She tried again.
‘Olympe? Your father sent us.’
‘I don’t have a father.’ Her voice was disconcertingly light coming from inside the metal.
She wore black gloves and black boots. Every centimetre of her skin was covered by leather or cloth, or the hideous mask. It seemed to be in two parts, hinged on one side and welded on the other. It looked heavy; Camille could tell by the way the girl slumped under its weight.
‘Well, someone sent us. You are Olympe, aren’t you?’
‘That’s what my mother called me. Do you know my mother?’
A bubble of horror and pity rose in Camille’s throat. That a wretched, nightmarish creature like this had a mother.
Camille considered her words. ‘No. Is she in the prison too?’
‘I don’t know. We used to live with the grass and trees, but the docteur said I had to come away with him.’ Her voice sounded unused.
What the hell was this? Was there some mistake? Had she come into the wrong cell? No, she’d been careful to take down the directions exactly. And this girl said she was Olympe. She mostly matched the description – small, slender, dark hair. They’d never described her face when she’d taken the job.
Camille pursed her lips and opened the door a crack to glance into the corridor. No sign of the guard.
She crossed to the girl, crushing the unease shifting in her gut.
The girl skittered into her corner, holding her gloved hands in front of her, and snarled. Camille paused, crouching like her so they were face to mask. There was something on the wall behind her. A tally, scratched into the stone, and beside it a child-like stick figure drawing of a girl in a long dress with a woman beside her. Olympe and her mother.
‘I’m not going to hurt you.’
The girl growled again as Camille reached for the mask, but she didn’t make any move to attack. ‘Does this thing come off?’
No answer.
Camille inspected the hinges – solid – then the other side. The remains of what had once been a catch were melted into a blob. Even from a glance, she could sense how heavy it was, the rough edges of the metal that must bite into the skin of the girl’s neck. She couldn’t stop herself imagining what it would be like to be shut into this thing. How it must weigh on her head, crush into her skull if she tried to stay upright. How difficult each breath must be, how muffled every noise. Like being trapped underwater. Or slowly smothered.
The thought of it made her recoil. This was torture.
Gingerly, she tried tugging at the gap between the two parts of the mask, but the girl yowled in pain.
‘Who are you? Did Docteur Comtois send you? I won’t do any more tests.’
Camille moved well away from the mask. ‘My name is Camille Laroche. I was hired to rescue you by someone claiming to be your father. Looks like he was lying about that, but not that you need rescuing.’
She held out her hand. The girl hesitated, then clasped it in a cold press of leather.
Something really wasn’t right here. But it was more than that. She’d been lied to. The duc had told her a sob story as if she were some silly girl he could manipulate. As if she were one of his servants. He wasn’t a father desperate to save his child. This was something else completely. Something a whole lot darker.
She bit the inside of her cheek to keep her anger in check, and hauled the girl up, catching her as she swayed.
The job was still the job. Sick, strange, twisted, but the job. This girl sure as hell needed rescuing, and being the first person to break someone out of the Conciergerie was nearly within reach. Even the duc’s lies weren’t going to keep her from that.
‘Do you want to get out of here?’
Olympe nodded.
‘Then that’s what we’ll do.’
Olympe was still gripping her hands. Her gloves were thin and supple, and sewn to the cuff of her dress. Camille frowned, turning the girl’s hand over to inspect the join.
‘Who did this?’
