they contained. That night, another collection was coming into his hands. And so he’d set a lantern on his desk and pried open crates and paged through volume after dusty volume, forgetting to be careful.
“I know nothing of it. Mademoiselle Leblanc was in the shop that night—perhaps she wrote my name on it?”
“Madame,” warned Dufresne.
“Too bad she killed the bookseller, or you could ask him! He feared for his life, monsieur. People had come into his shop—we know who they are now—with the intention of murdering him. What was his great crime? Collecting books!”
“You stand accused of magic, madame,” the prosecutor said. “Are you saying you consorted with a known magician?”
She gestured at her lawyer to say something. But he did not.
“Consorted? If you mean visiting his bookshop, then yes, I did. Have bookshops now been banned? Or must we stop reading, unless it is certain approved pamphlets and certain newspapers? And let me correct you, monsieur,” she said savagely, “he was not a known magician—he was murdered before he could stand trial on that charge. It was rumor and the mob that convicted him.”
“Counselor,” the judge warned. “Your client must answer the question—”
“Quiet now, madame,” Dufresne said. “I will ask the questions later.”
Would he? He’d shown no signs of defending her and she feared he never would. Fury rose in her, rushing her forward. She faced the jury. “Do you not see what our King Louis has done? He’s made an enemy for you to hate of the magicians. A dog to kick, someone to blame your troubles on.” Camille’s heart was in her throat, but she pressed on. “Has Louis signed the Constitution?” A rustle in the gallery: everyone knew he had not yet signed it. “He pretends to stand with the people, but he doesn’t! While you blame magicians for your suffering, you let the king avoid any responsibility!”
“Counselor! Control your client!”
Dufresne made a frantic wave, but Camille ignored him. “I will not be silenced.” Her voice was low, dangerous. “I will not sit quiet while this court—this revolution—pretends it is just, when it is not.”
Odette began to laugh. “What a trial! What order we have in this courtroom! Why did I have to come here to testify against her, when she’s practically admitted she’s a magician?” Odette gripped the edge of the railing behind which she stood. “I know what they are. My own father was an aristocrat magician.”
Shocked voices erupted from the gallery. “A great man, so they said. With his charm and his magic, he seduced my mother and set her up in her own little house where I was born.” She was nearly wistful when she added, “We were happy then. My mother loved him, and he would arrive every week with armfuls of presents. But he tired soon of me. He fled, and my mother ran after him. Abandoned, I tried to sell the things he gave us. Only when they turned back to rubbish did I discover he’d enchanted them.”
“Monsieur,” Dufresne said to the judge, “please tell Mademoiselle Leblanc to stand down. It is not her turn! This has no relevance to this case!”
“Yes, it does,” Odette sneered. “Wait and you will see what evidence I have gathered. You know what they were, once the magic wore off? Broken scraps of tin and paper and wood. Rien!” Her face grew keen as she remembered. “Everything he ever gave us was changed back to dust. The only things he could have given me that I truly wanted—his name and his love—were too precious to part with. He’d insisted I learn to read and write, and what good did it do me? It only taught me how little I was worth.”
Despite herself, Camille’s heart ached for Odette. To be abandoned like that!
“So how do I know, beyond a doubt, that this book is magic?” Hard pride gleamed in Odette’s face. “Magic has a smell, did you know? I grew up thinking it was the scent of love, because I connected it with my father. Oh, how wrong I was! It is the scent of destruction and corruption! And unless we root it out wherever it may be, it will ruin us.”
The gallery applauded, stamped their feet. Taking a shaking breath, Odette glared triumphantly at Camille.
“You are out of order!” shouted Dufresne. But the judge said nothing. He let it go on. It was no longer a true trial, if it ever had been one. It was a performance, and Camille feared how it