They stopped at the Pont au Change, gazing out at the muddy waters of the Seine.
‘Do I need to give you the talk?’
‘The talk?’
‘Don’t cry over stupid boys, he’s no competition, et cetera, et cetera.’
She arched an eyebrow. ‘Did you really say “et cetera” out loud?’
‘I am very cultured, what of it?’
She laughed softly, and hooking their arms together again turned towards Rue St Honoré and the safe house. ‘Well, whatever your mother was like, I think you turned out okay. Come on. Let’s go back.’
But Al didn’t move. He stared out at the tumult of ferries and ships and barges vying for space, at the gulls swooping to snatch fish from open barrels and stevedores hefting bails up to the quayside.
‘No. I don’t think I will.’
6
The Charnel House
Ada was out of the door too fast for Camille to catch her, but she’d spotted something lying in the mud. A screwed-up ball of paper. It looked too fresh to have blown in; it must have fallen from Ada’s pocket.
She picked it up, easing it open.
‘Camille? What is it?’ James asked.
She looked at him, heart in her throat. ‘What? Nothing – I’m going to check on Olympe.’
It was dark and damp in the crypt, only the light from one storm lamp in the middle of the room casting strange shadows over the bare walls. Their things were bundled about the floor, discarded clothes stained with soot and blood. They never stored any food along with the supplies they stashed, to avoid attracting rats. Olympe was fast asleep.
Camille splashed cold water on her face, then sat down and pulled out the piece of paper.
It was a letter, addressed to Ada.
If she was a good person, Cam thought, she would put it away. Put it out of her mind. Nothing good could come of opening it.
She wasn’t so sure she was a good person any more.
It didn’t take long to read.
She read it twice, blinking back tears.
‘Camille?’ Olympe’s voice was soft with sleep. ‘What’s wrong?’
Camille folded the letter away. ‘Nothing.’
‘You’re crying.’
‘No, I’m not.’
Olympe left her nest of jackets and crossed to sit next to her on the step. ‘Why are you lying? You can tell me what happened.’
‘It’s not important. I mean, it is, but I can’t think about it right now.’
Olympe picked at the stitching in the fingers of her gloves. She must have found a pair among their supplies.
‘I’m sorry.’
