“A magic one. I found it in a bookstore owned by a magician who was arrested by the Comité.”
“And murdered before he could stand trial!” Camille burst out.
“Silence,” the prosecutor hissed. From his desk, he picked up a small, rectangular package, wrapped in brown paper. Holding it gingerly by one corner, he brought it to Odette. “Was it this book?”
She picked it up as an eager hush ran through the gallery, everyone eager to see a piece of magic firsthand. “Yes. I found it when we raided the magician’s bookshop. Her name is on it.”
Hatred snaked through her. Had they raided the shop the night that Blaise was murdered? Had Odette been there when Blaise was accused? Perhaps she had done the accusing herself. Sneered as he was dragged into the snowy street, laughing as the horn blew to rally the mob, as if setting hounds on the scent of his fear. Imagine if he had put a stop to his magic. He would still be alive. She gripped the railing in front of her as the room swayed unsteadily …
“Attention!” Rosier shouted. “Madame is about to faint!”
There was a hard hand under her elbow, the sharp whiff of sal volatile. As the smelling salts revived her, the crowded room swelled into too sharp clarity once more.
Wasting no time, the prosecutor held the package high before handing it to Odette. Camille Durbonne was written on it in ink. It must be The Silver Leaf, which Blaise hadn’t dared to send for fear of someone intercepting it. Despite everything, she longed for it.
“Will you open it and show the jury?”
Odette unwrapped the package. Inside was a book, which she held up so the jury could see. The cover was not green with silver stamps, as Camille had thought it would be, but black. The writing was not French, or any language that Camille recognized. Instead the pages were faintly covered with a series of tiny black marks, more like the scratchings of a knife. Her skin prickled. Why would Blaise have wanted her to have this?
“What language is that, mademoiselle?”
For a moment, Odette seemed chagrined. “Not good, honest French, that’s for certain. It’s a foul book of magic.”
As she spoke, a slight breeze caught in the pages, rustling. The courtroom held its breath as one after another they turned, until eventually the book stood open to the very last page. On it was the sharp, red outline of a hand. Blood-warded. She knew instantly what that outline was for, and what it did.
“And what does the magician, the Vicomtesse de Séguin, have to say about that?”
Camille’s lawyer spoke up. “She will speak after you have finished with your witness.”
“You may sit down, Mademoiselle Leblanc,” the prosecutor said.
“Before she does, I have one question for Mademoiselle Leblanc,” said Monsieur Dufresne.
Odette looked as if she might laugh.
“The writing on that book—do you know for certain that it was the writing of the bookseller? The one who was hanged by a mob the same night the Comité raided the shop?”
She shrugged. “It was his shop. His package, ready to send out.”
“Perhaps this one had been prepared, by him or someone else … and then Madame Durbonne’s name found its way on it? Do you have a sample of the bookseller’s handwriting, mademoiselle, so that we may make a match?”
“His shop burned to the ground,” she said, dismissively. “I cannot help you.”
Camille glared at Dufresne. Why hadn’t he asked her? She could have given him Blaise’s letter and it would have been proved that Blaise had not set it aside for her. For all she knew, Odette had taken the most frightening-looking book of magic in the shop and wrapped it up herself to discredit Camille. Her faith in this lawyer was steadily eroding.
“That will be all,” Dufresne said, and Odette stepped down.
The prosecutor then wheeled toward Camille. “Tell me what you know of that valise that was taken from your house. Or tell me first, perhaps, about this clearly dangerous book.”
Stay quiet. “Which will it be, monsieur?”
“Do you know what this book is? And why it has your name on it?”
She remembered Blaise’s warm, cluttered shop. Books and teacups on every surface. The rolls of maps jostling in a cream-colored urn. His white cat curled up, pressed against the window. Blaise, working late. Determined, despite the risk, to save the books, and the knowledge