by Emma Carroll
So much for honour.
It’s as if we’re back in the air, gazing down on familiar things that, from high up, look very different. Except I’m not flying any more. I’m in the middle of a field watching the handsome boy who’d wanted to help me deep in conversation with the one person who for months now, most definitely did not.
‘They know each other?’ Pierre’s shocked too.
I nod dismally. ‘Seems that way.’
What Sebastien’s part in all this is, I don’t properly know. I just feel such a fool – I’m usually smarter than this, but with him I let down my guard. I reckon I was closest to knowing the truth about him back in that Paris street when he’d offered to carry the box. The whole thing makes me feel exhausted.
Monsieur de Rozier returns with his bandages and brandy. He tries to move me but the pain makes me almost faint.
‘We need to get her to the surgeon at the palace,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘She’s losing too much blood.’
At least I think that’s what he says. He sounds really far away all of a sudden, like he’s underwater. Everything’s gone twilight-dark. I feel strange. But Pierre’s still here with me, and Coco’s tucked under my arm, so I’m not alone.
And we flew, I think, a warm, peaceful feeling spreading through me. Whatever happens now, at least we flew.
28
It turns out I’m a fighter. That’s what the surgeon says after he’s sewn up a three-inch hole in my chest. He makes me bite down on a leather strap for the pain. It doesn’t help, but at least I don’t faint again.
‘She’s tough, this one,’ Monsieur Etienne agrees; he sounds impressed. ‘I knew it from the moment I saw her.’
It also turns out that Pierre and his shirt sleeve saved my life. Without his quick action to slow the bleeding I’d probably not have made it.
‘You did the same for me once, remember?’ Pierre says when I try to thank him. ‘And back then you didn’t even know who I was.’
Oh yes I did, I think guiltily, I really did. But we settle on a teary ‘Merci’, and leave it there.
I’m moved from the surgeon’s table to a huge white bed and given more brandy and strict orders to rest. Tired and sore though I am, I want news. And Coco. I beg Pierre for both, so when the maid tending me isn’t looking, he sneaks Coco in under a blanket. But as for news of the balloon and the King’s reaction, he shakes his head: ‘Papa wants to speak to us about it.’
So I guess the telling off is still to come, after all.
It’s dark when I wake up. It must be the same day – even though the windows are closed, I can still hear the crowd outside. Someone’s lit the candles, and sitting next to my bed is Monsieur Joseph. Monsieur Etienne is with him, arms folded. From the other side of the bed, I hear quacking, so I know Pierre and Voltaire are here too. It feels daft to be just lying here, so helpless. Though when I try to wriggle up the bed, I’m too weak.
‘You’re angry, aren’t you?’ I say warily.
‘Angry?’ Monsieur Etienne’s eyebrows go sky-high. ‘My dear child, what you did put the whole flight in jeopardy! It took some pretty fast talking, let me tell you, to persuade the King you’d not been planted in that balloon basket by the English!’
I pluck at the bedsheet, ashamed. Beside me Pierre swallows noisily. Now, in the light of day, I can see how stupid we’ve been. I mean, we’d been arrested as spies, hadn’t we, so of course it looked suspicious. What makes it worse is that I start to cry.
‘We didn’t mean it,’ I sob. ‘Pierre was worried about Voltaire, and I got hurt by Madame—’
‘Stop, Magpie, that’s enough.’ Monsieur Joseph puts his hand over mine. ‘Now, listen to me, both of you. What you did today was very dangerous and I’m furious with you.’
Except, oddly, he doesn’t sound it. Looking up, I see he’s trying to keep a straight face. Monsieur Etienne doesn’t even bother to hide it; he’s now beaming from ear to ear. My mouth falls open. I laugh, unsure, then glance at Pierre, who’s smiling too.
‘It’s all right,’ he says.
And it is.
Maybe because I feel safe at last, amongst friends, I start to cry a bit more. Me and Pierre have done something no one else in the whole world has done. Together, we’ve flown in a balloon. Of course it was reckless. We didn’t know if it would fly or be safe, or if we’d come back to earth in one piece. But I’ve never been good at following rules.
