The Forbidden Rose (45 page)

Victor gurgled.

“I don’t think anyone’s in the mood to listen to you today. But just to make sure . . .” Precisely, scientifically, he struck upward and broke the man’s jaw.

Victor swayed against the wall.

“That one was for sending soldiers to arrest a woman with a baby.” He set one hand in the other and rubbed his knuckles. “But this one . . . This is for Maggie.”

He snapped his knee up fast, hard into the bastard’s crotch. Then he turned away and let the pig fall where he would.

At the front door Janvier said, “Victor de Fleurignac is in the salon. I will take you to him.”

MARGUERITE LEFT THE HÔTEL DE FLEURIGNAC, walking beside Guillaume in the Paris dawn, trailed by a pair of donkeys and Adrian. It was a familiar feeling.

Much had changed. Guillaume did not wear his scar today, continuing to disguise himself as himself. The lack of a scar made him look dull and honest, which was misleading, to say the least.

The Garde Nationale would take no interest in missing prisoners today, not when the great Robespierre himself was so newly dead and no one sure who would be ruling France next week. Still, it was unwise to match too closely the description of an escaped prisoner. One does not thumb one’s nose at Fate.

Of Victor, she had no news whatsoever. The prisons had swallowed him and all was in confusion there. As far as she was concerned, he could continue to live.

Guillaume traveled as a Breton merchant, she as his wife, returning home from settling some business in Rheims. They had packed to portray a dull and solid respectability. Guillaume told her to bring only her most plain and ordinary shifts and stockings and stays. He would buy her new, indecent ones in England, he said.

Her name was Martine, this time, for this trip. She preferred that to Suzette.

Hawker checked the straps on Dulce, who was eating a carrot and pretending to be the most docile creature in creation. “You’ll clean up the mess in England.” He didn’t look at Guillaume. “You have the names now.”

“Just a matter of time,” Guillaume said. “We’ll find our assassins. I’ll pass along your regards to Lazarus. If he hasn’t killed anybody, he’s of no interest to us.”

“I don’t think he’s killed anybody on that list.” There were more straps for him to go over, pulling on each one and tucking it tight. The donkeys carried a pair of valises, one on each side, and a complicated set of bags tied on top of that. Lots of straps. “I wouldn’t go so far as to promise he hasn’t killed anybody at all.”

“He won’t come looking for you in France. You don’t belong to him anymore.”

“Right.” Hawker sounded skeptical. The last adjustments to the packs were firm and brisk. “Bread and wine, cheese. You can buy more when you’re out in the countryside and the food gets better.” He turned and grinned suddenly. “I don’t have to tell you that.”

“No,” Guillaume said calmly. “But I don’t mind. You coming with us partway?”

“As far as the
barrière.
Just seeing you off. Then it’s back to tell Citoyenne Cachard you’re safe on your way.” His voice was a shade too casual as he added, “She has work for me.”

Hawker clucked the donkeys into motion. It could not be said he strutted, but he was very pleased with himself. He wore knee breeches and a striped vest and a shirt of smooth, close-woven linen. Better clothing than Guillaume. When someone saw them on the street, Hawker would look like the son of some rich merchant house, walking with the family steward.

The fine clothes, oddly, made Hawker look younger. Close to his true age. They did not succeed in making him look like a schoolboy, though. A magic cloak gifted to him by the Queen of the Fairies would not make Hawker look like a schoolboy.

“Let’s hope they don’t change governments again before I get you out of the city.” Guillaume studied the street behind them, looked down the Rue de Laval, ahead. To a suspicious mind, the quiet itself must seem vaguely ominous.

The city waited. Violent men woke to the promise of a hot day and tried to decide whether it was worth rioting in such heat. Delegates to the Convention poured their morning chocolate and gave thanks they had not yet perished on the guillotine. Officers of the Garde Nationale pondered the difficulty of keeping order in the city without inadvertently arresting the men who might be in power tomorrow.

And Robespierre was dead.

No tumbrels rolled to the guillotine. The nuns and priest at the Convent of Saint-Barthélémy were safe. Even Victor would escape death if nobody noticed him.

It was a good day to leave Paris. The
barrières
would be lightly manned and the guards uncertain and distracted.

Guillaume tilted his new hat back on his head. It was very much in the style of his old one but less decrepit. Hawker paused at the corner to metaphorically sniff the air. He was the first to see Justine. She sat on the steps of a house, the child, Séverine, in her arms. She lifted her chin as they approached.

“Good day to you, citoyens
.
It is a pleasant day to be walking free under the sun, is it not?”

“Very,” Guillaume said amiably. “You’re waiting for us?”

“For Marguerite, though this is a matter of interest to you as well.”

It would be a matter of some importance. When the city might explode into riot at any minute, Justine would not stroll about in the dawn to wave good-bye. She would not bring the child.

Séverine lay, sleepy-eyed, in Justine’s lap, wrapped tight in her arms. She wore a dress of printed cotton. Justine, in dark serge, could have been a nursemaid looking after her mistress’s daughter.

Séverine stood up on her sister’s lap. “Justine said you would tell me stories.”

“Perhaps one.” If there was time. If Justine walked along beside them for a while.

“She likes you,” Justine said abruptly. “She is very smart, you know. She can already read a little. And I have spoken to her in English since she was very small. She speaks it somewhat. Also some German, though my own accent is not good.”

“She’s a lovely child.”

“She is, isn’t she?” She had never seen Justine tentative or unsure. She was now. “She has never been sick. Not once, since she was little. No matter where we lived or what we had to eat, she was . . . oh, strong and happy and uncomplaining and so good.”

“I could tell that. She climbed into the loft the first day I was there, feeling so ill. I was comforted by her.”

