paris at a brisk trot, Sebastien in front, me behind clinging on for dear life. After the pot-holed city streets, the road to Versailles is straight and flat, lined on either side by poplar trees. There isn’t much traffic either so Sebastien pushes Dante into a canter.

  At first I’m too terrified to look, though after a mile or two of the horse’s smooth rhythm, I decide it’s safe enough to relax a bit. Another couple of miles, and Sebastien tweaks the reins to slow Dante to a trot, then a walk. The poor creature is caked in sweat.

  Swinging his leg over Dante’s neck, Sebastien jumps down. I catch him clenching and unclenching his hand like it’s stiff.

  ‘Are you hurt?’ I ask.

  ‘Of course not.’ He brushes it off. ‘Dante needs a breather, that’s all. We’ve still got four or five miles to go.’

  I peer up at the darkening sky. ‘Looks like we’re going to get wet after all.’

  Sure enough, it begins to rain. Steadily, the drops get bigger, pock-marking the dust on the road. The thunder overhead makes Dante flick his ears, which I’ve heard means a horse is nervous.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Sebastien says, as I grip the front of the saddle. ‘It’ll take more than a thunderstorm to scare him.’

  No sooner are the words out of his mouth than a huge white flash lights the sky. A beat later the thunder comes, so loud it makes the air hum. Dante goes tense beneath me. His head disappears between his front legs, he twists, kicks his back legs, throwing me onto his neck. As his head swings up again, he leaps forward, tearing the reins from Sebastien’s hand. I don’t scream. I’m too terrified to even unclench my teeth. Grabbing handfuls of mane, I sit tight as Dante takes off.

  ‘For heaven’s sake, pull the reins!’ Sebastien yells.

  How he expects me to do that I’ve no idea. I can’t even let go of Dante’s mane. Careering from one side of the road to the other, he’s completely out of control. The rain blinds me. I’m slipping sideways on the wet leather. I don’t know what to do, but I can’t hold on much longer. I’m going to die of panic, or be sick, or fall off into the road, whichever one of these fates gets me first.

  19

  Amazingly, I don’t die. I don’t fall off, either, but my stomach’s set up camp somewhere in my throat so it’s lucky we didn’t eat that breakfast Sebastien promised. As the road begins to rise, Dante settles into a steadier gallop. I unknot my fingers from his mane enough to grab the reins, though pulling on them doesn’t make the slightest difference. We go on like that for miles – me pulling, Dante not taking any notice. And then, at a sudden bend in the road, Dante swings left, plunging down what’s little more than a muddy country lane, where he spots a tasty patch of grass. Next thing he stops sharp, puts his head down to graze. And I go whizzing straight over the top. I land in a messy heap in a hedge.

  I’m covered in mud and bits of twig, but nothing’s broken. Dante’s so filthy he doesn’t even look grey any more but at least neither of us is injured.

  In every direction, all I see are fields. And trees. I’ve a sinking feeling we’re completely and utterly lost. How I’m going to find Monsieur Joseph I’ve no idea, never mind tracking down Pierre.

  Seizing Dante’s reins, I try to pull his head up. ‘Stop eating, greedy guts. We need to get back to the main road.’

  The horse, as seems to be the way of things between us, ignores me completely.

  ‘Come on, Dante – move!’

  From the direction of the hedge comes a giggle. I turn round. I can’t see anything – the hedge is thick – though from behind it something rustles.

  ‘He’s not very good with horses is he, poor thing,’ a woman whispers.

  ‘Ssssh!’ hisses another. ‘He’s spotted us!’

  There’s more giggling. It’s starting to irk me.

  ‘If you think you’re so clever, you come and move this horse!’ I snap.

  Silence. Then a snort. Then a massive hoot of laughter and two ladies’ heads appear over the hedge.

  ‘Do forgive our sh
abby manners,’ the one with dark hair says. She sounds rich like Sebastien. ‘I expect you know your own horse better than we do.’

  ‘He’s not mine,’ I say. ‘He’s my friend’s, who I’ve lost.’

  ‘Oh dear. Would you like us to move the horse?’

  I’m not sure if she’s teasing still or trying to help.

  The other lady – fair haired, pretty – nudges her. ‘We can do better than that, Gabrielle. Let’s ask the poor boy to tea.’

  I shake my head. ‘I can’t—’

  ‘Oh, let’s!’ This Gabrielle person is all bouncy like a puppy. ‘I’ve never taken tea with a poor boy before, and I’m very sure you haven’t, Marie.’

