Pushing his hair from his face, he leaned against the wall.
‘I know. I … didn’t realise that much had changed.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘You know all I want is the best for you.’
The familiarity of his voice, the emotion in it was so tempting, so welcoming. But so alien at the same time. It was as though he’d stepped into her life from another world, offering her the chance to be someone else. As though her old life was there waiting for her, if only she took his hand. No. She might not know what else there was for her, but she knew her old life was gone. She’d watched it die at the guillotine months ago.
‘You don’t need to worry about me.’
‘I love you – I’m going to worry. God, when you got arrested I was distraught, we all were. You have no idea.’
She gave him a brittle smile. ‘Believe me, I do.’
He flushed again. ‘Of course. Stupid of me…’
‘It’s fine.’
Keeping his distance, he reached to stroke the hair from her face, gathering it behind her ear in a gesture so deeply etched into her heart it made her ache.
‘Just be safe, Cam.’
She moved away.
‘No promises.’ She smiled, then disappeared down the stairs and out into the city.
8
An Abbey in the Faubourg Saint Martin
The knife jimmied through the crack in the window frame, catching the latch and jerking it round until it popped free. A hand levered the blade, edging the sash up until there was a gap wide enough for fingers. In a flurry of dust and peeling paint, the window was yanked open and Ada toppled through.
‘Ow.’ She picked herself up off the floor where she’d barely avoided sticking herself with the knife and failed to miss landing on a broken chair. Leaning out of the window she called down to the rest of the battalion. ‘It’s clear.’
One by one, Camille, Guil and Olympe hauled themselves through the window into the attic room. Al was absent. He hadn’t been back by the time they needed to leave. Camille had frowned, tapping her forefinger against the barrel of her pistol, but ordered them to go on without him.
They’d followed Léon’s directions to an abandoned abbey outside the Porte Saint Martin. Only deserted a few years earlier when the Church had been stripped of its status, weeds were already proliferating, tiles were slipping off the roof and the ranks of empty windows were grimy. A handful of buildings lined the road out of Paris through the Faubourg Saint Martin, and opposite lay the empty market ground of the closed St Laurent Fair. Fields planted with stunted wheat and market gardens of cress and cabbage spread behind the abbey grounds. Not a soul was in sight, save the silhouette of a carriage retreating in the distance. A short but awkward climb had brought them to the eaves, where they found their way inside.
‘They cleaned this place out before they left,’ said Ada, stepping over the wrecked chair that was the only thing in the dusty room.
‘All church assets were sold to support the war,’ replied Guil. ‘Even the chamber pots.’
A door led to a landing and a flight of rickety stairs.
Silent, dim, musty.
‘What are you hoping to find?’ asked Olympe, bringing up the rear.
‘Leverage. Blackmail material. A weak spot. Anything that puts us in control. The duc is as vulnerable as us in this mess. He’s more frightened of the Revolutionaries than we are – how can he be sure we won’t betray him to the National Guard? He can’t. Maybe that’ll make him more willing to negotiate and sod off and leave us alone.’
‘Are you quite sure this is the correct place?’ Guil peered over the bannister.
Cam slid her pistol from her belt. ‘Let’s find out.’
The stairs led them down and down into a warren of empty rooms crawling with mould and rotten with damp. On the ground floor they found an entrance hall flagged in worn stone, and the entrance to a cloister, and on the far side, the abbey chapel. Other church buildings had been taken over as prisons, but it was clear that this abbey was too far gone for that. In one room, the ceiling had burst like a fat raindrop, splattering lathe and plaster across the floor. A pigeon swooped through the hollow space and into the dark room above.
‘I thought the church was supposed to be rich,’ said Ada, toeing the dried husk of a dead bird.