‘Magpie,’ Monsieur Joseph says. ‘Oh Magpie.’ And the way he says it, warmed with a smile, makes it probably the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me. There’s a bit of awkward shuffling. An ‘ouch’ from me as he tries to wrap his arms round my shoulders, but in the end he settles for planting a kiss on the top of my head.
When he pulls away Monsieur Joseph takes out notebook and pencil.
‘I must have your account of the flight,’ he says to Pierre and me. ‘Tonight, before you forget it.’
‘I’ll never forget it,’ I assure him.
Once I’ve been revived with hot chocolate and a meat pie, it’s pretty exhilarating to go over the whole experience again: every sight, every sound, every movement – even Lancelot’s upset stomach. As we speak, Monsieur Joseph makes notes – lots and lots of notes – and Monsieur Etienne questions us until my head begins to droop.
Eventually, Monsieur Joseph lays down his pencil. ‘We’ve achieved great things here today, everyone. To make that balloon fly was the work of many months and many people. There were times when we thought it could never succeed. Yet, despite what fate chose to throw at us, today was a resounding success.’
Fate.
The wound in my chest starts throbbing.
‘Did you get the brooch back from Camille?’ I ask.
Monsieur Joseph rubs a hand over his face. Glances at Monsieur Etienne, who goes to a side table and pours himself a glass of water.
‘It’s a bit more complicated than that, Magpie,’ Monsieur Etienne says. I get the sense he doesn’t want to talk about it, which makes me push.
‘How? She stole it. You were there. You saw her do it.’ I don’t mention what she called me, but I’ve a nasty feeling they might’ve heard that too.
‘As far as we’re aware she’s still got the brooch,’ Monsieur Joseph says wearily.
I’m surprised. I look at Pierre, who’s frowning.
‘But it was expensive, wasn’t it?’ he asks.
Monsieur Joseph shrugs.
‘And what about the notebooks in the box?’ Now I’m confused. ‘You know a man came for them, don’t you? He’s a spy for the English – a proper one, I mean. It’s him who smashed up Pierre’s face.’
Monsieur Joseph flinches at this, but shakes his head. ‘No, Delamere’s not a spy.’
‘They caught him,’ I argue, surprised Monsieur Joseph knows his name too. ‘He’s down in the cellar with all the others.’
It’s Monsieur Etienne who comes over and sits at the foot of my bed.
‘Magpie,’ he says, so gently it makes me nervous. ‘This is to go no further, but I think the King got rather carried away on security matters these past few days. I don’t actually believe any of those poor people he rounded up are English spies.’
Pierre gasps. ‘What, none of them?’
I’m starting to feel dizzy again. None of it makes sense. This has always been about the notebooks. Always. Right from the break-in on that very first night.
‘So Madame Delacroix isn’t a spy?’ I say, to be clear. ‘Camille isn’t working for the English?’
‘No. Nor’s her husband, Monsieur Delamere.’
My hunch was right then! They were working together.
‘How do you know her, anyway?’ I ask.
A glance passes between the Montgolfiers.
‘By birth,’ Monsieur Joseph says. ‘She’s our sister.’
I stare at him. He’s not lying. Or smiling. He means it. Of course he does. It’s why they know each other’s first names.
Camille Del
acroix is a Montgolfier.
I shut my eyes; I have to, to stop the room spinning. I wonder if I’m still in shock from all that blood, or whether it’s because there’s something here I’ve misunderstood.
‘She didn’t steal the brooch, not exactly,’ Monsieur Joseph says. ‘It was hers in the first place. It’s always been hers. How it came to be hidden in that box I don’t know.’
The box was what she wanted, what she sent me into the house that night to fetch. Not papers, not notebooks: the box. Because all the time that gold brooch was tucked away in the lining.
There’s a creak in the bed as Monsieur Etienne stands up. ‘Let’s talk about it in the morning, shall we? You’re exhausted.’
I open my eyes. Monsieur Joseph is on his feet now too. Pierre’s carrying Voltaire under his arm. They’re all leaving.
‘Don’t go!’ I’m desperate for them to stay and tell me Camille’s story because there must be one – no one’s that angry without reason.
