He softened. ‘Of course I will. I could never hate you, Camille, whatever happens. You can trust me on that.’
He took her upstairs to the battalion’s rooms and ushered her into the parlour where the fire had been stoked up high. The coffee mugs from the morning of the festival were still on the table next to Ada’s half-read Galvani. Olympe was curled in a chair with James’s medical texts, devouring anatomical drawings of nerves and blood vessels snaking up flayed arms. She started when Camille came in, book toppling to the floor.
‘What happened? Is Al going to be okay?’
Camille sank into a chair by the fire and let James explain about Ada. She almost made herself a drink, but that made her think of Al and then her chest was tight and she couldn’t breathe.
Guil’s expression was grave. ‘How much time do we have?’
‘None. They’ll execute Al tomorrow. Ada … I don’t know.’
‘Well, I suppose that makes things straightforward – help Al first then Ada.’ James passed out plates of dried sausage and thinly sliced, fried potato. ‘Eat, Cam. Get your strength up.’
She moved to the window seat, swallowing her food mechanically.
‘So what’s the plan?’ asked Olympe. ‘Do we take Al from the prison like you took me?’
Guil shook his head. ‘Not with so little preparation time. Our best chance is when he’s being transported to the guillotine. We must apprehend him en route. We’ve done it before, but we will be down to three people,’ he added, gesturing to his bandages.
‘I could make a distraction, give you time to get him.’
‘No,’ Cam cut in. ‘Not you. You’re staying here. Safe.’
‘I want to help.’
‘I’m not risking you. Not now. James and I will do it. We only need two people.’
Olympe flushed but didn’t back down. ‘You’re being stupid. I have these abilities – the least I could do is use them to help. I think I could fight, if I had to.’
‘Like hell you will. I said no. You’re staying out of it.’
‘Because you’re going to hand me over in exchange for Ada?’
‘No. Never. Because I can’t have all this be for nothing. Please, Olympe. I need you to be safe.’ Camille’s voice broke. ‘One of us has to be safe.’
A purple flush swirled across her cheeks, and hesitantly, Olympe reached to take Camille’s hand.
‘All right. I’m sorry. I understand. Do what you have to do.’
Camille took a slow, deep breath, willing the catch in her chest to ease. Her hands were trembling, so she knotted her fingers together to still them.
‘Al is relying on us. Ada is relying on us. We have twelve hours.’
She looked up at them, at her Bataillon des Morts, old and new. The future was in their hands now.
‘Time to make them count.’
7
Rue Barbette
22 Prairial Year II
Another day had crawled past, and Ada was still trapped. She paced in front of the window, watching the outside world like a starving man staring through a bakery window. Ever since she’d found out about Al, she’d been unable to rest. This was her fault. She should have told Camille what was going on. She should have made Al take more care not to get caught.
She’d dressed carefully that morning, looking through her old chest of drawers and wardrobe at the heaps of clothes she had taken for granted. She needed something practical, something that would let her grab the first chance to escape, but also something that would tell her father not to worry. To make him think he’d tamed her. In the end she settled for an old skirt and caraco jacket combination in a sunny yellow printed muslin. The skirt was full enough to let her run, but she skipped the layers of petticoats that would give it its proper shape. The caraco jacket fitted tightly, with lace around the cuffs and ribbon decoration – but a caraco was a Provençal peasant’s garment originally, much in fashion during the Revolution. She pinned her curls from her face, then applied a touch of colour to her lips to finish the look.
The bars on the windows didn’t budge. Her door remained bolted from the outside. The fireplace was blocked – too narrow anyway – and she couldn’t lever up any of the floorboards.
