Sky Chasers

by Emma Carroll

  Monsieur Etienne tries again to grab the weapon from her.

  ‘I’m warning you,’ she says, swinging the sword in his direction this time. ‘I’ll use this if I have to.’

  Now I see it properly it’s a scary great thing – a good few feet of silver. She must’ve swiped it from a careless guard. Monsieur Etienne holds up his hands in defeat. ‘Stop this, Camille. I don’t know what you want, but this isn’t the way to go about it.’

  Camille. Etienne. First names. They know each other?

  I’m properly confused. Hadn’t she been working for the enemy? Didn’t she want those papers to sell on so that an English inventor could claim his flying machine was the first?

  I’d assumed this was a simple case of fame and money – lots of both, the sort of amounts people went crazy over.

  First names, though, makes it personal. Madame Delacroix – Camille – doesn’t waste time in saying so, either.

  ‘You’re lucky,’ she goes on. ‘To have an invention that’ll put your name in the history books. You’ll be the toast of France, won’t you?’

  ‘Not if we don’t get on with it,’ Monsieur Etienne points out.

  The crowd nearest to us can see what’s happening. They’re stunned, silent. But, further back, people are getting restless. Someone shouts, ‘Come on! What’re we waiting for?’ There’s a cheer of agreement.

  ‘Put the weapon down,’ Monsieur Joseph pleads. He’s sweating like a pig. ‘Whatever it is you want, we can talk. But not now; the King’s waiting.’

  I can hardly feel my arms anymore. The other people holding on to the ropes are complaining too. But Camille isn’t going to rush.

  ‘All my life I’ve lived in your shadows,’ she says, ‘You had the attention, the education, the opportunities to achieve great things. What did I have?’

  Monsieur Etienne interrupts: ‘Camille, stop—’

  ‘What I had,’ she keeps talking, her voice high and tight, ‘Was a mother’s love. She promised me magic. And in the end, when you already had so much, you took that away from me too.’

  She’s ranting. She must be mad. But when I glance at the Montgolfiers they’re both looking so shifty I’m suddenly not sure. The point of the sword is back against my throat again, pressing ever harder. She’s sweating too – we all are – as the flames get higher and brighter.

  I can’t hold my rope any more.

  As I let go, the balloon lurches upwards – only in one corner though, throwing the whole thing off balance.

  ‘Watch out! It’s coming down!’ someone wails. And suddenly everyone’s rushing and shouting again. The crowd pushes against us, against Camille. Taken by surprise her sword slips – at least I think it does. I feel it scrape down my throat, before the panic kicks in.

  ‘Get off me!’ I scream.

  But she’s still pinching my arm, and her face, close to mine, is tight with hate.

  ‘Once a thief, always a thief!’ she hisses. ‘But not any more. I want my brooch back.’

  Her spit’s on my cheeks. I try to spit back. Bite. Anything to get away. Then I feel a sharp tugging at the front of my frock. The fabric tears. And just like that she lets go of me so fast it propels me backwards.

  I fall against the passenger basket. It’s bumping along the ground, dangerously close to the fire. From inside, I hear bleating and clucking. Those poor animals! I have to get them out before the whole thing crashes into the flames.

  I’ve already hooked my arms over the rim, when Monsieur Etienne yells for me to keep away.

  I ignore him. With a kick, I get one leg over the side. No one else can hold onto their ropes. One by one in quick succession, as they let go, the basket begins to lift.

  For a very long moment, I’m stuck. Half in, half out. My heart’s in my throat. Just when I start slipping to the ground, a hand grabs my frock. A great heave and I’m pulled properly inside the basket.

  ‘What the—?’ I yelp.

  With a great thud, I land at Lancelot’s feet. She’s tied to the side of the basket, eating a pile of grass. I see the two bird crates, Coco and Voltaire still inside.

  Sat with his fingers curled round the bars of one of them is Pierre, who looks about to be sick.

  ‘Honestly, Magpie, it was the only way I could get Voltaire to calm down,’ he tries explaining.

  As I crawl across the floor to sit next to him, I make light of it. ‘Fancy seeing you here. Thought you didn’t like flying.’

  ‘I don’t,’ he replies. ‘And your moving about’s making it worse.’