Monsieur Joseph mistakes my interest for fear.
‘Don’t worry, you’re safe tucked away up here,’ he says. ‘Camille won’t hurt you again. She’s spending the night down in the cells. They’re taking her to the city jail in the morning. From there we’ll determine if she’s a criminal or just very sick.’
It’s amazing how cool he sounds about his own sister. Not that I’ve forgotten how she threatened me – attacked me – so I suppose it’s justice of sorts. Yet something about all this still makes me uneasy. I can’t put my finger on it. But I think people are made of good and bad, and that nobody, not even thieves or English spies or scorned sisters, are all one or the other. I’d say that applies to Sebastien too.
If I want to hear Camille’s side of the story I’d better ask her myself, tonight, while I’ve still got the chance.
29
It’s a stupid idea; I realize it as soon as I get out of bed. Somehow, I make it across the room and down the hallway, stopping when the pain gets too much. The stairs are easier, I just cling to the bannister. Once I’m downstairs there’s no going back.
The guard on duty by the prison hatch is Ginger Moustache. Word must’ve got round that I’m not a spy because he greets me like an old pal.
‘Call me Monsieur Cedric,’ he says.
‘Magpie.’ We shake hands.
‘Can’t think why you want to talk to her,’ Monsieur Cedric says, when I tell him why I’m here. ‘Nasty piece, if you ask me.’
But he helps me through the little door and leads the way with a lamp. At the top of the steps, I hesitate, my heart thump-thumping. I still don’t like cellars.
‘You all right?’ Monsieur Cedric asks.
I take a deep breath. I’ve flown in a balloon and survived a sword attack; yes, I am all right.
Camille’s wide awake in her cell. Though she keeps her distance, I’m still glad of the prison bars between us. I ask Monsieur Cedric for something to sit on. He brings me an old wine crate which I sink down onto, gladly, my legs feeling like chewed string.
‘Comfy enough, are you?’ Camille says.
Though I can’t quite see her face, I’m nervous.
‘I want to ask you something,’ I say.
She shrugs. ‘Ask away. Doesn’t mean I’ll tell you.’
‘Why did you want the brooch so badly?’
Camille narrows her eyes at me. Thinking. Deciding what to say. It’s prickly, being stared at like that. Makes me want to scratch myself all over.
‘It’s mine,’ she says. ‘My mother wanted me to have it when she died.’
‘So why was it hidden in Monsieur Joseph’s valuables box?’
‘Everything in our family goes to the men, right down to the paintings on the walls and the carpets on the floors.’
‘The Montgolfiers told me you’re related,’ I say. The idea of them being family is going to take some getting used to, though it explains why she knew the inside of the house so well.
She comes towards me now, so at last I see her properly. She’s wearing the gold brooch at the neck of her dress, and all over again I’m struck by how beautiful it is.
‘Do you have a family, Magpie?’ she asks.
‘No,’ I admit. These days, more and more, my parents seem as faint to me as shadows. ‘It’s just me and Coco.’
‘You’re lucky,’ she says. ‘An unhappy family is worse than no family.’
‘But you must’ve grown up in Annonay in that nice house,’ I point out. ‘And, all right, so Monsieur Etienne’s a bit sure of himself, but Monsieur Joseph is kind and—’
She raises her hand. Those gloves are looking proper tatty. ‘Enough about my brothers. It’s my father you need to hear about – the great paper manufacturer of Annonay.’
I nod. I know about the family paper factory.
‘Everyone used to say what a fine man he was – good to his workers. Fair. But what they didn’t know was at home, with us, he was a tyrant. Do you know what that means?’
‘He was mean?’ I offer.
‘Exactly that. The worst thing was I wasn’t allowed to think. Being a girl, I stood by while he forced my brothers to learn, bullying them through lessons I could’ve picked up in an instant if I’d been given the chance.’
I can picture it, she’s sharp, all right: blade-sharp. Next to her, the Montgolfiers seem slower, rounder at the edges. They’re a darned sight kinder, too.
‘So I took it upon myself to learn.’ She pauses, flexing her fingers on the bars. ‘I liked building things, making equipment and solving problems – exactly the sort of knowledge my father thought a girl shouldn’t have.’
