‘This is my battalion, they help me rescue people from prison. They’re safe.’
Olympe let herself be led, still watching Ada and Al warily, and perched on the edge of the chair.
‘How—?’ Ada crossed over to get a better look at her skin. ‘What—?’ She looked up at Cam, then back at Olympe. ‘Who—?’
Al took a sip of his brandy. ‘I think I had it summed up with “what the bloody hell is that?”’
‘This is Olympe,’ said Camille.
Ada frowned as she examined Olympe. She’d thought the girl had some strange skin condition or had been marked by a childhood illness like so many pox-scarred survivors she saw in the streets. But the bruise-like markings seemed to move and shift as Ada watched her, which was impossible. Ada blinked and looked again. A bruise blossomed around Olympe’s ear and disappeared under her hair. She pulled her cloak closer, retreating into the hood.
Ada swallowed. ‘Did the duc mention … this?’
‘No,’ said Camille curtly. ‘It seems that the duc was creative with the truth. He’s not her father – she’s never even heard him. The duc said this was a normal family rescue. He lied.’
‘But why bother?’
‘Perhaps they thought we might turn down the job if we knew what kind of risk we were really running,’ said Guil, crouching by the fire to warm his hands.
‘Risk?’ asked Ada.
‘Tell them what you told me.’ Guil shot Camille a look.
Camille’s expression darkened. ‘They had her locked up like an animal. There was this … mask. A metal mask, completely covering her head. As if they were trying to hide her. As if she is dangerous.’
Ada felt all too aware of Olympe studying them silently.
‘I don’t understand. If she’s not the duc’s daughter, then who is she? And why did he hire us to rescue her?’
Camille rolled her shoulders, joints cracking audibly.
‘Your guess is as good as mine. All I know is that we were lied to. Used. We’re trying to put things right in this chaos and the Royalists treated us as though we’re their servants. They made me take you all into a situation far more dangerous than I was led to believe. They wanted us to do their dirty work.’
She paused to twist her hair into a rope to wring the water out.
Ada swallowed. She knew the expression on Camille’s face only too well.
‘They shouldn’t have done that. I don’t like being used.’
2
The Restaurant Downstairs
The ‘restaurant’ craze had swept Paris at the same speed as the Revolution and now the Au Petit Suisse sold meals in the evenings, pulling in stragglers from the pleasure gardens and students from the Sorbonne University. Camille and the battalion trooped downstairs for a sorely needed meal, folding themselves into a cramped table at the back as a waiter began bringing baskets of bread and bottles of oil. They’d kept Olympe hidden under her hood, and stashed her into the deepest, darkest corner.
By the empty fireplace, a pair of musicians sawed at a fiddle and an accordion; a particularly drunk group of students were making up new words to the revolutionary anthem, ‘Ça Ira’. Half the café seemed to be discussing the forthcoming Festival of the Supreme Being, the grand parades planned throughout the city and the giant mountain being constructed on the Champs de Mars.
A simple dinner of roast guinea fowl, pottage, a dish of anchovies and a plate of pickled greens was presented along with several bottles of terrible wine and they set to.
‘Are you sure no one followed you back from the prison?’ Ada asked Guil.
‘I’m sure,’ he replied. ‘The soldiers should still be following two floating heads downriver.’
‘How—?’
‘There have been many beheadings recently. Many spare heads. Trust me when I tell you that you do not wish to know the rest of the story.’
‘Beheadings?’ asked Olympe, tensing.