  She pushes against part of the hedge, which swings open like a hidden gate, and the two women come through it to my side. They’re wearing these flimsy white dresses, the sort that milkmaids wear except they’re spotlessly clean as if they’ve never been anywhere near the underneath of a cow.

  ‘You don’t understand.’ I try to say. ‘I’ve lost my friend – actually two friends. I’ve not got time for tea.’

  ‘Everyone’s got time for tea,’ Gabrielle replies.

  Bold as anything, she takes Dante’s reins from me and leads him back through the gate. He goes with her, too, meek as a lamb.

  ‘You can’t take him!’ I cry. ‘He’s not mine! I need him!’ But she’s already disappeared.

  Now I’m really stumped. The fair-haired woman – the one called Marie – slips her arm through mine. ‘Don’t look so glum. We have three different types of cake for tea.’

  I could stand here and argue. But tea and cake isn’t exactly the worst thing that might happen. And it dawns on me that these women in their funny too-clean dresses might know the way to Versailles. So I go with Marie, thinking I’ll stay just for the cake then make my excuses and leave.

  Passing through that gate though is like stepping into a made-up world. We cross a field that looks more like a garden, and through gardens that look like magic. There are bushes clipped into bird shapes, roses twisting over walls. I smell lavender, mint, see peach trees and apple trees sagging after the rain. We pass water fountains carved out of gleaming white stone. Everything’s beautiful – a bit too beautiful. The colours and smells make me dizzy. All the while, I’m trying to remember our route so I can find my way out again.

  Eventually, we reach a cottage with a thatched roof and timber walls, and even that looks more like a doll’s house than a real one. It’s incredible that these women live in such a perfect place when Paris, with all its stink and bustle, is just a few miles down the road.

  Gabrielle’s arrived ahead of us. She’s setting up a table outside the cottage with a snowy white tablecloth and dainty teacups and spoons. To my relief, Dante’s tethered to the fence and munching on hay. Another animal is here too, tied to the table leg by a length of pink ribbon; from what I can see of its curly white rump it might be a dog. As soon as Marie sits down she reaches under the table to stroke it.

  ‘Have a seat.’ Gabrielle pulls out a chair for me.

  I sit down. Then the cake appears, and there really are three types – cherry, honey, strawberries and cream. As I eat, Marie feeds titbits to the dog under the table, while she and Gabrielle bombard me with questions. Have I ever used a fork, they want to know. Can I read? Do I have more clothes than the ones I’m in? It’s a bit off-putting to be honest, like I’m a curiousity from the fair.

  When I can get a question in myself, I ask the quickest way back to the main road.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Gabrielle replies, stifling a yawn.

  ‘To Versailles.’

  A look passes between them. Then, in the bush to our left, something moves.

  ‘Oh no,’ Gabrielle mutters under her breath. ‘Here we go.’

  And just like that the whole bush is suddenly a frenzy of arms and red-trousered legs.

  Two men come crashing towards us, swords raised, yelling, ‘Keep away from the Queen!’

  I’m mightily confused.

  Gabrielle rolls her eyes. ‘Calm down, everyone.’

  ‘King’s orders, your Majesty.’

  The men are guards. I feel a twist of panic as his words sink in. King’s orders? Could this mean I’m nearer to Versailles than I’d thought? Why is he telling me to keep away from the Queen? And who’s he calling ‘your Majesty’?

  The guard doing the talking has an enormous ginger moustache. ‘We’ve to arrest any strangers on the estate, especially anyone who might be English,’ he says, gawping at me.

  ‘He’s just a boy having trouble with his horse,’ Gabrielle explains.

  ‘Aha!’ Ginger Moustache says. ‘But how do we know he’s not spying for the English, eh?’

  ‘I’m honestly not!’ I tell him, nervous now.

  Gabrielle tuts. ‘Tell them to stop this nonsense, Marie.’

  As Marie clears her throat, the men bow. Just slightly. And suddenly it becomes clear: she is the Queen.

  I stare so hard I think I forget to blink.

  Marie, the person who’s just poured my tea and cut my cake, is Marie Antoinette, the Queen of the whole of France!

  I can’t believe it, not when she’s so pretty and so gentle in her manners, yet in the news-sheets they make her seem like a greedy monster. How’s it possible that she’s the same person?

