Molyneux gave a patronising chuckle. ‘All right, all right. I have only one question. A young girl in our charge has gone missing. I want to know if you had anything to do with it.’
Camille swallowed. ‘Why would I have anything to do with it?’
‘You have a knack for picking up strays. And being in places you shouldn’t be.’
She gave him a grim smile, remembering his plump figure, hands neatly clasped behind his back as he watched her father being led up the scaffold steps.
‘That’s a matter of opinion. I happen to think I’ve been in the right place at the right time more often than not. Enough to know who’s responsible for the bad things that happen.’
Molyneux ignored her, considering the paper in his hands.
‘We have intelligence that places your people in the Conciergerie prison, flying – is this right – a hot air balloon?’
‘Might be.’
‘Before disappearing in the confusion after a powder store was ignited.’
‘How unfortunate.’
‘Indeed. And around the same time the girl went missing.’
Camille cocked her head, feeling the gun slide along her skin to prod her ear. ‘But, citoyen, what does the most notorious prison in France have to do with your young charge? You didn’t say she was a prisoner.’
Comtois and Molyneux exchanged a glance.
‘She is not a prisoner,’ explained Molyneux. ‘But she is … important to us. She will be missed. And she’s a risk if she falls into the wrong hands.’
‘Would those be Royalist hands?’
‘Any hands,’ Comtois cut in. ‘Believe me, you do not want that girl loose on the streets of Paris.’
Camille gave him a bland smile. ‘Well, what a shame you lost her.’
Molyneux cleared his throat. ‘And that’s why you’re here. We’d like her back.’
‘Tough luck, we don’t have her.’
Molyneux held her gaze for a moment before he spoke again.
‘Indeed. But you will get her back for us.’
Right. Of course.
Camille sank into her chair, exhausted and crushed under the weight of so many people expecting things from her.
‘Sounds fun.’
Referring back to the paper, Molyneux gave her a rough description that matched Olympe – bar the storm-smudged skin and electrocuting people – and detailed when and where they’d last seen her.
‘That’s not much to go on.’
‘I’ve heard you’re very talented.’
‘When I want to be.’
The door opened again. She tried to twist, but the gun nudged her to face forwards. A squat soldier led Ada into view. Holding her by the arm, he pulled the bag from her head. Camille’s gut cramped. A bruise was smudged across her cheekbone from where she had been struck in the carriage. She was so tense Camille could see her straining against the soldier’s grip. His knife still hung at his belt, but the threat was clear.
Molyneux watched Camille intently, pink fingers laced together. ‘I think you’ll want to be, Camille.’
