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She entered a portion of the building that still remembered being a palace. A damaged plaster medallion clung to the ceiling. Beneath layers of grime, a strip of carved molding followed the wall. Someone had once received guests here beneath candles and mirrors. Now men slept behind iron.
A bell struck somewhere beyond the walls. The note entered the corridor as a low vibration, trembling through the stone beneath Louise's feet. Another followed, then another, slow and evenly spaced.
The Angelus from Notre-Dame.
The man coughing farther down the gallery stopped. Conversation died behind the bars until the building fell silent. The hairs along Louise's arms rose beneath her sleeves.
Louise's steps rang obscenely loud in the hush. She had just turned into the next gallery when a hand closed around her arm. She twisted, her free arm already rising to strike, before she saw the old prisoner beside her.
"What—"
"Tais-toi." He raised one finger to his lips. "Silence."
The old man pointed ahead, his forehead furrowed. The other prisoners turned in the same direction. She tightened her hand around the candleholder until the tremor in the flame subsided. The old man let go and leaned back against the prison wall, eyes closing.
A draft swept by, and in the pregnant silence, the corridor seemed to breathe. Then a note rose above the bells' peal.
The voice came from somewhere beyond the gallery's bend. The vaulted corridors gathered the baritone and carried it through archways and across iron bars until no corner of La Force seemed beyond its reach. Louise felt the first phrase along her skin.
Plaisir d’amour ne dure qu’un moment…
Chagrin d’amour dure toute la vie.
Rodrick. Her knees weakened, and Louise caught the bars beside her. Cold iron pressed into her palm while the song entered every empty place the search had opened inside her.
He was alive.
"Every day," the old prisoner murmured. "Same hour. The English one. No one knows why he sings."
Louise brushed at her tears. She knew why.
Rodrick, your soul is still there, never fear.
Hope burst through her chest, lifting her spirit above the arched ceilings. The candle flame streamed sideways as she ran. Louise shielded it with one hand and followed the voice.
The corridor ended in a bend, and she knew he was on the other side.
Louise stopped. She was twenty paces from a stage again, standing in the wings while the music played beyond the curtain. She knew this moment—the dark around her, the bright world waiting just out of sight, the strange suspension before one step carried a dancer into the lamps and made her visible.
One step, and Rodrick would see her.
The last phrase of the song carried around the corner. Louise drew one breath, brushed at the damp hair at her temple with unsteady fingers, and stepped forward.
Rodrick sat on the floor with his back against the wall, one knee raised and the other leg stretched before him. The high window admitted a thin wash of moonlight that touched one side of his face. His coat hung more loosely than she remembered, and his hair had fallen out of its usual order across his forehead. He was pale enough that the sight tightened her stomach.
Louise took in the angle of his shoulders, the familiar line of his hands, every proof that he was here and whole enough to sing. Her fingers closed around the iron as the last note faded.
Rodrick lowered his chin, then lifted his head toward the corridor, and his eyes found hers. Louise stopped breathing, waiting for the old light to rise between them.
Please.
For a long moment his gaze rested fully upon her. He regarded her with the attention he might have given any unexpected visitor. The breath Louise had been holding slipped out without sound, and the iron beneath her hands seemed to grow colder.
The lamps did not rise. He looked at her, and Louise remained in darkness.
Paris, ten days later.
Rodrick sat at the desk he had commandeered from his sister and regarded the paper as though it were an adversary who refused to declare its intentions. He dipped the pen and set the nib to the page.
