Her foul mood followed her all the way home through the tense and teeming streets of Paris. Whatever Al believed, she wasn’t going to let him die without a fight.
She looped past the Au Petit Suisse in vain hope of finding Ada. This time she pictured her muddy and tired after lying low, downing half a pot of coffee and demolishing a roll as she told Camille about her adventure.
Instead, Camille found an unsealed letter, held in place by a knife stabbed into the street door below their rooms.
She glanced in both directions along the street. It was busy, but the face she was expecting wasn’t there. She knew who had left the letter. Because she knew whose knife this was.
5
Rue Barbette
Morning was heartlessly crisp and bright outside Ada’s window. She stood in the warm rays, a fresh shawl wrapped around her shoulders. Once she’d felt held by the pale stone and busyness of her father’s home, given a place and identity. Now she felt smothered.
She’d spent half an hour checking the bars on the window and the lock on the door. There was no way out, and not a single thing she could pick the lock with. After the alarm and frustration subsided, the worst thing was the boredom. There was nothing to read, nothing to write with, nothing to do. For a while she sat by the barred windows and watched the servants bustle with deliveries of the day’s papers, proofs from the printers and clerks delivering messages.
Eight months ago she had done the same thing. Sat by the window watching life pass her by, while Camille and her father stood trial. She’d been useless then, and she was useless now. No wonder Camille kept secrets from her. Guil was hurt, Al had lost his family, Olympe was still in danger despite their trick on the mountain, and Camille was facing the wrath of the Royalists and Revolutionaries combined, and she was – what? Squabbling with her father? Sulking because she was bored?
Maybe it had only ever been a fluke, her leaving home and being part of the battalion. She didn’t belong to that life, not like the others. Her father had tried to warn her she wasn’t made for it, that her place would always be with him. In the drawing rooms and parlours, not in the thick of the fight. She touched a finger to her bare earlobes. Her mother had tried to teach her how to protect herself, how to survive on her own. Ada had failed even at that. The earrings were back at the Au Petit Suisse, still folded in the silk handkerchief. She had nothing to her name and not even something sharp to pick a lock.
When she had exhausted all the possible interest in staring out of the window, Ada relinquished the last of her pride and sat on the rug with a stack ofL’Ami d’Égalité. Her father’s paper. The publication her parents had dreamed of creating together. She flipped through the most recent copy, skimming the pompous essays and bombastic rhetoric. It had been so long since she’d last heard her mother’s voice, but she could hear her scornful laughter as clearly as if she was in the room with her. For the first time in a long time she let herself wish her mother was still alive. It was a dangerous thought, one which could pitch her into a dark cloud of depression. She avoided it as much as possible. But sometimes it was all there was left: missing her. Wondering who she would have become if she’d still had her mother with her. Someone braver, maybe. Someone more confident in their worth.
At the bottom of the stacks was an edition so old the paper was soft, dog-eared at the corners and tearing along the fold of the spine. She held it up to the light to see the date. 1786. Before they had left Martinique. Greedily she turned the pages, recognising it for what it was: the trial run her parents had created when the paper was a kernel of an idea, nurtured between the two of them over candle stubs and late-night conversation. There were only four pages in total, some reporting local news from Fort Royal, some giving notice of upcoming events and meetings. Then an essay from her father. Something aping the classics, a conversation between a student and teacher. Finally, on the back page, taking up the whole sheet, she found it. Her mother’s writing. The ink had bled, a fuzzy printing job to start, with some words running in to each other and misplaced letters making it hard to scan. But it was her mother’s voice. Clear, incisive, urgent.
Ada ran her fingers along the lines, imagining her mother writing it. Late at night, after Ada was in bed. Ink staining her nails, crumpled paper littering her desk. Never giving up.
A tear dropped onto the fragile paper, soaking through and making the ink run. She folded the paper and slipped it inside her dress, then dried her tears. Ada had tried to live a life of her own. She hadn’t failed – it had been real, every moment had been real with Camille. She belonged there because that was where she wanted to be. Her father had tried to wrest control from her, but she couldn’t let things end like this.
When her father came this time, he carried a far smaller tray with only a slice of buttered bread sitting directly on the metal. No plates to smash.
He held it out to her, and she took it, calling on every bit of her willpower to eat the bread and not throw it at his head. She needed her strength.
‘Are we calmer today?’
She nodded.
‘I’m afraid I’ve come with upsetting news. A member of your battalion, Aloysius, was arrested and sentenced to execution. In fact, he’s due at the guillotine tomorrow.’
The food turned to lead in her stomach. ‘What? Why?’ But she knew why. The warrant out on his family had included him. His past had finally caught up with him.
‘I don’t tell you this to hurt you, but to show you who this government is. You and I both know that boy had nothing to do with his family’s crimes against the people. You see now why I have to do whatever it takes to keep you safe from this madness?’
She buried her face in her hands and let a sob overwhelm her. The bed dipped and then she felt her father’s warm hand on her back.
‘I’m sorry,’ she mumbled into her hands. ‘It’s so unfair.’
‘I know. We must be very brave.’
‘Please, Papa, would you let me do something? Anything, just to keep busy and not let my mind wander to such things.’ He drew back a fraction, sympathy replaced by caution. She pressed on. ‘Have a servant watch me, take my shoes if you must, just please let me out of this room.’
‘I don’t want you to be unhappy…’
‘Let me be of some use – I can check proofs for you, or manage the household accounts or – or any of the things I used to do.’ She looked down at her folded hands in her lap. ‘You said I still had a place with you. Where else have I got to go? The battalion is finished.’
She let a note of bitter despondency creep into her voice and watched her father’s expression tense with indecision.
Al’s past had caught up with him, and now Ada’s past was repeating itself. Locked up, helpless, while someone she cared about faced death.
‘Please, Papa.’
