Al gestured to the emptied galleries above.
‘Give me a leg up.’
Making a stirrup from her laced fingers, she braced herself as he fitted his foot into her hands and launched himself up to the balcony. He shimmied over the edge, then hauled Ada after him.
A few other people in the pit had copied them and were climbing the tiered galleries. The whole stage was ablaze now, she could feel the heat from halfway down the auditorium. The smoke was worse here, filling her nostrils and mouth with a burning, bitter taste.
The doors to the stairwell were empty. The gallery crowds had flowed down the stairs into the same lobby that the pit emptied into. A heaving throng of frightened bodies pressed against the street doors. Ada could see chains and padlocks securing the doors. A low moan drifted from the stairs, but it was otherwise eerily quiet. Nobody had breath to scream any more.
‘Why the bloody hell are the doors locked?’ screeched Al. ‘Who had that smart idea?’
‘Rioters.’
A quiet voice came from their feet. Al looked down to see a balding man in a suit too garish for the rest of his appearance, squatting in a corner of the landing, clutching his head. It was Gerard, the director.
‘We wanted to stop the rioters. Keep the troublemakers out. It had to be a success, you see. Had to keep the riff-raff out.’
‘So you locked the doors?’
‘Couldn’t risk it.’ He kept mumbling into his hands.
‘Where the hell are the keys?’
‘Office … backstage…’ he mumbled.
They stared at each other in horror. Backstage, in the heart of the fire.
15
Backstage at the Théâtre Patriotique
‘Olympe! Run!’
Olympe darted away as Camille swung her pistol like a bat into the side of Dorval’s head. He fell back and Camille fled.
Clutching Olympe’s hand, Camille dragged them through the choking smoke towards the stage door. The fire jumped to a swinging rope and raced along the curtains. Within seconds, the whole place was ablaze. Smoke stung her eyes, and she fell to her knees, coughing. Everything in her chest and throat and mouth itched, wheezed, spasmed, burned until she couldn’t suck in a single breath. She slammed a fist on her chest; her diaphragm contracted, and she coughed out the last of her air, then sucked in a thin stream of smoke.
Olympe had disappeared. She must have kept running, but now the smoke was too thick to see any sign of where she’d gone.
Slowly, Camille stood.
And found she wasn’t alone.
Dorval walked across the burning boards towards her, dripping blood from where her pistol had hit him.
She knew she should feel scared, but all she could feel was exhaustion. Her chest ached and her head swam. How many more times could she do this and win?
‘Hand the girl over before I put you and your friends down like the vermin you are.’
Good. He didn’t have her.
‘If you want a girl, I’m given to understand it’s not hard to acquire one in the Palais-Royal pleasure gardens.’
‘You think you’re so clever, don’t you? Sniffing around our business. What did you think you were going to do? Find a way to blackmail us? It’s a shame you’re not quite as clever as you think.’
‘Really? Because I think I did pretty well.’
He closed in on her. A wolf. That’s what he reminded her of. A wolf buttoned into a man-suit.
