A soldier came round the corner, musket in hand. But Guil was ready for him. He fired, hitting the soldier in the thigh. He crumpled with a yelp and fumbled with his musket. Guil lined up another shot, as another uniform appeared round the edge of the stone wall and hooked his hands under the fallen man’s armpits to haul him back to safety. Guil’s bullet snipped the wall above his head, sending a shower of fragments skittering down. Their bright white uniforms vanished and Guil fell back to reload. The white of his borrowed uniform trousers and waistcoat were smudged with dirt, and he’d loosened the red necktie.
‘Work faster, Ada.’
She ignored him, focusing on the minute movements of the pin against the tumblers in the lock. She had all but the last tumbler raised; the angle was difficult and her pin was too short to lift it fully. Her fingers were sweaty. She pressed up with the pin, forcing it against the tumbler. The pin slipped in her fingers and clinked onto the floor.
She swore.
‘Faster, but also accurately,’ hissed Al.
Ada wiped her hands on her dress and picked up the pin again. She could do this. She had the feel of the lock now. She just had to tune out Al’s twitching and the voices of the advancing soldiers and the smell of gunpowder burning her nose.
‘You’re not exactly doing anything to help.’
‘Cellar gun battles aren’t my forte. I’ll leave that to the petty criminals like you two.’
The crack of gunfire ricocheted around the corridor. Al flinched, but shifted to stand protectively in front of Ada as she worked. She heard the retort of Guil’s gun as he returned fire. Sweat trickled down the back of her neck but her hands were cold now, calves cramping from squatting.
The last tumbler was sticking again.
A bullet struck the door above her head. This time Guil’s gun didn’t answer.
‘Time’s up,’ he said. ‘I’m out of bullets.’
The soldiers edged round the corner, muskets lowered.
Al lifted his hands. ‘Well. We tried.’
Guil didn’t let go of the musket, bracing himself next to Al.
The final tumbler lifted against the pressure of her pin, and the door opened. Ada sagged in relief. They tumbled forwards, bracing for the chaos of prisoners breaking free.
But their relief was short-lived.
The room was empty.
4
Olympe’s Cell
The door to the cell closed behind Camille, sealing out the sounds of the prison. All she could hear was the pounding of her pulse. Her first thought was that it didn’t smell quite as badly as the rest of the prison. There was fresh straw underfoot and the sweet scent of lavender covered the tang of urine. But nothing could cover the dank, death-like cold, the mildewy moisture thick in the air. The walls ran with water, worse than outside, moss and lichen blooming in the cracks. Rat droppings littered the flags beneath the straw, alongside rust-coloured splashes that Camille realised were blood. The further in she stepped, the stronger the stench of sewage.
It took her a moment to adjust to the gloom. There was only one small, slanted window high up by the ceiling, casting a square of light into the middle of the cell. It looked like the room was empty, that she’d made a mistake. Then she spotted it – a twist of rags in the corner: someone curled in a ball on a sodden pallet of hay. Camille thought for a moment it must be Olympe, but that made no sense. The person was wearing a ragged black muslin dress, a scarf wrapped tightly around her neck and a long braid of black hair hanging down her back. But instead of a head, there was a metal block. Camille blinked. No, not a block, a head-shaped oval of metal.
The hay rustled under Camille’s foot as she shifted her weight.
The person turned, and Camille finally understood what she was seeing.
It was a mask.
The front was a dented curve of iron, with three holes punched out – two for eyes and one for the mouth. There was only the faintest hint of lips behind the mask. The eyes were voids.
Camille backed up a step. Her hand rested on the grip of her pistol.
She cleared her throat.
‘Olympe Marie de l’Aubespine? I’m here to take you to safety.’
The masked creature uncoiled itself like a cat oozing from its basket, stretching limbs, joints cracking. She crouched on the floor, blank stare fixed on Camille.