  Poor Pierre. He’s done this for Voltaire and my chest aches for him. If I could get them both back down safely, I honestly would. But the tethering ropes hang slack against the balloon. It’s too late to stop the flight. We’re floating free.

  I sit tight until the rocking slows. Then I reach for Pierre’s hand. It feels cold and clammy, like it had that day when he’d wound the rope too tight around his wrist and got dragged into the sky. This time’s different. We’re inside a basket, together, with a balloon full of hot air above us. What’s more, the King of France is watching. The horror of the last few minutes slides away. I start smiling: I can’t help myself.

  ‘You might not believe me,’ I tell Pierre. ‘But you’re going to enjoy this.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid, Magpie. I’m going to throw up.’ Which he does over the side in spectacular fashion.

  When he’s finally finished, I open the bird crates. It is wonderful to see Coco again, and he nestles in the crook of my arm like nothing is amiss. Lancelot too, legs splayed for balance, nuzzles my foot like she remembers me at last and breathes gently on Coco. Even Voltaire looks his usual dignified self again.

  ‘Don’t know what you had to panic about,’ I tell him. ‘You’re the only one of us who can actually fly. If this balloon goes down, you’ll be fine.’

  ‘Shut up!’ Pierre wails. He’s got his eyes closed. If only he’d open them and look up, he’d see.

  Above our heads, the balloon has swelled magnificently. Against its bright blue and gold, even the sky seems a little faded. It must look brilliant from the ground. Not that I’d want to be down there: this is the very best place to be, especially as we’re still gaining height.

  The noise of the crowd grows fainter as we drift away from the Palace. It’s so peaceful. Soon, all I can hear is the sighing of the balloon, and next to me, Lancelot chomping grass. Coco’s snoring, Voltaire’s perched on Pierre’s lap. We could almost be at home in the orchard, all together under a tree, that’s how calm it feels.

  My mind drifts back to the very start, all those months ago in that field, or rather, in the sky above it. The world had, in that moment, looked so different. It made me think that things could change if only you saw them differently.

  Very slowly, I get to my feet.

  Pierre’s eyes ping open straight away. ‘Don’t move! Stay still!’

  ‘It’s not going to tip up,’ I reassure him.

  Keeping my hands on the basket rim, I peer out for the very first time.

  ‘Oh, my!’ I breathe. ‘This is incredible!’

  We’re over the gardens that surround Versailles. Behind us, the Palace is as small as a pile of toy bricks. At the front of it is the courtyard, packed with tiny dots. Beyond, paths and driveways span out like spokes from a wheel. Everything is cream-coloured or green, every line part of a pattern. No wonder the Queen’s farm was so perfect – the whole world looks that way from up here.

  ‘Pierre, you really should see this.’

  He shakes his head. ‘I can’t.’

  I feel my stomach lifting. We’re going higher. Suddenly though, Pierre leaps to his feet like he’s been stung by wasps.

  ‘The filthy beast has just . . . ugh!’ His breeches are splattered brown, and stinking to high heaven. ‘It’s eaten so much grass it’s got the flux!’

  Lancelot, noble as ever, keeps chewing.

  ‘Stand here, beside me, and hold on to the edge,’ I tell him
, trying not to laugh. I don’t tell him he smells worse than old cabbage. I’m just glad he’s got his eyes open at last.

  As well as drifting up, we’re moving away from the Palace gardens now. There are more trees, acres of parkland with lakes sunk into the ground.

  ‘Oh, Magpie!’ Pierre gasps. ‘C’est merveilleux!’

  ‘Isn’t it fantastic?’

  He nods shakily. ‘I didn’t know the world could look like this. Oh, everyone should see it! Everyone should get the chance to fly, shouldn’t they?’

  ‘Yes, they should,’ I agree, glancing at him sideways, ‘Even people who thought they’d be scared.’

  A wide smile spreads across his face. Seeing him like that makes me smile too, though the best part of everything is having my favourite person in all the world here to share it with me.

  ‘Magpie.’ Pierre turns serious. ‘You do realize we’re the very first people in history to fly in a balloon, don’t you?’

  He’s right. No other living creature has been up in the air before. Even the animals here with us are the first to try a flight like this, to see how they fared. We’ve beaten the English, Madame Delacroix, a couple of robbery attempts. We’ve even beaten the Montgolfiers themselves, who’ve made a balloon but never set foot in one.

