‘Oh, Al.’ She rested a hand on his arm.
‘What do I do, Ada?’ His voice was hoarse. ‘What am I supposed to do? I hate them, I hate them so much for everything they ever did to me, every time they told me I was disgusting or a disappointment. For throwing me out because I fell in love with the “wrong” person. I hate them for being hypocrites. For doing whatever they wanted, however selfish or corrupt, then turning on me for who I am. I’ve fantasised about justice catching up with them. I’ve dreamed about taking revenge on them and making them hurt. But…’ His voice shook, and he buried his face in his hands for a moment, letting the sob shudder through him. ‘But it’s mymother. My mother is going to die. The woman who made me. Held me with her own vicious little claws when I was born. The only mother I’ve ever had or will ever get. And they’re going to kill her.’
There was nothing she could say. There’d been nothing she could say when Camille had wept on her shoulder about her mother’s execution. There’d be nothing she could say now to help Al.
It hurt. It was supposed to hurt. She remembered how much her heart had ached, how she felt as if she was going to die from the weight of the pain and sorrow and grief, when her own mother had been consumed by fever and never come back. Life was pain.
But at least pain meant you were alive.
11
A House in the Forêt de Saint Germain
Molyneux would not let Camille leave until he’d pressed three glasses of sherry into her hand and several petite iced sweetmeats. She’d been impatient through the rest of the conversation – all the bland niceties about the weather and the American convoy that had managed to dock at Brest, bringing much-needed grain supplies – but she forced herself to stay sharp, mining their words for any fragment of information that could help them. Camille kept watching Comtois, trying to marry the description in the journal of the sensitive trainee showing scraps of kindness to Olympe, with the man Olympe had been willing to throw herself off a building to escape.
Eventually Camille had managed to make her excuses. Molyneux clasped her hand and gave her another meaningful look as he told her he hoped she would make her parents proud. Guilt slithered down her spine as she climbed into the carriage. The whole slow way back to Paris she stewed in her seat, peering impatiently at buildings and people. She felt the desperate urge to act, to do something – anything – to try to stand in the way of a new war ripping her home apart.
At the Pont au Change she had the carriage drop her off, and threaded her way back to Saints-Innocents. The tightness in her chest pulled her up short. Doubling over, she held onto a wall for support and tried to take shallow breaths until she felt the spasm easing. She couldn’t walk as fast as she wanted, or think her way out of this problem, or do anything useful at all. Even Ada had lost faith.
Her head swam and exhaustion weighed her down. That dark, fathomless sea had swallowed her. She was lost. Alone in the face of a threat too huge for her to begin to manage.
Al had been right. This was too big for them. Maybe in trying to help, she was making everything worse.
What would her parents have done? Her father always had an answer to everything. What would he say now?
Would they know when it was time to give up?
She forced herself to start walking, picking her way between the mud and excrement.
In the charnel house, everyone was awake and waiting for her. Guil was propped up on several balled jackets, with James redressing his wounds. Olympe was asleep on a pile of cloaks. Ada arrived back only a few minutes after her with Al, who looked as though he’d been dragged through a hedge backwards, and then thrown up in the hedge. She was too tired to berate them for leaving the safe house at such a dangerous time. At least her battalion were together again. They would need each other, to face everything that was to come.
She woke Olympe briefly to fill them all in on the dinner, itching to go downstairs and change out of the dress she was still wearing. But if she moved as little as possible, her lungs behaved themselves and she could maintain some illusion of control.
Before long, they turned in to sleep, leaving Camille on first watch. They had to be up early to be ready for the Festival of the Supreme Being, and the end of everything.
Before Olympe could go downstairs with the others, Camille caught her sleeve, drawing her back. She wanted to say something clever and comforting like her mother would have said, but the truth was visceral and unforgiving.
For all her miraculous powers, she was still made of flesh and blood. She was vulnerable.
‘I – I’m going to keep my promise. I swear. I won’t let either side get you.’
They were out of time. The fate of the Revolution, of France itself, hung on her decision. She was so far out into that vast sea, she had no idea which way led back to land.
Her father wouldn’t hesitate. So she would make the choice too, even if it meant everyone would hate her.
‘Do you trust me?’
Olympe nodded. ‘I trust you.’
She twisted a loose curl of Olympe’s hair around her finger and pulled it tight.
‘Then we finish this at the festival. Tomorrow.’
PART FIVE
Even Good Swimmers Drown in the End
1