Funny, but I know what she means because that’s how my brain works too.
‘I started working on a special machine in secret. It was meant for cutting paper. Father was always complaining how they didn’t have a decent blade at the factory, so I wanted to surprise him. To show him what I was capable of.’
‘And did you?’ I ask. Already, I’ve got a bad feeling about this story of hers.
‘It was his birthday,’ she says. ‘As the machine was ready and working, I gave it to him as a present. Everyone else had made him stupid little cards, but I’d created something original and clever. And do you know what he did when he saw it?’
I shake my head.
‘He ordered the servants to take it away. Then, in front of everyone, he told me I was an embarrassment to him and my brothers. I must be ill, he said, to think I could invent something when I’d had no education, and if that was the case then I should go to my room straight away.’
‘Did you?’
‘Yes. I stayed there for three whole months,’ she says with a defiant lift of the chin.
I don’t suppose for a second she spent the time crying in bed, either. What she says next confirms it.
‘If anything, my father’s reaction spurred me on. Whilst he thought I was in my room resting, I was busy designing – a bigger, better cutting machine, and not one for paper either. This machine would bring me the recognition I deserved. In a few months it was ready. What I needed now was something to practise on. To cut. Something different.’
She keeps talking like she’s getting into her stride. But the words ‘cutting machine’ snag on me. I need her to explain.
‘What sort of “something to cut”?’ I ask.
‘A neck, I thought.’
I’m glad I’m sat down.
‘I tried to borrow a hen—’
‘Borrow?’
She ignores the interruption. ‘But my sneaky brothers caught me and threatened to tell our father, which is all rather rich, isn’t it, considering they used three animals in their flying experiment today?’
I’m glad they did, frankly. It saved Coco and Voltaire from the pot. Not that I expect Camille to understand.
‘In the end, I had to make do with a watermelon. But it went wrong. Horribly wrong.’ And she lets go of the bars, pulls off her stained old gloves and there I see it. On her right hand, th
e two middle fingers are missing. The stumps are smooth and scarred. On the left, the thumb is crooked, like it broke and never mended.
‘Oh!’ I cover my mouth in shock.
‘I was holding the melon to stop it rolling off the table. The blade dropped too soon, on to my hands and . . .’ She mimes the horrible chopping action.
I wince.
She looks strangely pleased. ‘Father said I deserved all I got.’
I stare at her mangled hands. I hate this woman. I’m scared of her. But right now, I also feel sorry for her. Even me, who’s never known a father’s love, can’t believe he’d say such a thing to his own daughter.
‘Did your father send you back to your room again?’ I ask.
‘I didn’t give him the chance,’ she replies, tugging the gloves back on with some difficulty. ‘I was sixteen by then, so I ran away. I got my revenge in the way I knew best.’
‘Which was?’
‘To marry the enemy – an Englishman. Real name Delamere. We changed it to make it sound more French.’
‘To Delacroix,’ I say out loud.
I’d not noticed before but there’s definitely a Montgolfier look to Camille – the way she kinks her eyebrows is just like Monsieur Etienne. All this time. All those years. The bitterness eating away at her like blowfly in a horse’s neck.
My gaze slides back to the brooch, glinting in the half-light. ‘What’s the brooch got to do with all this?’ I ask, because I’m still not sure.
‘You’ve heard of Monsieur Guillotin, I take it?’
I have. He’s the man behind the gruesome head-cutting-off machine that’s in all the news-sheets and that I, in a darker moment yesterday, feared we were being lined up for.
She taps her chest. ‘My idea. My cutting machine. I invented it first, though who’d believe a woman, eh?’
No one. The awful thing is, she’s right.
But the guillotine!
With a shudder, I think of all the cartoons of sharp blades and blood and heads collected in baskets. What a dreadful thing to put your name to. Though of course if she’d had her way it would’ve been the ‘Delacroix’, or the ‘Delamere’. Either way it’s a killing machine. I can’t imagine it: sitting down with notebook and pencil, sketching out designs, getting excited at the thought of it actually working.
