‘Ah! Dorval.’ Her father strode into the room. ‘Your duc has sent word for you. Says it’s “time”, whatever that means – no, don’t tell me. I want as little to do with all this as possible.’
Dorval set down the knife so the blade crossed the ledger. Ada pulled her hand back just in time to avoid getting cut.
‘Until next time, mademoiselle.’
Ada forced herself to politely incline her head.
He exchanged a word with her father, and with their backs turned, she slipped a freshly cut quill into the folds of her skirt. In a pinch, she could pick a lock with it.
Then he left, slamming the front door after him.
‘I’m afraid I have some business to attend to as well. You’ll understand that I can’t leave you to roam freely…’
Ada’s heart sank. Her opportunity to escape was rapidly vanishing.
He took the key from the door. ‘But I think we can allow you at least this change of scenery. You may remain downstairs to complete the accounts.’
She sagged in relief. ‘Thank you.’
‘It is so nice to have you back around the house, my dear Adalaide.’
He left, and she heard the key turn in the lock.
Heart hammering, she sat at the writing desk, fingers twitching in her torn skirt as she allowed enough time to pass to hear the front door slam again and for both her father and Dorval to be a good distance away. Then she pulled the quill from her skirts and hurried to the door.
Ada smiled as she set to work.
Her father was a fool, and she was desperately glad of it.
8
Place de la Révolution
The smell of blood was far too familiar for Camille. It ran glistening through the sawdust and cobbles, staining shoes and mixing with horse dung and ale and piss. There was a good turnout to see the day’s executions, the crowd at least five-deep around the guillotine. It was in part down to the weather, warm and bright and clear. No one wanted to stand around in the mizzle to watch a few dirty prisoners meet their end. But a bright morning, and a fresh crop of heartless aristos – well, that was something Paris would turn out to see.
Camille skirted the crowd, making for the far side of the Jardin des Tuileries and the Salle du Manège where the National Convention met. She’d dispatched James to watch for the tumbrils leaving the prison and follow Al, ready to create their distraction. Camille had her own target. Soon Comtois would leave the National Convention meeting to watch the day’s executions.
She’d given her father’s pistol to James, opting for one of Guil’s knives instead. For defence, she’d said. Easier to use in close quarters. But the truth was she didn’t know how she felt about the pistol any more. For months it had been her touchstone, the smooth pearl and wood under her hand as calming as any amount of Al’s laudanum. Now, it only filled her with a sense of wrongness, and the dread that the way she’d viewed the world was completely askew. She had chosen not to mention Molyneux’s accusations to James – god, that their parents had been having an affair – and when he knew, perhaps he wouldn’t thank her for putting the pistol in his hands.
She’d secluded herself in a nook, waiting for Comtois’s telltale black among the brighter colours of the Convention members, but he came out alone. She was assessing the ebb and flow of the crowd, judging where she could draw the most attention, when the point of a knife against her ribs stilled her instantly.
She looked back. Dorval.
‘What do you want?’ she spat, trying to ignore the insistent press of the knife on her skin.
Dorval’s smirk grew wider, and he looked over her shoulder. She turned to follow his gaze. The first tumbrils were arriving at the guillotine.
‘If you’re trying to annoy me, you can do that any time. I’m a bit busy right now.’ She tried to wriggle away but he followed her with the blade. With his free hand he felt along her side to find the knife in her sash, tossing it away.
‘I want you to watch.’
‘Watch what?’
Dorval turned her, keeping the knife nestled under her ribs. ‘Oh, just your hopes as they fade away.’
The first prisoners were being led out. Camille felt a flutter of panic. Was Al among them? Was James waiting for her distraction? No – no blond heads in this batch.
‘Why?’ she snarled. ‘This has nothing to do with Olympe. Or you.’
