Now she led them forward and whispered encouragement and direction and caustic complaint. “The ruts are deep because wagons turn to go into the back gate of the chateau.” “The wall on the right is abundant with sharp stones. Avoid it.” “Ah. That is a low branch. You will come to it in a moment.” He could see her walking into hell saying, “On the right, take note of the chained demon. Take care to walk around him.” His respect for her, and his wariness, grew with every step. He’d take every care, capturing her.
She said, “It is not far, the gate to the orphanage.”
On the other side of the River Seine, a line of pinprick lights marked the city of Paris. A few streets away, a single bright window hung in the night. Other than that, it was black as the belly of a cow. “How the devil can you tell?”
She laughed in the darkness. She was another one glad to be out of that cellar. “I walked this road many times when there was daylight for me. My memory is most excellent.” Joy lilted in her voice, like singing. It was strange to hear her sound so young, like a brave child, instead of the coiled serpent he knew her to be. “This tree we stand beneath,” she banged the stick against bark, “which naturally you have not been introduced to and cannot see anyway, is a beautiful cherry which was old already when I first came here. I have climbed it and stolen many cherries in my time. The whole corner smells of the fruit that fell a few weeks ago. The road you seek, the driveway to the Sisters of the Orphans, is opposite. There.” She touched his shoulder lightly, showing where she meant.
Her night vision was extraordinary. “I can’t see a thing.”
“Stop trying to see, English. Listen instead. The night is telling stories all around you. The Rue Bérenger lies ahead…oh…fifty paces perhaps. The baker on the corner is even now making bread. One can smell that. Rue Bérenger runs east toward the bridge, to Paris, where men of your profession likely have friends. Or go uphill to the west, and you will come after a time to England, where you have even more friends, beyond doubt. The little wind in our face—feel it—is blowing from the northeast, from the Bois de Boulogne.”
He closed his eyes and tried to sense the currents of the night as she did. She was right. It was easier listening and feeling the wind on his skin, not straining to see. “You’re good at this. You’ve done your share of sneaking around in the dark.”
“More than I would like, certainly.”
“Did you learn all that working for Vauban? You were one of his people, weren’t you?”
“You ask many questions. Have I told you that? Now pay attention and I will teach you secrets. When you face the wind you will always know where you are. It is the direction of the river scent.” He heard her swallow. “The smell of the water.”
And with that, he’d found the bait to lure her in. Her voice gave her away. The catch basin in the garden held barely enough to wet their mouths. She was thirsty. Hurting with it.
He chose his words carefully. “I’ll be glad to get to the chapel. I hope there’s water.” He felt her attention quiver. Good.
“It is most likely.”
He picked a few more insidious words. “There should be a well. Do you think we’ll find a bucket or something to draw the water up?”
“You will doubtless discover. It is not far, as I said.” Her voice had thickened and he heard her swallow again. “I shall leave you to your so-secret rendezvous. Me, I have business elsewhere. I am not anxious to enlarge my acquaintance with the English spy community of Paris.” But her voice said she was thinking about water.
“Probably nobody’s there. I can’t manage Adrian alone. And you can show me that well.”
“Do not nag at me, monsieur.” He heard her stick grind the dirt of the road. “It is not an attractive trait.”
“He needs your help. What is it, a hundred steps?”
She snorted, a delicate, French snort of exasperation. “I do not know how it is the English have the reputation for being stoic, for you are not in the least.” She gathered Adrian closer to her. “Come then. We will find your water that obsesses you so. Most certainly we will stop loitering here in the roadway, chatting, for anyone and his cat to remark upon. This is the gate.”
The broomstick clicked angrily along the iron railings as they went through.
“I go as far as the steps of the main house. Not beyond that,” she said. “Not one inch. Not if you have a dozen young spies upon your hands, all wounded horribly. It is thoroughly illogical that you should ask it of me.” Their feet crunched on gravel and the way led steeply downhill. “I have had little to do with the English before this. I see now that was wise, though there are doubtless many sorts of Englishmen who are more reasonable than you. Perhaps I will reserve judgment.”
He could detect no trace of a human presence ahead. But then, he wouldn’t. Not if it was Will Doyle waiting there.
A few steps forward and she stopped. “I do not like this.” And right she was. She had excellent instincts. “No. I will not go farther. Take the boy…”
Adrian, even half-conscious, must have been listening. He played his part then. He moaned and sagged against her.
She staggered and held him up. “Your friend has fainted again. We must…”
At his side, close enough to touch, Doyle said, “It’s about time you showed up.” A burly presence coalesced from the night. “I was getting ready to storm the place.”
Doyle. Thank God. Two tons of worry rolled off his shoulders. “Adrian’s hurt.”
The instant she heard Doyle’s voice, the girl pushed free of Adrian and backed away into the woods. She stilled, out of reach.
“Give him to me.” Doyle was a big man. He picked Adrian up bodily and carried him. “I heard he went and got himself shot. We’ve been wondering how bad it was. I stole a coach just in case. It’s down the drive.”
“Good.” He turned his head to one side and the other, listening, locating the girl. There. The whisper of her breath betrayed her. Feel safe in the darkness, Annique. You just do that. “I need water for my guide,” he called after Doyle.
He could swear Doyle read his mind. “There’s a couple flasks in the coach, nice and cold. I’ll fetch it down. Good clean water.” They were the right words, offhanded and calm.
He felt a tremor in Annique’s waiting silence. Keep thinking about water, Annique. Keep thinking about how thirsty you are. “I’ll get that flask for you, mademoiselle, with my thanks. That’s the very least I owe you.”
She hesitated, an almost inaudible rustle of indecision. She must be desperate for water.
If he grabbed for her and missed, he wouldn’t get a second chance. She was too fast in the dark, too comfortable slipping around with that stick of hers. He’d have to tempt her close. “Wait,” he said softly. “I’ll bring water.”
The smell of fresh paint led him to the coach and a spiderweb of faint lines leaking from a dark lantern. When he slid the tin sheathing aside, a wedge of light sprang up across the weed-grown courtyard.
Doyle settled Adrian in the coach. “Where’d you catch it, lad? Shoulder? No. More along of the chest. Just the one bullet?”
Adrian said hoarsely, “One’s enough…don’t you think? Waistcoat’s a total loss.”
The coach rocked as Doyle spread a blanket over the boy. “Dunnoh how I’m gonna face yer tailor, knowing that. Here, put some water in you before you faint on us.”
“Set it where I can reach it. Let’s get out of here.”
“An’ who died and left you in charge, lad? You tell me that sometime.” Doyle swung down from the coach. “He’ll do. How many after you?”
“The whole nest of hornets. I’ll pay off my guide and we can go. Where’s that water?” He swung the lantern around. Yes. Oh, yes. Now he had her. She hung back well beyond the reach of his light, making herself a shadow among shadows, wise and wary. But it was already too late for her to be wary.