A chandelier hung on a heavy chain from the ceiling to illuminate the auditorium, all tarnished gold and dripping wax. Al lobbed a curl of orange peel at the stage that only just missed one of the low-lying candles.
Guil nodded. ‘Bread and circuses. The Romans knew well that—’
‘Oh god, please, not one of your history lectures. We get it, revolution is the human condition, absolute power corrupts absolutely. I take it back, the dog is quite amusing. Can I just watch it in peace?’
Looking put out, Guil folded the playbill and put it back in his pocket, then reached over to pluck the orange from Al’s hand. ‘Only if you stop monopolising the snacks. I’ve not had an orange since leaving Marseille.’
‘You’re all too serious. Honestly, sometimes I think I’m the only one of us with a sense of humour. I’m not sure Cam even knows what fun is,’ said Al with a sideways glance.
Camille rolled her eyes. ‘Perhaps I don’t find the same things fun as you do.’
‘Stabbing things doesn’t count. That’s work.’
‘We have different priorities.’
‘Oh, come on, you were exactly like this before the battalion. Ada’s told me, the earnest little political obsessive. The three of you, all hanging round the political clubs like teacher’s pets. I mean, you’d fit right in. Doesn’t look like Robespierre has ever cracked a smile in his life.’
Ada’s cheeks heated as Camille shot her a look. ‘He’s paraphrasing. I didn’t mean it as a bad thing.’
‘I often have fun,’ added Guil. ‘Last week I translated Kant from the original German.’
Al buried his face in his hands. ‘Oh god. What have I been reduced to? Once I was the light of Paris. Now look at me.’
Olympe cleared her throat awkwardly. ‘May I please have a piece of orange?’
It was the first time she’d spoken since they got to the theatre. Dragging her through the crowds and bustle of the city had been like trying to shove a cat into a carrying case. Camille had lost the battle of wills and they’d had to take a quieter route through the backstreets that was twice as long. But now, secreted in the corner of the box, curiosity was slowly overtaking the wary, hunted look she’d worn since escaping the prison. She flitted between avidly watching the stage, peering at the standing audience in the pit below, and across at the rich men and women in the other boxes, stroking her hand along the velvet of her seat and the silk of her borrowed gloves.
Guil carved her a segment of orange with his pen knife.
‘I love oranges. Docteur Comtois would bring me these, usually before they tried something particularly unpleasant.’ She hesitated, looking at where the orange juice had stained the tips of her gloved fingers. ‘I suppose that’s not a good memory, is it? He spoke of it as if he was doing me a kindness, but maybe saying something is kind does not make it so.’
‘Memories can be complicated. The same one can bring us both joy and pain. Here.’ Guil cut another segment and offered it along with a gentle smile. ‘My father imported oranges among other things. The best way to eat them is messily, with little care for public opinion.’
Olympe hesitantly smiled back and took the segment. ‘Maybe this can be a new memory of oranges.’
The oranges had been an expense they could barely afford, but they had worked well as a bribe to get them into the theatre. Their box wasn’t officially in use: a leak had ruined the fine silk wall hangings and left splotches of mould growing like weeds along the seams. It couldn’t be rented to the fashionable elite of Paris, so it was being used partly as a storeroom, partly as an anchor point for some of the elaborate rigging that hung above the stage. Al had kept one orange back as an indulgence.
Ada checked her watch. She could get them more money, but only if she found a chance to slip away and pick up what her father had left for her. She had taken charge of the battalion’s finances from their first paid job and had used her power to fudge their accounts to sneak her father’s money in here and there. Between the bribe and two more mouths to feed they would need it. Her gaze flicked to Camille, who was cleaning her nails with a knife. If Ada was still willing to lie.
A soft tap at the box door interrupted her thoughts.
‘Ah. That’s our cue,’ said Al. He swung his legs down from the crate they’d been propped on and beckoned to Camille. ‘Léon is ready for us.’
They left. Onstage, the dog had been taken off, and Olympe, having gained a little more confidence, started asking questions about the theatre – the first one she’d ever been to – and Paris and what other things people did to amuse themselves.
‘My mother tried to bring me up as properly as she could. I learned needlepoint and the piano and drawing and everything a young lady should. Sometimes Docteur Comtois would let me copy his anatomical drawings when I was in his lab all day. I liked drawing veins, how they look like trees.’ Olympe leaned over the edge of the box. ‘Oh, look! That woman has a birdcage in her hair. How did she do it? Why did she do it?’
Ada pulled her back out of view. ‘It’s fashion. Or it was about ten years ago.’
A new act started. The audience drew in closer, hushed and waiting. A gust of wind made the candles gutter. A Leyden jar for storing electricity had been brought onstage and volunteers were being summoned to take part in the demonstration. Olympe fell silent, watching intently as they were arranged in a circle, each end of the chain touching the jar.
‘Is that electricity? How do they do that?’
Ada explained about the static charge. Onstage a woman near to the jar yelped, loose strands of hair around her face rising.
‘You mean it’s artificial? There’s no one like … like me involved?’
Ada shook her head. ‘No. No one can do what you can do.’
