“It will be the needle in a haystack,” Roland said. “I say we divide up the blur you found, work wards on our houses, and flee.”
“We must at least try.” Camille studied the faces of her friends, worn and harried by fatigue. “But it has to be tonight or we risk losing it forever. I can’t fathom why Odette would want it, but in the hands of the Comité—”
“Burnt to a crisp,” said Chandon drily. “Anything in the book that they can use against us, they will. And then it’ll be thrown on a bonfire.”
“That cannot be allowed to happen,” Lazare said. “I’m going with you.”
“I hardly need convincing to dust off my sword,” Chandon said. “Strangely I feel as if I were born for this. Foudriard?”
“Of course,” he said gravely. “It will be dangerous.”
“But not to do anything will be even worse,” Camille said. “And you, Roland?”
He raised his sharp brows. “If you insist.”
While they had been talking, the messenger returned from Hôtel Séguin. He told them that Sophie and Rosier were both well, but that they’d searched through the wardrobe where Camille had put the valise and it was nowhere to be found. It was a hard blow.
It was possible the house had hidden it, somehow. Things went missing all the time. But the disappearance of the box they so desperately needed—especially if this planned failed—changed everything. There was no safety net now.
47
They left once it was full dark.
The crescent moon was rising, a scythe in the night sky, as Camille’s carriage rolled silently away from Bellefleur. The wheels and the horses’ hooves had been wrapped in rags and the quiet thump they made was unnatural, eerie. Inside, the curtains were drawn and none of them—not Lazare, Chandon, Foudriard, Roland or even Camille herself—dared open them. Only one lantern flickered in the carriage, and the shadows it threw made her companions’ faces unreadable. Roland’s white fingers danced nervously along his thigh, tapping out a rhythm only he knew.
They could no longer wonder if the watchers of the Comité would be there, but where. How they might be avoided, and if they couldn’t, what those guards would do. Beyond that, she would not let herself think. Lazare was already wanted by the police. Chandon and Roland’s names were on the list. And Foudriard, steadfast, and dashing, would end his career with the National Guard. And though Rosier and Sophie were safe at the Hôtel Séguin, Camille knew that whatever happened to her affected them, too.
But there was no other way. If they did not get the book, they would be trapped in Paris as the Comité’s fist tightened around them.
As the carriage passed over the final bridge to the island, Lazare threaded his long fingers through hers. The warmth of him was all that tethered her to this moment, keeping her from racing through the wilds of her fear. It steadied her. She let herself rest her forehead on his shoulder and thought: In an hour, we’ll have found it. In an hour, we’ll be on our way home.
Soon the carriage came to a stop at the street that ran behind Les Mots Volants. The houses that crowded the narrow lane were silent, their shutters closed.
Roland peered out. “It’s too quiet. Even for this late in the evening.”
“This entrance is as concealed as we could hope for. If there are watchers,” Foudriard pointed out, “they’ll be at the front of the shop. We should go in now.”
“I don’t like it,” Roland said with a frown. “I will keep a look out from the carriage.”
Irritated, Chandon snapped, “There is the coachman to do that, Roland. But if you must, fine. I would rather have at my side someone completely committed to this adventure than someone secretly hoping to sneak away.”
“A Roland would not sneak.”
“He had better not.” There was iron in Chandon’s voice. “If anything were to go wrong, this carriage needs to be here, waiting, ready to run. Keep your eyes and ears open, comprenez?” He pointed to the bell that hung inside the carriage to alert the driver. “And if you need to warn us, open the door and ring the bell.”
“D’accord,” he agreed.
“We have the key, and the lanterns?” Lazare asked.
Camille held hers up. Once lit, it would provide only enough light to see by, but no more than that. Chandon showed them the key to Blaise’s apartment. Brass, with a red warding ribbon threaded through the bow.