Had Camille not let her in, this would not have happened. She had undone the wards without even knowing she had imperiled him. “You must go,” she urged. “Take my carriage and get away!” She put both hands flat on his chest and pushed, but he didn’t move. “If you won’t go home, at least get back in the balloon!”
“I won’t run, Camille.”
Out of the corner of her eye she saw the police: four silhouettes against the dawn sky, the dangerous, dull shine of pistols in their hands. The thumping of their horses’ hooves, their shouts … all at once, the night of Blaise’s murder came roaring back. His blood black in the torchlight, his broken neck, everything gone, gone, gone.
Lazare’s brown eyes shone with tears. “I may never have another chance to tell you.”
“But I cannot bear it if they take you. You have only just come home,” she sobbed as she pummeled him on the shoulder. “Go away, Lazare!”
He dropped his head, his breath ragged against her ear. “I cannot leave you. Camille, I was wrong in what I said—forgive me.”
“Please go!” she wept. “They are nearly upon us!”
She could feel the soldiers now. The pounding of hooves on the grass. Thundering side by side, almost there.
Think! She and Lazare could escape to the Hôtel Séguin. Blaise had promised it would protect her. But she couldn’t go there, where Odette would know to find her. Where else, where else?
There was another safe house.
“Quick, Lazare, to the carriage!” She pulled him with her. “If you love me, run!”
The black-and gold carriage waited, very close. From his perch at the top, the coachman saw them coming and steadied the horses. The police changed course, veering to cut them off. Stampeding closer, they shouted for them to stop in the name of the law.
Ten strides. Five. Four.
They were almost there. Over her shoulder, Camille shouted to Rosier, “Go to Sophie!” and was gratified to see him race to the waiting wagon.
Three. Two. One—and Lazare was wrenching open the carriage door, Camille leaping inside. The far horse whinnied, half rearing, as the coachman cracked his whip. Gathering themselves, the horses plunged forward before Camille and Lazare had even closed the door. They fell back against the seat as the carriage tore off across the field. Clods of dirt kicked up against the windows as the Champ de Mars rushed away.
“Dieu,” Lazare said, stunned. “Where now?”
“Somewhere safe.” She pulled down the glass of the window. “Hold me, will you?”
Once she felt Lazare’s firm grip on the back of her coat, she called to the coachman, “The graveyard of Saint-Julien-le-Pauvre!”
His answer was a crack of the whip. The horses galloped even harder toward the secret boneyard entrance to Chandon’s house, Bellefleur. With one hand, she gripped the window frame. With the other, she reached into her dress’s secret pocket. From it she pulled a piece of paper. She crumpled it, placed it in her hand, her fingers cupped gently around it, willing it not to blow away. Then she made her urgent wish.
Sudden heat burned her palm and she released the flare. The fiery paper rose straight up into the sky, impossibly high, where it glittered like the morning star.
Help us.
45
Flickering with lantern glow, a rectangle of darkness yawned below them.
Apprehension in his voice, Lazare asked, “What is this place?”
“A crypt, and a tunnel to Bellefleur. We must hurry—we can’t be seen going in.”
They had been lucky enough to lose the police in the fog that rose from the river, but she didn’t dare linger and risk them catching up. Pushing away her unease, Camille stepped into the sarcophagus. Lazare followed, pulling the lid closed behind them. Ahead, lanterns lit the way. Quickly they left behind the walls of bones and the dank of moldering earth. Soon they were running past the portraits of magicians, who observed their progress with the knowing smiles of those who had seen this before, and then pushing open the doors of Bellefleur’s great room.
For the space of a breath, she saw Blaise’s pale outline standing by the black wood bookcases. Then she blinked and there was only one magician there, pacing in front of the fireplace, purple smudges of fatigue under his eyes. Chandon’s chemise was rumpled, as if he’d slept in it, and instead of a coat, he wore a silk dressing gown figured with winged dragons. “Dieu, is that you, Sablebois?” He rushed to embrace them both. “You have been flying, I take it? I could