Page 60

"Fifteen volunteers!" His voice carried down the compressed column. "To accompany Captain de Montreval. Chasseurs who can move quietly—and swim if the scout is lying about that ford."

Louise raised her hand.

Rodrick's eyes moved across the company without stopping on her. He chose fifteen men—this one, this one, not that one, yes—and not once did his gaze land on Jean d'Arc, sous-lieutenant.

The rejection moved through her chest like cold water. She dropped her hand.

She was fine. She was Napoleon's daughter, and she was fine, and she was not going to think about the fact that he had just looked through her.

He was already moving away from the cluster of officers. She pushed Lucie forward and took his arm.

He stopped. His eyes were dark, shadows bruising the skin beneath them, yet his gaze touched her like gaslight warming a stage—her forehead, her cheeks, her lips—and the world gathered color again. It was the strangest sensation, as though he could animate her from the outside, make her more vividly alive simply by looking at her.

"I want to go with you," she whispered.

"Why expose yourself to danger?"

Because you are going into danger and I cannot stand here. Because the version of strength that requires waiting while you go into a raid is a version I have not yet learned. Because I do not know how to be Napoleon's daughter and also be this, and the two things are pulling at me in opposite directions.

"If France needs defending—"

"You are not a chasseur, Louise." He exhaled. "This is a disguise. You were not trained for night raids."

She looked at the jacket. The yellow braid. The tricolor at her saddle. De Brissac had attached the flag with his own hands. The disguise felt like the most fitting garment she had ever worn.

"Then why will you go?" Her voice came out soft. She did not recognize it.

"Because we need to cross. Because my mission only ends when I deliver you to your father."

Of course.

The mission.

She searched for the man who had pressed his forehead to hers in the dark and wiped the blood from between her thighs because he had thought about the consequences. She found Captain de Montreval. Smooth and controlled. Giving her nothing.

Louise gripped the reins, breaking her nails against the leather. The weak thing would be to insist. To compromise the mission because she could not stand the thought of him going without her. That would be weakness. That would be the foolish virgin he loved to accuse her of being, making decisions with her heart instead of her head.

"Godspeed then," she said.

He nodded brusquely and turned his horse toward the camp.

She tried not to look back. She failed.

***

The river moved below, its dark current whispering over rock. Night had swallowed the slope. Somewhere beyond the ridge lay the Prussian battery. No light showed through the trees. Either Rodrick and his men had reached the rear approach unseen, or the sentries were waiting. Louise refused to consider which.

Lefèvre sat his horse somewhere to her right, close enough that she could hear him breathe. De Brissac had assigned them to picket duty, farther from the action than the other aides-de-camp. No doubt on Rodrick's orders.

"I had a joke," Lefèvre said. "About a general and a mule. I was going to tell it earlier, but—"

"Later."

She heard Lefèvre settle in the saddle. Lucie's ears pricked, swiveling forward and left. Hooves struck limestone below as they climbed from the village track. Louise touched Lefèvre's arm and pointed. Two cavalrymen came into view in single file.

How? No Prussians had been in the village.

As they drew closer, moonlight caught the pale crossbelts across their coats, then the white cockades fixed to their shakos.