the scale, as she’d said. The prosecutor who’d use everything to argue for her death.
“Rosier, when will it be? I should like some time to prepare—”
“Camille, please sit.” Sophie tried to bring her to a chair. “It’s so sudden, I know—”
I am being brave, she wanted to scream. She was being as brave as she could. “When?”
“Tomorrow.”
Too soon. “And if I am convicted,” she said, dully. “When will I die?”
“That will not happen!” Sophie said fiercely.
Rosier took a hard drag on his pipe. “I trust you will not be convicted. Still, I plan for all eventualities. I will take good care of the pigeons. But to transport them, I’ll need breeding certificates with their parents’ names and—”
“Shut it—no one cares about your stupid pigeons!” the guard muttered.
Passports. Rosier meant to get them out of France. Somehow. “Henriette—the little one, with the fair nest of hair—is very skilled with those kinds of things. Writes a beautiful script.”
Sophie squeezed his hand. “I’ll tell you more afterward, Charles.”
“I’ll go today. And you, our dearest one, must speak with your lawyer, Dufresne, who is waiting in the hall.”
“Try not to worry,” Sophie said as she embraced Camille once more. Her chin trembled, but she managed to whisper, “You are in good hands.”
* * *
After they left—Sophie wiping away tears, Rosier clutching his pipe in his fist—the lawyer came in. He was short, with busy eyebrows and a large mouth. His clothes were all black, and on his head he wore a gray wig.
He bowed. “Vicomtesse de Séguin.”
“Monsieur Dufresne. Please sit.” Restless, Camille went again to the window. Over the rooftops, heavy clouds threatened rain. “Where would you like to begin?”
He frowned, not unkindly. “I did not realize what a child you are. Very young to be charged.”
I have been working magic since I was ten. “I’m charged just the same.”
“Your youth will be a point in your favor, I am certain of it.” He laid out papers on the table, sifting through them. “You are accused of using magic to undermine the cause of the people. For being a magician and ipso facto, a traitor to France.”
“What does ‘ipso facto’ mean?”
“That simply by being a magician, you are a traitor.” He cleared his throat. “Any truth to this charge? You may tell me anything in confidence.”
Agitated, Camille left the window. “I never hurt the people of Paris. I tried to help them. You’ve heard of the Lost Girls who lived under the bridge and nearly lost their home?”
He beamed. “There was a public outcry over their treatment, and they were saved!”
“I wrote the pamphlets that rallied the people of Paris on their behalf,” she said. “I never hurt them, with magic or anything else!”
Outside, rain tapped against the panes.
“But you do not deny you are a magician. Which, ipso facto…”
“What if I am?” She was gratified to see him flinch. “How can the prosecutor prove it? What evidence do they have that I am a magician?”
With the end of his quill, the lawyer scratched under his wig. “Because of the charge of magic, I went this morning to search the Comité records. In the last week, they were given something magical from your house.”
“But they have never been inside!”
He consulted his notes. “A small valise, with glass vials in it.”
Odette must have taken it. But how would she even know they were magical and not, say, bottles of perfume? “They are nothing that anyone but a magician would recognize.”
He sighed. “Nevertheless, they have them.”
“And they hate magic, that we know.”
“It is not simply a matter of hate, madame. That has gone on for centuries. These days it is a matter of law. No hatred is required.”
She spun to face him. “Did you know that Louis XIV executed the magicians who helped build Versailles because they threatened his power? This king is just the same—blaming magicians, good and bad—while he destroys the revolution!”
“Madame! I recognize that you are a pamphleteer, but you will not make these kinds of outbursts in court! They will not make a good impression on the jury.”
“But they are the truth!” She wanted to pull the whole place down around her. “How can they judge me if they don’t know the truth?”
He held up a patient hand. “You must leave that to me. And you must be as plain and silent as the grave. Answer only the questions that are put to you as briefly as possible. No pamphleteering—vous comprenez?”