Sky Chasers

by Emma Carroll

  They don’t notice us, not even when we stop in front of them. They’re too busy having an argument – a right old barney by the sounds of it – which makes them seem so normal, I have to swallow down a nervous giggle.

  ‘How much?’ the King is saying. He’s done up to the nines in a wig and a cheerfully bright waistcoat. Shame his face is so grumpy.

  ‘I can’t remember,’ the Queen replies. She’s dressed up too – wig, powder, beauty spot, the works. Frankly, she looked prettier before when I met her in the gardens. The gleaming white sheep is with her, still wearing a ribbon round its neck like a leash. It’s busy nibbling the buckles on her shoes.

  ‘More than the cost of running your little farm?’ the King asks grimly.

  The Queen sticks out her bottom lip. ‘You wouldn’t begrudge me a few new frocks, would you, Louis dearest?’

  Ginger Moustache coughs politely. You’d have to have your head in a bucket of sand not to notice us by now. They keep bickering, though, ignoring us completely. At some point my gaze wanders to the sheep.

  She’s familiar, all right. And now I see her properly, it’s obvious. The sheep is Lancelot! My heart does a cartwheel. I can’t believe I didn’t recognize her before. The nibbling’s the giveaway – it’s the very thing she used to do to my bare feet.

  ‘Lancelot!’ I mouth, willing her to look my way.

  She carries on nibbling, so I try a sneaky little click of the tongue. Nothing. Not so much as a flick of her ears. She’s forgotten me already. Sad though I am, I’m glad things have worked out well for her. Shame I can’t say the same for poor Voltaire or Coco. Or us.

  When the King finally addresses us, his temper is proper sizzling.

  ‘You took your time, man!’ he barks at Ginger Moustache. Then he points his walking cane at us. ‘These are the spies, are they?’

  ‘Indeed they are, your Majesty,’ Ginger Moustache mutters, like he’s already apologizing for us. ‘The best I could find.’

  I stand very straight. Chin up. Eyes front. The King of France can think what he likes just as long as he puts me in that balloon basket.

  ‘Good grief! Look at the size of them both!’ the King rages. ‘I bet the bigger boy weighs as much as a pony!’

  Pierre gasps, offended.

  ‘Montgolfier said no more than forty pounds in weight,’ the King goes on. ‘You were listening, weren’t you?’

  ‘Indeed I was—’

  ‘They need to be smaller!’ the King insists.

  ‘But these are the smallest of the prisoners,’ Ginger Moustache replies.

  The King narrows his eyes at the guard. At us.

  ‘Then we’ll have to hack a bit off of them, won’t we?’ he says.

  Ginger Moustache is aghast. ‘Hack, your Majesty?’

  I don’t dare look at Pierre. The Queen giggles into her fan, but something about the King makes me think he’s serious, and suddenly I’m not sure even flying is worth losing a body part for. Ginger Moustache tries to splutter out an answer. He’s saved by the doors opening behind us.

  ‘Ah, there you are Montgolfier!’ the King booms over our heads. ‘Let us pray you have better news.’

  Pierre and I spin round as Monsieur Joseph bustles in. His wig is all askew and there’s ink on his fingers. It’s enough of a shock seeing me – it stops him dead. Yet when he spots Pierre the colour completely drains from his cheeks. No wonder: the son he thought safely tucked away in Annonay is here at Versailles with a face full of bruises.

  Monsieur Etienne blinks at us in total disbelief. ‘What in the world—?’

  I’m just glad to see them – a bit choked, in fact. Before I can even think of rushing over, Pierre grabs my shirt-tails.

  ‘Remember what I said,’ he whispers. ‘We’ve got to pretend we don’t know Papa.’

  It’s too late anyway. The guards close in and jostle us to the other side of the room.

  It’s Monsieur Etienne who catches my eye as he passes. Though I’m not expecting it, he winks at me. Just once. It gives me a tiny pinch of hope.

  Now it’s the Montgolfiers bowing before the King. Seeing them seems to calm his temper, thankfully, though I’m still anxious as to where this is going to lead.

  ‘You’ve decided you want living passengers for the flight,’ the King states.

  ‘Yes, your Majesty, quite so.’ Monsieur Etienne, confident as ever, does the talking. ‘We want to study the effects of altitude on beating hearts and breathing lungs.’

