feel the fear in the flare you sent, Camille. Tell me, what has happened?”
“I did not know where else to go,” she said. “It’s a long story. But the short of it is that we must go to Les Mots Volants tonight. I believe the book that Blaise found, the one that will teach us to make the blur, is there, but may not be for long. But before I tell you more, if there is perhaps a desk where I could write a note to my sister—Roland isn’t here, is he?”
“Not yet, that lazy eel! But he will be soon. And to even imagine that in all of this enormous medieval pile there’s not a desk for you? Come with me.”
Leaving the great hall behind, they went down a wood-paneled corridor with doors on both sides. One he pushed open. Beyond it waited a small sitting room, a low chair by the fireplace, and a desk beneath the many-paned oriel window. On the walls hung lifelike paintings of flowers: bright blooms, green stems, and reaching, webby roots. “Voilà—my mother’s study. Have a seat at the desk, Camille. I’ll send someone in with some wine.” He held up his hand when she started to protest. “Don’t you dare say no. I can tell you’ve had a terrible fright.”
“Thank you, Chandon,” Lazare said. “You are very kind.”
Chandon bowed, and set off down the hall, his heels snapping on the ancient floor. Soon afterward a maid came in, carrying a tray with wine and water in crystal glasses, a plate with bread and sliced hard sausage. Camille asked her to wait while she wrote to Sophie.
The desk was tidy, unlike her own, with plenty of thick paper engraved with a single poppy. In her letter, she wrote that she and Lazare were safe at Bellefleur and, describing to Sophie where she could find the valise, asked her to send it to them by messenger as soon as possible.
The letter written, Camille flung herself into the chair by the fire while they waited for Chandon to return. That was the first step accomplished. There were not many vials in the little box. Enough, if they were lucky, to slip past a guard, but they would need much more. And for that, they needed the book.
Lazare stood by the fire, leaning against the wall with his forehead pressed against it, as if it was the only way he could stay standing.
“Lazare?” she said softly. “Tell me how it went with the Cazalès.”
He came toward her carefully, as if not wanting to step on something fragile. Sitting down on the carpet, he rested wearily on the arm of her chair. “They are well. When they arrived at the inn at Dover, a letter was waiting for them from her son, the marquis. He is safely arrived in London. They are reunited now, I imagine.” The way he said it made her acutely aware of how cast apart and unsafe they were here.
“And the journey?”
Wryly, he said, “Harrowing at best. There were too many of us in the balloon.” His hand hovered over hers. Hesitating. “But that is nothing, mon âme, not compared to what happened here when I was gone.”
“My friend Blaise was murdered for being a magician.” There were other things she wished to say about him, and what had happened, but they caught in her throat like tiny, sharp bones. Her voice flat, she said, “I was betrayed. I threw a spy out of my house. I published a pamphlet that made things worse for magicians. I was frightened over so many things. I felt so alone.”
He held out his hand to her; childishly, she put hers under her skirts. She hated the hurt that flared in his dark eyes. But he was not deterred.
“Mon trèsor, I wish it had been different. I thought I did right by taking the Cazalès.” Lazare exhaled, frustrated. “I did do right. I saved their lives. And I made some small amends for what I allowed to happen with the balloon corps.”
The fire crackled in the grate. “Your sense of honor is restored.”
“Is it? The kind of honor my father taught me to live by feels like a relic from another time.” Was it the flicker of flame on his face, or did he truly seem haunted by what had happened?
“I’m sorry. It was wrong to say that—”
“It was right to take the Cazalès and it was wrong for me to leave you. Both are true. But