Justine stroked her sister’s hair and then lifted her up. Held her out to be taken. “She sings beautifully. No one has ever taught her, but she does it anyway.”

Séverine smelled sweetly of lavender and fresh starch and raspberry jam.
This is a gentle moment to take away with me, holding this child.

Justine folded her empty arms. “You were right. A whorehouse is no home for a child. France is no place for her. A war is coming.”

“I fear you are correct.”

Justine’s eyes were resolute. “I told you I would ask a favor of you. In return for,” she became lightly derisive as she flashed her eyes toward Guillaume, “this one’s life. I have spared it several times and helped you save it once. You recall?”

She said, “Yes. Of course.”

Guillaume said nothing. He watched Justine.

“That is what I ask in return for the debt. You will take Séverine as your own. You will take her away from France and keep her in safety. You will watch over her. You, yourself.”

Yes!
And then,
No. It cannot be right to do this.
She fitted Séverine to her. The child was heavy and solid. Precisely right.

“She will be no trouble on the road.” Justine spoke quickly. “She has learned to be quiet. She will go with you willingly when I tell her she must. She knows to say nothing at all and to answer to any name she is given. You can leave her to wait for you in any place, and she will wait. Wait a day or more, if necessary. She—”

Guillaume said, “You’re giving your sister to us?”

“I give her to Marguerite,” Justine said tartly. “Though I suppose that means I give her to you as well.”

“It does indeed. If we take Séverine—”

“You must.” Impatient now, Justine reached for the brown leather bag at the side of these stairs. “You may call her something else.” A shadow of a smile. “Something English.”

“She has a name. I’m not going to take it from her.” Guillaume rasped fingernails on his chin. “This is what you want for taking Maggie to safety when she was sick and needed you?”

Justine bowed her head, once, sharply. Perhaps she didn’t trust herself to speak.

“Maggie. What do you say?”

“Yes.”
The child needs me. They both do. I would save them both if I could.
“Oh, yes.”

“Then we do it.” Deliberately, Guillaume put his hand on the child’s head. “Séverine is mine. I’ll treat her no differently than a child of my blood, born in wedlock. I’ll set her welfare before my own life.” He looked directly at Justine. “I’ll love her as a father. You have my word.”

Justine’s lips worked. Perhaps it was only now becoming real for her.

“If you come in a few years and want to take her back, expect a fight. I don’t part with my daughter easily.” He took his hand away. “Is that what you want?”

Justine’s eyes were bright and sad and . . . hard. Full of tears and determination. “Yes.”

This should not be.
“How can I take your sister and leave you behind? Do you think I wouldn’t welcome you? Come with us.”

“Maggie . . . no. She can’t.” Guillaume touched her arm. “She’s Secret Police.”

“What?”

“Best explanation.”

“But . . . But . . .” It did not make sense. “She is Owl. She’s of La Flèche. She is—”

“She’s one more reason Jean-Paul has to close down that whole damned leaky organization. It’s served its purpose. I told him that.”

Secret Police? Justine’s face, by its blankness, said Guillaume was right.

Guillaume said softly, “Maggie, when she gives the child to me, it means no one will ever use Séverine against her. No one on either side will ever touch her. That’s what we’re doing for her.”

Justine nodded. Her face did not look young at all.

There is unending cruelty in the world. I will not let it destroy this little one.
“Séverine is my daughter, flesh of my flesh. As if I had carried her within my own body. I swear it.”

She felt the words resonate inside the child she held. Séverine would remember this someday.

Quickly, Justine turned away to add a valise to the others on the donkey’s back. “I have packed clothing for her. Things she will need.” She studied valises and bags resolutely. “Her . . . doll.”

“Some people,” Hawker said, “wouldn’t leave this to the last minute.” He rearranged this and that on Dulce and rolled a blanket to make a riding nest to fit a small child. “She’s going to make them conspicuous.”

“What is more inconspicuous than a child? Would anyone suspect a family traveling across the countryside with a small child? No and no. Everyone should take an infant or two with them upon their missions. She is a better companion than you, in fact, because she has been trained to keep her mouth closed and follow orders, which you have not.”

“I follow orders. It’s that hair of hers. Might as well attach a red flag. That has to . . . Here.” Hawker unwound a leather thong from one of the bags and held it in his teeth and went to Séverine. Skillfully, he plaited a thick braid and tied it with leather. “That’s better.” He frowned at the effect. “She’s dressed too well. You should dirty her up. Put some mud on her.”

“I am pleased to know she will not be in your hands, Citoyen Hawker.” Justine’s touch was light on the child’s back. One touch, very quick. “I have already said my good-bye to her. She will be a good child. She cannot—” The pause came while she was turned away from them. “She cannot eat strawberries. They make her turn red with blotches.”

“I will not feed her strawberries.” She tried to fit all the other things that needed to be said inside the words.

Justine had already taken the first steps away when Guillaume said, “One last thing.”

She turned back. “What?”

“What is her true name? All her name. The name of your parents?” When there was no immediate answer, he said, “Don’t plan to tell her later. You know what’s coming in France. You may not live.”

No answer.

“It’ll stay with the five of us. You. Me. Hawker. Maggie. The child herself, if she remembers.” He waited. “Don’t leave her wondering for her whole life.”

Justine’s voice was hollow as an echo. “Her parents were the Comte and Comtesse de Cabrillac. They died in the courtyard of the Abbaye Prison two years ago. She doesn’t remember seeing it. So far as I know, no one of our family on either side remains.”

“Only you.”

“Only me. Tell her, someday, that I did not abandon her. When she’s old enough, tell her I will wade the rivers of hell to come to her if she should ever have need.” That quickly, she was gone, walking down the street with the careful, unobtrusive stride of the experienced agent, her head high.