She wasn’t going to let herself be used. She would rescue Olympe, not because the duc had hired her, but because Olympe needed help and that’s what the battalion did. If the duc wanted Olympe, then she was going to make it damn hard for him.
‘Come on.’ She took Olympe’s hand. ‘Let’s get out of here.’
The explosion shattered through the prison when they were only halfway to the exit. The stone wall burst open like a tear in rotten fabric, and chaos erupted. Smoke swirled from the cellars, and above, a wooden gantry sagged and snapped, sending soldiers and prisoners crashing to the ground.
Olympe’s hand squeezed Camille’s so tightly that she gasped in pain. The explosion must have spooked her – but Olympe was focused on the other side of the courtyard.
‘He’s here,’ hissed Olympe. ‘Docteur Comtois.’ She pointed to a thin white man wearing a drab black suit and a tricolore cockade marching swiftly along the remaining length of the gantry. If Olympe hadn’t panicked at the sight of him, Camille would have thought him completely unremarkable. ‘We have to go, he can’t see us.’
But it was too late. The docteur had stopped, frowning. Silently, he held out his arm and pointed at Olympe. A unit of soldiers poured towards them. Olympe shivered, and for a second Camille worried she was about to crackle with that electric charge. But she held herself in check.
Camille hauled Olympe through the chaos, changing direction. The only way left unblocked by rubble or soldiers was a staircase leading to the roof. From there they had a chance of escape across the rooftop of the neighbouring Tribunal building. Lungs burning, they tumbled onto the expanse of sloping tiles. Rain had started to spit from pale clouds, making the tiles slippery. Camille’s chest was tight, spasming with the need to cough. She forced herself on. She wouldn’t let her own weakness get in the way. Not when victory was this close.
They were almost across when a soldier poked his head through a skylight ahead. Camille swore. The soldier clambered out, followed by another, and another. She turned to go back the way they’d come, but more soldiers had followed them.
‘What’s your plan? What do we do?’
Olympe had backed up so close to her she could feel the girl trembling. As the rain washed the dirt from her face and slicked back her hair, she looked less and less like a caged animal, and more like a frightened teenager. She had that same expectant look the battalion had when they waited for Camille to unveil her next great plan to save the day.
Camille peered over the parapet at the Seine rushing far below. What was her plan?
‘I’m not going to let the docteur take you. I promise.’ Camille held out her hand. ‘Do you trust me?’
‘Trust you? I don’t even know you.’
‘You know I’m helping you get out of here, and they’re trying to lock you back up. Take your pick.’
Olympe twitched at her skirts, watching the soldiers clamber ever closer across the rooftops.
‘And my mother? Will you help me find her?’
The wind whipped a lock of hair across Camille’s face, concealing her eyes. She pushed it back.
‘If I can. But I do promise I’ll get you to safety.’
Olympe bit her lip, unsure.
‘Everything is a choice,’ Camille continued. ‘There is no fate. No destiny. This is your choice, Olympe.’
The soldiers were only metres away, struggling to keep hold of their muskets as well as their footing on the tiles.
Olympe reached and placed her cold, rain-wet hand in Camille’s.
‘Okay. I choose to trust you.’
Camille closed her fingers around Olympe’s, and jumped off the roof, pulling the girl with her.
7
The Arsenal
It was dark and light at once, loud and quiet, hot and cold. Ada scrambled through rubble and icy water, coughing and slipping and clutching at slippery stones as she struggled to stay upright. Water was gushing in through the hole blown in the wall. It was up to her knees already.
‘What the bloody hell is this?’ screeched Al. He’d climbed onto the top of the dividing wall, face flecked with tiny cuts from shrapnel.
Ada tried to swallow her anxiety. Where was the water coming from? It should have been an outside wall, the light wells were all on that side – had they hit the prison’s water supply? Or, oh god, the cesspit? No – there was a heady whiff of sewage, but the force of the water suggested it was coming from something a lot bigger than a cesspit.
Guil was pulling at the door.