  If this is the Queen then she’s not looking very sad, either, despite what the King’s letters said. I’m hoping that’s down to Lancelot, that our gift really has cheered the Queen up, though sitting here in her fairy tale garden, I’ve got my doubts. Would a grubby sheep sent all the way from southern France really do the trick?

  It’s then that the pet dog under the table stomps on my foot.

  ‘Ouch!’ I cry.

  ‘Don’t move!’ the guard warns. He lunges forward, lifting the cloth with the tip of his sword. He’s holding his breath like he’s expecting a tiger to leap out.

  ‘Oh for goodness’ sake,’ Gabrielle snaps. ‘It’s a sheep, not a spy!’

  I sit forward, very eager to see this sheep.

  Sure enough, with a yank on the pink ribbon, Gabrielle pulls the creature into the open for the guard to see. It totters out, blinking and chewing cake.

  It’s not Lancelot, I’m disappointed to see. This sheep is so white it looks like a cloud on legs. Realizing it’s not a spy, Ginger Moustache lowers his sword in relief. I decide this is a good time to slip away. Yet when I get to my feet, the guard’s sword is up again in a flash.

  ‘Sit,’ orders the guard. ‘I’m not finished with you yet.’

  Frustrated, I sit again and try explaining. ‘Please, I need to find the Montgolfiers to tell them about their son. He’s been taken by an English person against his will.’

  The Queen looks astonished. ‘The Montgolfiers are here at Versailles, yes. There’s to be a demonstration in a few days’ time over the Palace! We’ve invited half of France to watch their flying machine! Won’t it be incredible?’

  ‘That useless pair?’ Gabrielle laughs. ‘There’s more chance of that pet lamb of yours flying, Marie, than the Montgolfiers getting anything off the ground!’

  Which proves just how little she knows, I think crossly.

  ‘Where will I find the Montgolfiers?’ I press her. ‘I need to speak to them.’

  But the Queen’s turned to Gabrielle. ‘I’ve had an entire wardrobe of new dresses and shoes made for the occasion. Louis doesn’t know yet. I haven’t told him.’

  ‘You naughty creature!’ Gabrielle cries, clapping her hands in delight.

  ‘You’ll have to help me decide what to wear, cherie.’ And the Queen starts reeling off all the hats and shoes and frocks she’s got to chose from. I think she’s forgotten we’re even here until the guards cough politely.

  ‘If it’s the King’s orders then you’d better take him,’ she says with a waft of her hand, then goes back to discussing dresses.

  I grit my teeth: now this is more like the Marie A
ntionette from the news-sheets, dismissing me like I’m a bit of stale cake.

  But before I can protest, I’m hauled away so fast I can hardly keep up. I’m tripping and stumbling and sick with frustration.

  ‘Just listen, will you? I’m not a spy. Or English,’ I say more than once. I’m not a boy either, though they’re still convinced of that, too.

  ‘We’ve already got your friend, son,’ Ginger Moustache says. ‘So save your excuses.’

  I scowl at him. ‘Friend?’

  The guard, liking his little bit of power, won’t say any more, which leaves me eaten up wondering which friend he means.

  20

  The moment the Palace of Versailles comes into sight, my feet slow down: it’s hard to walk and stare at the same time. To call it a house is like calling the Queen ‘Marie’ – the word’s too small to fit it. I thought the houses on the Montgolfiers’ street were fine, but this is something else. It’s completely and utterly jaw-dropping.

  We approach from the front, up wide steps into a courtyard. The walls on every side are full of windows and gold-coloured balconies, all sparkling so much it makes me squint. I’m marched round the back to what I guess is the servants’ entrance. Somewhere inside are the Montgolfiers, I keep telling myself. All I have to do is find them. They’ll know what to do about Pierre. We’ll track down him and the birds, and everything will sort itself out. It’s hard to stay hopeful though with a guard hanging off each arm.

  We don’t go inside, either. After walking the whole length of one side of the Palace, we’re now facing a steep grass bank. Set in it, small and rusty and out of keeping with how grand everything else looks, is a door. Or rather a hatch, bolted shut.

  One guard opens it, the other holds onto me. We’re hit by a waft of damp, underground air. I panic.

  ‘I’m not English!’ I insist for the umpteenth time. ‘Just take me to the Montgolfiers, that’s all I ask!’

  ‘Save it, sonny.’ Ginger Moustache goes through the hatch, pulling me with him. It’s all I can do to stay on my feet.