And crowded it was. The popular matinee performance was about to start, and it seemed as though half of Paris had crammed its way into the cheap standing area in front of the stage.
A few quick words between Al and the ticket seller had seen them waved in and soon they were swallowed by the crowd. Camille pushed further in, keeping a tight hand around Olympe’s arm. The rest of the battalion could take care of themselves if they got split up. With Olympe, she wasn’t taking any risks.
‘What now?’ asked Guil as they edged past an orange seller and a couple taking advantage of a dark corner. All the battalion were staring at her expectantly. But Camille couldn’t look at them; her eyes kept being drawn back to the entrance. Dorval had been right behind them. They couldn’t stop. They couldn’t be complacent.
‘We split up.’
‘Is that a good idea?’ asked Ada.
‘Dorval is following us. If we split the scent, we make his job harder. Make sure you’ve lost him, then meet at the Saints-Innocents safe house.’
Al opened his mouth to say something, but Camille cut him off.
‘It’s not a request.’
At that moment, the curtain lifted and the crowd shifted in a surge towards the stage as the first act came on. The flow of people tugged Camille one way and Ada another. She hesitated long enough to see Al lead Ada away, and Guil salute as he melted into the crowd on his own. Then, with a tight smile at Olympe, Camille took her in the opposite direction, towards the doors near the stage. Her plan was simple: hide until the show was over, then escape amid the crowd as it poured into the street.
It only took a few goes to remember the route Al had taken her on to meet Léon, and then she and Olympe were out of the faded grandeur of the public face of the theatre and into the grubby hinterland.
Hiding backstage was easier said than done. It was teeming with people going back and forth carrying heaps of wigs, piles of clothes, rolled sheets of painted backdrop and bulky props. Men and women, both half-dressed, faces painted in thick make-up, paste jewels glittering at their ears and throats. A woman carried a wig the size of her torso with a white sailing ship nestled among the powdered curls. Curtains hung in regimented rows, filtering off sections of wing and stage, with ropes dangling from gantries above, and trapdoors open to the pit below.
The further back they went, the quieter and darker it became. Camille wasn’t sure if they were going in circles, or if it was just her anxiety making the minutes stretch unnaturally. She knew there was a door somewhere here, she’d gone through it only the day before. Olympe’s hand was hot in hers, the low hum of panic tight in the air between them. She could find it, she could get them a way out of this mess – she just needed time.
The one thing they didn’t have.
Time – and luck.
Camille never found the door.
Instead, she found the end of their luck.
Quietly, like an animal stalking its prey, Dorval stepped from behind a curtain as they passed. He had his arm around Olympe before Camille even noticed. She cried out as Olympe’s hand was wrenched from her grasp, and spun on her heel to face him in shock.
Dorval smiled wide and wicked. ‘Mademoiselle Laroche. Thank you for delivering the girl.’
Camille whipped her pistol out and pointed it at his head.
‘Let her go.’
‘Put that thing away. You know you’re just as likely to take her head off as mine.’
He had one arm around Olympe’s waist, the other held a knife to her throat. Camille hesitated, then lowered the gun.
He was right.
And she’d seen something he hadn’t. Olympe was snaking her bare fingers towards the hand at her waist.
‘I’m disappointed. You’re getting sloppy, Citoyen Dorval.’
‘Whatever clever game you think you’re playing, it won’t work.’
‘Oh, it’s not a game.’
‘What are you—?’
Olympe’s hand met his and a blinding blue pulse sent sparks racing up his arm. He seized up, shaking violently. Olympe tried to wriggle out of his grip but his arms had locked, hand clamped around the knife still too close to her throat. Together they toppled into a discarded backdrop of a country park. The crackle of sparks arced against the paint-soaked fabric and a flame caught in a neat blue line racing up through the backdrop like the fuse of a cannon.
Olympe scrambled away, sparks dying on her hands but it was too late.