  ‘These two criminals will do,’ says the King. He points at us again with his cane. ‘I’m told they weigh over forty pounds but we could . . . make adjustments.’

  I wish he’d stop saying this.

  ‘Your Majesty,’ Monsieur Etienne goes on. ‘I’m not convinced of the merits of using real people at all. Not yet, anyway. We’re not entirely certain of the safety . . .’

  The King looks surprised. I’m not, though. After the accident with Pierre, this was always Monsieur Joseph’s view.

  ‘The flight might go wrong, your Majesty,’ Monsieur Etienne explains. ‘We’re not yet completely certain of the robustness of our design.’

  Or is this because of the lost box of notebooks, I wonder? Was Pierre right all along? Was I really a bit too hopeful to think they’d remember every detail? Possibly.

  Or maybe the balloon’s simply not ready – for passengers, that is – though I’d be willing to take the risk.

  ‘Perhaps if we use something living that isn’t a person? An animal, perhaps?’ Monsieur Etienne suggests.

  ‘An animal? What’s the matter with you, man?’ the King cries.

  Monsieur Etienne keeps his cool. He’s good at this: he could argue for France. ‘Is it wise to put two suspected English spies in the balloon? Might that not lead the English to claim they are the first to fly?’

  This hits home.

  ‘Hmmm.’ The King peers down his long nose at us. The look is cold, blank, like he’s choosing which knife to use at supper.

  ‘Find me an alternative, then, Montgolfier,’ he says finally. ‘And quick on it. Everything needs to be ready by sundown.’

  Pierre’s shoulders visibly drop with relief. The very idea of flying again terrifies him, I know, but I’m gutted our chance has gone. All we’ve got to look forward to is being sent back to our cell – without Coco or Voltaire – who by now could be in any number of savoury dishes.

  ‘An animal that isn’t designed to fly would be perfect,’ Monsieur Joseph suggests. His gaze falls on Lancelot. ‘Something like a sheep, perhaps.’

  I’m alert again.

  The Queen places a hand on her pet sheep’s head. ‘Then go and fetch one from the fields, Monsieur Montgolfier,’ she says coolly. ‘You’re not having mine.’

  I’m biting to tell her she needn’t worry – from my days of tending Lancelot, I know she weighs less than thirty pounds, at least she did when I weighed her for the butcher. But the King is now looking at his pocket watch and yawning.

  ‘Marie, I’m hungry and extremely tired,’ he says pointedly. ‘Let’s not waste any more time. It’s already past seven o’clock.’

  ‘They’re not having her.’ The Queen, folding her arms, sits back in her seat.

  Trouble is, the King’s stubborn too. He closes his watch with a sigh. ‘A favour for a favour, my dear. If you want to keep those new dresses of yours, I suggest you be a little more generous in return.’

  And with that the Queen’s face softens. She unfolds her arms, leans towards the King.

  ‘Very well,’ she says prettily. ‘Though promise me it’ll be in all the records, that the Queen’s pet sheep was the very first living creature to fly.’

  The King pats her shoulder: ‘Of course, my dear.’

  ‘And that we give her a proper, noble name.’

  She’s already got one of those, I want to point out, but the Queen has her own ideas. ‘Something apt.’ She pauses, thinking. ‘Gabrielle had a parrot called Montauciel once,’ she say
s, then glances at Pierre and I. ‘Which, if you’d care to know, means “climb-to-the-sky” in English. I think that will suit very well.’

  Without any more fuss she gives Lancelot – I can’t think of her as Montauciel – to Monsieur Joseph. Nor could I imagine handing Coco over that easily, not for all the fine dresses in France.

  Smug now he’s won the fight, the King offers the Queen his arm as they get to their feet. If the King thinks he’s solved the weight issue, I think bitterly, he’s wrong.

  ‘You’ll need more than the sheep, your Majesty,’ I say before anyone can stop me.

  A dangerous hush falls over the room. Pierre gives me a warning kick to the ankle.

  ‘Ouch!’ I glare at him. ‘It’s true. Lancelot . . . I mean the sheep . . . she weighs less than forty pounds so . . .’

  ‘Your Majesty,’ Monsieur Joseph cuts in, wobbly voiced and nervous-sounding. ‘Rest assured. If the sheep alone isn’t enough, we’ll have to use other animals to make up the weight.’

  The Queen flashes the King a look. ‘What other animals?’

