Under cover of her hat, Sophie nodded seriously at Rosier. “We will be watching from the far side of the square! Just—look out for marvels. And think: lots of feathers!”
“Do not fear, we will advertise widely, by poster and crier,” Rosier announced, “so that all of Paris will know when it is to be performed—even the flown-away pigeons! Who knows? Perhaps we can incorporate them into our show.”
It was a brilliant idea. Advertising would let Lazare and Foudriard know to come to the performance. And there were enough roles for all of them to disappear into the show. “Thank you,” Camille said. “Will the spectacle be traveling, after the performance? I had thought to give the house away.”
Sophie frowned slightly, and Camille silently pleaded for her to make the leap. “Oh yes,” she said finally. “I’ve already starting packing. The neighborhood just doesn’t suit us anymore, does it?”
“Perfect.” Camille kissed them both—Rosier knuckling tears from his cheeks—and bid them both adieu. She pressed her palms together, as if she might keep the warmth of them with her a little longer.
The guard turned the key in the lock.
Shadows filled her cell. The walls shifted closer until it felt as though they brushed against her skirts. Close, like the sides of a coffin. The plan they’d concocting was the best they could think of. But what if it wasn’t enough? What if at the end of the square was not an escape, but the silent darkness of death?
This might be her last night on earth.
The last night she might be in the world with those she loved, even if they were far away. Her breaths might now be numbered. Each one subtracted from the total, like the ticking of a clock running down. This might be the last cold day. She might never again feel the sun freckling her cheeks. Be dazzled by the gold of Sophie’s hair. Feel Lazare’s body against hers, feel her own desire unfurling like slow fire. Never again feel magic transport her out of the ordinary and into the marvelous.
She clenched her fingers around the cold bars at the window. Her clammy fingers stuck to the metal and the pain brought her back to the cell. Whatever time she had left, she was not going to spend it thinking of death.
* * *
Instead, after dinner, she asked for a walk. One of the guards jeered, “It won’t be your last time under the open sky, but it will be your last chance to enjoy it.” Even at this hour, there were still a few women strolling the paths in the dusky courtyard. Camille kept to herself, relishing the kiss of the night air on her skin. But as she passed one of the tall shrubs that grew along the wall, someone slipped out from between their shadows and caught hold of her sleeve.
“Henriette!” Camille stared uncomprehending at the forger with her halo of fair hair. “Have they arrested you, too?”
“Shhh!” Taking Camille’s hand, Henriette slid a small packet into her sleeve. “A boy with a pipe came to Flotsam House and commissioned four of those. When he told me one was for you, I said I’d bring it myself. Walk with me?”
Side by side they kept to the wall, like any other prisoners. “But how did you get in?”
Henriette’s face shone. “Claudine.”
There is no lock that can keep its secrets from me. Together these girls were formidable. “And she will let you out again?”
“She is waiting for my whistle.” When they passed out of view of the guards, Henriette said, “I don’t know what you and your friends are planning. It’s better that I don’t. I volunteered to come not only to give you the paper, but because I wanted to thank you for what you did for me.”
“There’s no need, truly—”
She held up her hand, ink-stained like Camille’s. “Before you say it was nothing, let me speak. I’ve never been ashamed of what I do. But when we talked about my forgeries, you made a mirror and held it up for me to see myself. You gave me a new story.”
“We all need that, sometimes.”
“Well.” Henriette smoothed her hair, blinking hard. “Whatever happens, thank you for that. I’ll tell the other girls how brave you were in court. Like you were one of us.”
It was the highest compliment she could have given her, Camille knew. “Thank you, Henriette.”
She hesitated. “One more thing. Paris has your name in its dirty mouth and it means to