The guard sniffed. ‘One what?’
‘A stray from the Vendée sympathisers. My god, man, do you not listen to a thing in morning docket? General Dumas would have your hide for such lax behaviour.’
The guard eyed Camille.
‘Rationalist scum!’ She spat at him through the bars. ‘Your so-called Revolution rejects God, so we reject you.’
Sneering, the guard opened the gate.
‘Throw her somewhere dank,’ he said to Guil.
Guil strode past, hauling Camille fast enough that she lost her footing on the cobbles. She was going to end up with bruises. Good. It had to look real.
‘My pleasure. Back to your post, soldier.’
Snapping a salute, he led her away and the guard shut the gate behind them.
They were in. Now for the hard part.
The smooth stone towers and walls of the prison rose before her. Home of the Revolutionary Court, the Palais de Justice, and if their information was correct, holding place of fifteen-year-old Olympe Marie de l’Aubespine on her way to the guillotine. Their mission.
Confidently, Guil walked Camille to a squat door in a tower as patrols of Revolutionary Army crossed their path in drilled ranks. He knew his way around better than she did; he’d spent enough time here as a soldier in the Legion St George. A spiral staircase wound down into the dungeons where the worst cells and the oubliettes were, depositing them into a featureless corridor. Camille paused, leaning on her thighs. Her weak lungs were playing up, feeling too tight to draw full breath. When she finally stood, Guil gave back her gun, and pointed down the corridor.
‘Left, then two rights, and you’ll come to an iron door. That’s the one.’
Camille hesitated.
Somewhere in the prison was Ada. She didn’t know if she was captured, let alone alive. Their plan relied on them getting in and out as quickly as possible. If she changed things to look for Ada, they might miss their chance to rescue Olympe. They could fail. A curl of pride flared in her belly.
Ada knew that. She knew the plan and she could look after herself.
But leaving Ada behind felt worse than failure.
Guil brushed his fingers against her arm.
‘Go get the girl,’ he said. ‘I’ll get Ada and Al.’
‘That’s not the plan.’
‘So change it.’
She reached for her father’s pistol, wanting the comfort of its handle against her palm. ‘All right. Don’t get into trouble.’
Guil squeezed her shoulder then set off back up the stairs.
Before she lost her nerve, Camille strode deeper into the dungeons on her own. Left, then two rights, and there was the iron door. Low and heavy with rust caking the rivets that held it together, and moss growing between the damp-slick stones around it. Steadying her shaking fingers, she hunkered next to Olympe’s cell and took out her lock picks.
This was the plan. There was no fate. No destiny. Everything was a choice.
Guil and Ada and Al could make their own choices, and she would make hers.
The lock snicked open, and she slipped inside.
It was show time.
3
A Courtyard in the Conciergerie