  ‘No more of yours, my dear,’ he tries to calm her, then to Monsieur Joseph. ‘What did you have in mind?’

  ‘As with the sheep, a creature that doesn’t fly naturally – a chicken, perhaps,’ Monsieur Joseph replies.

  The King nods: ‘Take whatever you need, Montgolfier. It’s vital we get this right.’ Then to Ginger Moustache with a sweep of his free arm, ‘See to it that these men want for nothing. Anything – anything – they request, you do it. That’s an ORDER!’

  He barks out the last word so everyone jumps. Pierre, though, shoots me a hopeful look. He’s thinking what I’m thinking – of Voltaire and Coco. That’s if we’re not already too late.

  23

  Even when the King has gone, the Montgolfiers still pretend they don’t know us– there’s no eye contact, no hugs, no ‘what the devil are you doing here’s. They’re playing it extra-safe until the flight is over, and so must we; Pierre keeps hold of my shirt-tails in case I need reminding.

  Ginger Moustache, meanwhile, is keen to get things underway. ‘Allow me to escort you to the kitchens,’ he says to the Montgolfiers. ‘We’ll weigh the sheep properly and find you some poultry, ça va?’

  ‘It needs to be alive,’ Monsieur Etienne reminds Ginger Moustache, as they leave the room. ‘And healthy. No palming us off with something half-dead.’

  I seize my chance. ‘Please Monsieur Montgolfier. If you find an orange rooster and a white duck in the kitchens, please, please use them.’

  Monsieur Etienne stops, raises an eyebrow. Monsieur Joseph looks back over his shoulder, his gaze darting to Pierre, then me. It’s the briefest of looks. An even briefer nod. I just hope he’s got the message.

  The door to the King’s rooms closes behind him. There’s nothing more to be done now. The balloon flight will take place, the King will be happy, the Montgolfiers will get their names in the history books.

  I’m trying to be hopeful.

  This time tomorrow, when it’s all over, the Montgolfiers’ll come clean about who we are and we’ll be freed from our festering cell. Until then we’ll have to wait it out. Already I’m tapping my toes, grinding my teeth because this waiting lark might well be the hardest part of all.

  A guard with tiny currant eyes is now in charge of us. He’s spent the last few minutes out in the hallway talking to Ginger Moustache and the Montgolfiers. He comes back into the room, rubbing his hands with glee.

  ‘Right you two,’ he says. ‘I’ve had my orders where to take you. Let’s get you locked up again, shall we?’

  My mood sinks as I picture the dark hours stretching ahead. What makes it crueller is knowing that, outside in the sky above our heads, the balloon will be flying and we won’t get even the tiniest glimpse of it.

  ‘Here goes,’ I mutter to Pierre as we head for the stairs.

  Yet instead of going down to the cells, the guards take us upwards. I’m totally thrown.

  ‘Where are we going?’ I ask more than once. Pierre does too, but as usual, they blank us.

  Up and up we go, to the very top of the house, the attics. It’s hot up here and just as stuffy as being underground. But at least the last of the evening sun is still shining in through the windows.

  At the end of a long, narrow passage we finally stop in front of a door. The currant-eyed guard wrestles with a set of keys, whistling through his teeth till he finds the right one. The door opens onto what was probably once a servant’s bedroom. It’s low-ceilinged, dusty, with a bed and a trunk for storing clothes in; I’ve definitely seen worse places to spend a night.

  ‘You’ve gone up in the world, you have,’ the guard remarks, ushering us inside.

  It’s a bit of a shock, being spoken to finally, especially as he doesn’t even sound that unfriendly. Behind us, the other guards wait in the passage. Though I notice their hands aren’t on their swords any more. They’re not exactly standing to attention, either, but leaning against the wall. The whole mood feels different, almost relaxed. I look at Pierre, who shrugs: neither of us have a clue what’s going on.

  ‘Why’ve we been moved?’ I ask.

  The guard considers me narrowly. ‘You might as well know,’ he says with a weary sigh. ‘Monsieur Montgolfier demanded it. Said it wasn’t right to put children down in the cells. What he wants, he must have. You heard the King himself say so.’

  ‘Oh.’ I catch Pierre’s eye and smile, though he doesn’t smile back.

