“I don’t mind opening the game.” What’s happening to Maggie? She’s sick and she’s alone in that house with her cousin. I can’t get to her.
If he thought about that, he’d tear his hands apart, clawing at the stone. He had to put it away for now. Put it away.
Doyle moved out a pawn. “Tell me about the men they got guarding us. Anyone I should watch out for?”
Thirty-four
MARGUERITE SAT ON THE MAKESHIFT BED, LEANING against the wall, feeling dizzy and sick in waves. It was better when she lay down flat, but she would not give in to this inconvenient illness. Sitting up was a small victory. She needed such small victories.
She let Jean-Paul take her pulse. “I will probably lose my stomach soon. Upon you.” She did not stand on ceremony with Jean-Paul. Quite aside from having been lovers, they had played naked in the fishpond at Voisemont when they were four.
Jean-Paul counted, holding the gold pocket watch he had from his father.
“You do not impress me and you are not a physician.” She rested her head on the wall and held her knees close to her so she would not slip sideways. “I will go tomorrow and see what is what. It will not be impossible. For every box, there is a key. I will find the key to that prison. If I did not keep being sick and fainting, I would go today.”
She endured Jean-Paul putting the back of his hand on her forehead. “You don’t have a fever,” he said.
“Thank you. Perhaps you will spare me an accounting of the diseases I do not have. Leprosy. Gout. The pox. I find it does not cheer me up at all.”
He frowned and demanded to see her tongue. Then he held his hand to her face, covering and uncovering one of her eyes and then the other. “Have you started taking opium? It’s not good for you, you know.”
“Why is everyone asking if I eat opium? I do not have time to fuddle my mind with—”
“Your pupils are dilated. You’ve taken something. Do you still grow foxgloves in the garden behind your house?”
“They grow in abundance. And, yes, I know they are poison. But I do not graze upon the garden like a goat, so it does not matter.” She pushed him away. “If you wish to convince me I am too sick to go to the prison, it’s not working. Tomorrow, very early, I will go to see Guillaume and look about the walls and bars of that place.”
“If your Guillaume were here, he’d tell you not to go.”
“I would not listen to him, either.”
“Listen to common sense then.” Jean-Paul was finished poking and prying at her. He tossed his hat aside, unbuttoned his waistcoat, and fell into the armchair beside the bed that had been made for her. The chair had feather stuffing coming out everywhere and was covered with a large blanket to hide this fact. The footstool was a small crate. “Victor’s going to be there, waiting for you.”
“He cannot know which prison Guillaume has been taken to. Not yet. The paperwork will not come to the Tribunal until tomorrow. Tomorrow afternoon, I think.”
“You’re guessing.”
“Sometimes, one makes educated guesses.”
“And sometimes one makes stupid guesses. Lie down before you faint.”
She would lie down when she had convinced Jean-Paul to do what she wanted.
The bed she sat upon was a wooden door, laid across benches and chests and pushed close to the wall. The padding beneath her was fresh hay, piled thick and covered by the coarsest of blankets, scrupulously clean. It was comfortable enough and smelled beautifully. She had slept in worse places. She did not regard the bits of hay that stuck through, into her.
Owl—her name was Justine—had brought her to one of the most secure refuges of La Flèche, a place reserved against great need. The hiding hole was up a ladder, above a shed in the stable yard of the most fashionable whorehouse in Paris. In this loft, artfully placed disorder concealed the nest within. Boxes, old trunks, and huge storage barrels lined the walls between stacks of discarded furniture. The storage room behind a notorious brothel looked very much like any other attic, in fact.
Justine had needed only ten easy, practiced minutes to set the door flat on its supports, carry hay from the stable to make a soft bed, spread cloth on a trunk to make a table, and hide the decrepitude of the large armchair under a cover.
This was the very essence of a safehouse of La Flèche. All was secret, subtle, well concealed. Lean the door back against the wall, scatter the straw, fold the blankets. There would be no sign anyone had been here.
Adrian had stationed himself at the far end of the loft at the window there. He could see the length of this attic and the ground outside as far as the fence. Justine stood on the ladder, midway between the floors. She could see the whole of the shed below and anyone who might creep in to listen. Without instruction, quite naturally, they had put themselves as sentinels where they could watch everything. It was disquieting to deal with these two silent, knowing, unchildlike children.
She must also deal with Jean-Paul. He looked tired and frustrated. His hands, clenched on the blanket where it draped the arms of the chair, were like the bony, well-carved fists of one of the ascetic saints. She would not allow her tenderness for him to turn her from her path.
He said, “There’s something wrong with your pulse. I think you’ve been poisoned.”
“I think I have eaten bad food. I will be better tomorrow. And I will be able to think again, clearly. How difficult would it be to organize a riot? A small one?”
“On Rue Tessier? It would be difficult, and it wouldn’t work. Marguerite, we can’t get to him. I am so very, very sorry.”
“I do not need you to be sorry. I need you to help me. We have played such games before.”
“Even if this could be done, we have no time to plan. We’ve tried last-minute rescues before. I saw Claude and Virginie die in front of me. Have you forgotten?”
That had been an old convent, too, the cobbled yard where Claude and Virginie had died. She swallowed. “Don’t compare battle scars with me, Jean-Paul. I’m not discussing whether I will do this. I am telling you what I will do and asking your help.”
“This is throwing your life away. And you’ll take others with you.”
“Then I will use only those men and women I have recruited myself. Not yours. Perhaps my people will be less prudent and cautious than you have become.” At once, she was ashamed of what she’d said. “No. I take that back. Forgive me.”
On the upended trunk that made a table was a basket of bread, a bottle of wine, and water in a jug. She drank some water, straight from the lip of the jug, and set it down. “I will take no risks with anyone else. There will be no deaths. I promise.”
“Except possibly your own.”
“Not even that. I will be careful.”
A square window opened at the corner of the eaves, over the bed. The stable yard below was noisy and reassuringly normal. This was an establishment where powerful men came to carouse. It was more private than the darkest graveyard at midnight. No one saw—and most especially, no one spoke of—anything. Certainly, they would not see a woman coming and going. There was an epidemic of blindness and muteness occurring here.
Jean-Paul continued to scowl upon her. “You’d be safer in Normandy. If that man is worthy of you, he’d say the same thing. Get out of Paris. Go protect your people. Rebuild your network.”
“After I finish this.”
“Victor will be searching for you all over the city.”
“We are experts in hiding what men like Victor want to find.”
“We’re not experts in storming a citadel like that convent. If you try, you’ll kill yourself.”