‘I don’t care what they want with me. I’m grateful to have been rescued, but I won’t go back to Docteur Comtois, and I won’t go to this duc either.’
‘That’s all very nice, but we’ve been given rather a lot of money to hand you over,’ said Al.
Grey, swirling clouds consumed Olympe’s face as she rounded on Al. In a flash, the scared girl was gone and a scowling demon was in her place, blue sparks arcing ominously along her jaw. The light from the candles dwindled as darkness gathered around them, a smothering of shadows and crackling ozone.
‘You’ve seen what I can do. Good luck forcing me.’
He gave a shrug, going back to his pipe, but Ada could see in the tense set of his shoulders that Olympe scared him.
Olympe turned to Camille as the shadows began to recede.
‘Before, you said everything was a choice. That there was no fate, no destiny. Well – this is my choice. I’m not going back to Comtois. And I’m not letting you hand me over to the duc. I want to find my mother, and to be free.’
Camille chewed her bottom lip but said nothing.
It was clear this was no straightforward prison rescue. And handing Olympe over wouldn’t be delivering her into the loving hands of her family.
But if they didn’t, what the hell were they getting themselves into?
3
Section Marat
There were still the last vestiges of daylight in the long summer evening outside the Au Petit Suisse. The rain had blown over, leaving a washed-out sky and quagmires of mud clogging the roads. Camille and Guil picked their way up the Rue de la Liberté, between drays stuck in the mud, abandoned stacks of empty crates and barrels, and ducking under low-hanging eves and upper floors that projected over the street so far they seemed to almost touch above their heads. Leaving Ada and Al to keep watch over Olympe, Camille had set out with Guil to check a nearby safe house. With her crackling blue sparks of electricity and eyes like pitch, Olympe was hard to keep hidden. Camille came close to understanding why the Revolutionaries had gone to such lengths to keep her secret and protect themselves.
The closer to the river they came, the more the old heart of the city showed itself in the tiny wooden buildings made more from whitewash and hope than timber, with sagging beams and cloudy mullioned windows. The front window of each operated as a discrete shop displaying silverware and handkerchiefs, leather shoes, ink, nails and knives. Despite the late hour, the streets were teeming. At the junction of several roads, the deconsecrated convent of the Cordeliers took up almost an entire block. The huge refectory a monolith, with its turret and tall arched windows that tapered to a point. A few windows had been boarded up and weeds and moss grew like mould between the ancient stones of its walls. After the nuns had left, the convent had been taken over as a political club. But the leaders had all been executed a few months ago, and now it was another ghost haunting Revolutionary Paris.
A low wall blocked the gap between the refectory and the cloisters, with a door set into the stone. Guil stood in front of Camille to hide her as she used a judicious boot to the rotting wood to force it open. Then they both slipped into the quiet of the convent grounds.
It was peaceful like a graveyard. The formal gardens had run wild, grass and flowers spilling over the walkways that swallowed the sound of their footsteps. A sweep of the buildings showed no sign of squatters or anyone else who’d thought an empty convent could be a useful hiding place.
‘We move Olympe here as soon as possible. Tomorrow night, once it’s dark.’ Camille shoved her hands in her pockets, breathing easier.
‘Agreed.’
As they returned, she hesitated by the fogged-up window of a café, her face half in shadow from the oil lamp suspended over the street.
‘Can I ask you something?’
‘You know you always can.’
She folded her arms, sifting through the right words to use.
‘How do you know if you’re doing the right thing?’
‘Ah.’
Guil folded his arms to mirror her and moved to stand side by side.
‘Is this about Olympe?’
Camille snorted softly. ‘I wasn’t trying to be subtle.’
‘Indeed. You are worried your judgment in this matter is not clear?’
She sighed and rubbed a hand over her face. ‘Maybe it’s just because it’s been such a bloody long day, but right now it seems as clear as mud. I’m not deluded, am I? This whole thing is seriously not right. I knew the Revolutionaries were bastards, they sent my parents to the slaughter without blinking – but this? They welded that mask around her face, sewed her into her clothes as though she’s not even human. It’s sick.’
‘I doubt the Royalists have much better intentions for her welfare.’