  ‘And while you’re in here, find yourself some decent clothes.’ The guard aims this at me. ‘Shocked at the sight of you, Monsieur Montgolfier was. You should find a frock to fit you in that trunk over there.’

  ‘A frock?’ It’s a bit of a jolt to be reminded I’m not a real boy. And good guesswork from the guard because, filthy and short-haired as I am, I don’t look much like a girl.

  Yet I think I understand. This is Monsieur Joseph’s way, saying in a quiet manner that he does know who we are, and he’s making sure we’re all right until this is over. And I’m glad of it.

  Pierre, though, still seems in some sort of grump. Once the guards have gone, I soon find out what’s eating him.

  ‘How could you offer Papa our pets like that?’ he cries. ‘If that balloon isn’t safe enough for people, it’s not safe for Voltaire!’

  ‘Whoa! Steady!’ I hold up my hands in surprise.

  ‘I’m serious, Magpie. You of all people should know the balloon will probably crash land. What happened to you was bad enough – imagine those injuries on Voltaire, or Coco, or Lancelot! It’d probably kill them!’

  ‘You’re being daft,’ I say, not liking that he’s got a point. ‘It won’t crash, they’ll be fine.’

  ‘Oh, you know that, do you? For certain?’

  I glare at him. ‘Well, they won’t last the night down there in the kitchens. So at least I’ve given them a fighting chance.’

  We’re both upset and bristling. And when I think maybe Pierre understands what I’ve done, he soon puts me straight on that score. ‘Don’t look too smug, Magpie. We’ve still got to face my father and uncle when this is over.’

  ‘You have,’ I remind him. ‘You’re the one who ran away. They’re not my family.’

  He gives me a look I can’t quite read.

  Later, we’re brought supper – bread and broth on a tray slid inside the door by a guard’s foot.

  ‘You can have the bed,’ I say to Pierre, once we’ve licked the dishes clean. ‘I’ll take the floor.’ We’re not arguing any more, but as the taint of it’s still hanging in the air, I’m trying extra-hard to be nice.

  ‘Thanks.’ Pierre flops down on the bed. It sends up so much dust, we both start hawking and coughing. There’s only one window – small, set in the eaves – and I don’t expect it to open. But, with a stout push, it does. Mid-shove, I feel a sharp something digging into my thigh.

  ‘Ouch!’ It’s the gold thing Pierre made me take from him on the stair
s. What with everything else, I’d forgotten it. The window open, I set about unravelling the knot in my hem.

  Pierre props himself up on an elbow, watching. ‘I’d better tell you about the brooch, hadn’t I?’

  Holding it in the flat of my hand, I can see that’s what it is. The almond shape is in fact a feather, the work on it so fine you can see every little line and detail. As I turn it this way and that, the gold catches in the late sunlight. In all my thieving days, I’ve never seen such a stunning piece. I can’t take my eyes off it.

  ‘It’s . . . beautiful,’ I say, because no other word will do. ‘Where’s it from?’ There’s a pause. I look up in alarm. ‘You didn’t nick it, did you? Oh Pierre, tell me you didn’t!’

  ‘No, I didn’t steal it,’ he admits. ‘The Englishman was after something else inside the box, not just the notebooks, something hidden. But I got to it first.’

  I frown. ‘What d’you mean hidden?’

  ‘He was searching the lining of the box. I saw him do it. Then he heard someone moving about downstairs and went to the door to listen, and . . .’

  ‘. . . you found the brooch and pocketed it,’ I finish, guessing the rest. ‘It must belong to your father if it was hidden in amongst his papers?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ Pierre agrees. ‘Though I’ve never heard any mention of it before, or seen my mother wear it.’

  I stare at it longingly. ‘I bet it’s worth a bit. He probably wanted to sell it on.’

  ‘Maybe.’ He doesn’t sound sure.

  ‘What, then?’

  Pierre sits up properly. ‘When the Englishman couldn’t find the brooch, he went completely, raving mad!’

  I think of the room as I’d found it, chairs on end, the box all smashed up.

  ‘I know this sounds stupid, Magpie, but it was as if the brooch meant more to him than the notebooks. He was in such a state he almost forgot to pick them up.’

  ‘He’s a spy though, isn’t he? There’s loads of them here, we saw them on the stairs.’ To be honest, though, I don’t know what to think. Perhaps the man just got dazzled by a fancy bit of jewellery. It is an amazing bit of gold.