  ‘We’re not supposed to be up here though, are we?’ I remind him. ‘So it might not count, you know, in the history books and all that.’

  ‘We know, though, don’t we Magpie?’ Pierre says.

  I nod: we do. No history book can take that from us. I’m so lost in it all, I don’t notice that Pierre’s staring at me. It’s a funny, wide-eyed expression he’s got. I just hope he’s not about to ruin the moment by going moony on me or something.

  ‘What’s up with you?’ I ask, a bit sharp.

  He points to the front of my frock. ‘The brooch. It’s gone.’

  ‘I think that crazy lady with the sword took it,’ I say.

  Looking down, I see a tear in the fabric just below my collarbone where the brooch had been. In its place is a big, dark stain.

  Pierre’s suddenly looking sick again. ‘You’ve been hurt.’

  The stain is wet. I frown, touch it, taste it.

  It’s blood.

  27

  It probably looks worse than it is. If it was really bad, it’d be painful, wouldn’t it, and all I can feel is a little bit of stinging in my chest. There’s a stupid amount of blood, though. It’s all over my hands. As I go to wipe them in the skirt of my frock, I find that’s bloody too, which is annoying. I want to be gazing at the view not tending to a stupid scratch.

  With something to focus on, Pierre stops looking green about the gills and becomes quite bossy. He tears an arm off his shirt and folds it into a sort of pad.

  ‘Press it hard against your chest,’ he instructs me. ‘And keep it there. It’ll stop the bleeding.’

  I do as he says, though it hurts then – a nasty, leg-buckling pain. I don’t mention it, mind you. I just want to get back to enjoying the ride.

  Beneath us is a long, thin ribbon of dirt, which I guess is the main road back to Paris. Every so often, we pass over a house, a barn. In one field, a group of horses sets off galloping and bucking at the sight of us. There are birds who shriek, people on the ground who wave. It’s incredible. I want to stay up here for ever.

  ‘You all right?’ Pierre asks more than once. ‘You look cold.’

  ‘I’m great!’ I tell him, though I do feel a bit lightheaded.

  When the basket gives its first little shudder I hardly notice. The second time, it’s more of a shake – and quite a strong one. Glancing up, I notice the balloon is rippling as if it’s lost air.

  It’s Pierre who spots the tear. It’s a third of the way up the balloon, curved, about a yard in length. It looks newly done, jagged round the edges, like someone’s taken a swipe at it with a sharp weapon. The dread hits me when I realize I’m not the only thing Camille Delacroix has cut.

  ‘It’s not that big,’ I say, trying to stay upbeat.

  ‘You said that about your wound,’ Pierre points out.

  And really, I know any tear isn’t good – in a person or a balloon. A cold sweat breaks out on my forehead. Our flight is going to be over sooner than we thought.

  With a jolt, we begin to lose height quite quickly. Coco chooses this moment to wake up so I put him down on the floor. Lancelot, finally realizing she isn’t in a field, starts pacing, which makes the basket rock, and Voltaire flap his wings in panic. Pierre braces himself against the basket. He looks as pale as I feel.

  We’re dropping fast. And it seems to be getting faster. Beneath us the treetops loom closer. I see details again – the colour of curtains at a window, the swishing of a horse’s tail. Above us, the balloon topples to the side. Instead of drifting straight down, we seem to be at an angle. Just up ahead is another road – this one’s a crossroads. There’s plenty of traffic on it: horses, carriages, people on foot, all staring up at us. I pray we don’t come down on top of them.

  ‘Will there be a bump when we land?’ Pierre asks.

  ‘A little one,’ I lie.

  Somehow, the balloon limps on for a few hundred more yards. We brush the tops of a copse of trees. Then, before us a blessed sight: open ground. Standing in the middle is a person who, as we close in, I see is a boy with fair hair. My heart goes double time because it’s Sebastien.

  ‘Oi! Watch out!’ I yell. ‘We’re going to land! Grab a rope if you can!’

  Coming in low, we’re on course to clip Sebastien’s right shoulder. Just in time he goes sideways and we avoid him. Then we hit the ground once. Twice. The basket tips over. There’s a scratching of claws, flapping wings, beaks, hooves and Pierre and me all tangled up together. Everything’s spinning. With a final thump, it stops.

