Ada fell silent as they reached the Pont National. The Seine was a broad velvet ribbon splitting Paris in two. Moonlight painted a stripe along the surface and glittered in the puddles. Lights burned brightly in the windows of the buildings along the riverbanks, in slender dormers and broad bays, through expensive sheets of glass in the palaces of the aristocrats and through foggy mullioned panes in the slums. It seemed impossible to think that both of them had been struggling for their lives in the river only the day before. A chill wind came up off the water, and Camille drew her closer.
‘No trouble while waiting?’ asked Camille.
Ada swallowed. ‘All very boring.’
It was only half a lie.
‘With the way the world’s unfolding, I’m glad it’s me and you,’ she said, glancing hopefully at Cam’s face under her cap.
‘Yes, me too,’ Camille replied perfunctorily. ‘What do you think about the Al situation? Has he become too much of a liability?’
Ada deflated, and looked back at the river. ‘Oh. I don’t know. Probably. But I can’t help feeling we should cut him some slack. He’s been through a lot.’
‘All of us have, that’s not a free pass.’
‘No, I know. But be a bit gentler. Sometimes I think … maybe he ends up back in the tavern when he can’t cope with your disappointment.’
‘Are you blaming me for his drinking?’ asked Camille.
‘No.’
‘It sounds like you are.’
‘Well. Maybe. You can have quite an effect on people.’
Camille disentangled their arms.
‘I see.’
‘I didn’t mean it like that.’
This conversation hadn’t gone the way Ada wanted at all. For a moment it had been good. Camille safe, tucked warmly against her side and heading back to their cosy rooms above the Au Petit Suisse. Somehow her foot had found its way directly into her mouth.
‘I’m sorry.’ She put her arm around Camille’s waist. ‘Do what you think’s necessary with Al. I just meant that I think he still has something to offer. We’re not all at our best all of the time.’
Camille settled. Ada could feel the tension ebbing from her.
‘Don’t I know that,’ she said, and gave Ada a soft smile that set her heart blooming.
They’d reached the Left Bank and were about to turn right onto the Quai de la Conference when a carriage halted abruptly beside them. It splashed a puddle of dirty rainwater that splattered Ada’s skirts and soaked her ankles. She stopped with a yelp, and hastily shook the excess water from her dress.
So she wasn’t paying attention when two men leaped from the carriage and slung a black bag over her head.
11
An Unknown House in the Forêt de Saint-Germain-en-Laye
The bag was whipped off Camille’s head so fast it yanked some of her hair with it. She was blinking in the lamplight of a wood-panelled study, her hands and feet tied to a solid oak chair. They’d taken her pistol off her too, its comforting weight gone from her hip. Ada was nowhere to be seen. Whoever had taken the bag off her head stayed behind her; she couldn’t see them no matter how much she twisted.
She’d lost track of how far they’d travelled, jolting into each other in the back of the carriage, but she knew it was long enough that they were far out of the city. The blanket of darkness outside the mullioned windows confirmed her suspicions. Ada had tried to talk to her, to their captors, but Camille had heard the blow landing on her cheek so they’d spent the rest of the ride in silence. She’d felt velvet under her fingers and smelled fresh polish – whoever had taken them had money, or power.
It was an old house, judging from the slant of the window frames, and a rich one. The room was stuffed with Rococo cabinets, armchairs and console tables long out of fashion, but plush and comfortable nonetheless. A de la Tour hung over the fireplace and several tall bookcases had been fitted on either side, heaped with books. In front of the window was a roll-top desk with marquetry inlays, the lid propped up by a stack of ledgers.
But the oddest thing lay right before her. A complete human skeleton had been hung from the ceiling, all the connecting bones wired together so precisely that it felt as if the skeleton might sit beside her and start discussing crop prices.
Camille’s brows furrowed. What was this place?
Behind her the door creaked open, and a sandy-haired man took the seat opposite. He had his head bowed to flick through a sheaf of notes, but she recognised him at once. It was Docteur Comtois from the Conciergerie.