  What comes next is a very long silence. I feel a mad throbbing sensation in my chest. My frock is wet, sticking to my skin. I don’t need to look to know it’s blood. Someone starts groaning; I think it’s Pierre. Out on the field, Lancelot is already grazing. Voltaire rushes from the basket then stops to paddle his feet in the grass. If a duck could ever look glad to be on firm ground, he does. Yet a few yards away, Coco lies still.

  As soon as I move, the pain spikes under my ribs. I catch my breath as the field spins. Somehow, I drag myself the short distance to Coco. I’m hoping, begging he’s just stunned.

  ‘Come on little friend,’ I murmur, scooping him into my arms. ‘Time to wake up.’

  I stroke his chest in tiny circles, just the way he likes it. Finally, he opens one eye, then the other. I’m so relieved I want to cry.

  Then, the biggest surprise.

  Coco, my silent, sleepy rooster, tips back his head and crows. And crows some more, on and on, and so loud they probably hear it in England.

  I’m still laughing with relief when a hand touches my shoulder. I look up to see Sebastien standing beside me, staring at the wrecked balloon in absolute amazement. Well, I suppose it is amazing to see two people and three animals drop from the sky. Maybe it’s shock, or the surprise of seeing him again, but my teeth start chattering and I come over all shivery-cold.

  Pierre, wiping his hand on his breeches, offers it to Sebastien, who shakes it.

  ‘About the duel—’ Pierre starts to say. But Sebastien’s noticed I’m shaking and tries to put an arm round my shoulders. The pain makes me yelp.

  ‘Oh!’ He pulls away. I’ve left blood all down the side of his shirt. Quite a lot of it too.

  ‘It’s just a scratch. Don’t fuss,’ I tell him.

  Yet the sight of all that red makes my head spin, and before I know it, I’m lying flat out on the grass. Sebastien crouches beside me, his lovely face knotted with concern. ‘It’s more than a scratch, Magpie. You need a surgeon, tout de suite!’

  ‘I suppose you’re going to offer to help me again, are you?’ I say, looking him straight in the eye.

  He laughs easily. ‘That’s not a challenge to my honour,
is it?’

  It’s meant in jest, I know. But there’s something about him today. Don’t know what. Until I see his hand, that is, the same hand he was flexing yesterday, which despite him denying it, is swollen and bruised. I can’t think why he’d lie.

  Between them, Pierre and Sebastien manage to prop me up. But by the time an open carriage and horses comes thundering across the field in our direction, I’m flagging badly. It’s Monsieur Joseph who jumps out first, and rushes to us. Monsieur Etienne makes a beeline for the balloon.

  ‘Idiot boy!’ Monsieur Joseph cries, crushing Pierre in a hug. I wonder if this is the telling off he’s been fearing: if it is then we’ve not much to worry about.

  Next, a man I’ve never seen before appears. ‘I’m Monsieur de Rozier,’ he says. ‘I’ve an interest in science and am here to check the animals survived the flight.’

  ‘Animals?’ Pierre cries. ‘What about Magpie?’

  ‘I might’ve known you’d be in this together!’ Monsieur Joseph remarks. ‘What possessed you to do something so dangerous?’

  ‘Poultry, mostly,’ I admit.

  He splutters, almost smiles. Then sees the blood and cries out.

  ‘Bandages, quickly!’ he snaps his fingers at Monsieur de Rozier. ‘And water and brandy! Hurry!’

  As Monsieur de Rozier rushes back to the carriage, I glimpse another passenger still inside: a dark dress, sleek black hair. That old feeling of dread comes over me again.

  ‘She came quietly in the end,’ Monsieur Joseph remarks, following my gaze. ‘I think we’ve all got some explaining to do when we get back to the palace.’

  Madame Delacroix – Camille – sits alone in the carriage, her hands in her lap like they’ve been tied together. Even now, she’s still wearing her gloves. I look away. I’m tired of her – tired of even trying to keep my eyes open.

  I don’t shut them, though. And I wish I had. When everyone’s talking and fussing over me and he thinks no one’s watching, Sebastien goes over to the carriage. One foot on the step, he starts talking to Camille. I can’t hear what’s being said at first. Not until I catch a few words of it and realize with a shudder: they’re talking in English.