aloud when Giselle rested her head on Camille’s shoulder.
“Are you waiting for the sign?” Giselle asked.
“It will be a golden carriage.” It sounded impossible, like something out of a fairy tale.
“It shall come.”
The tumbrel rattled into the square, and a deafening roar rose up from those gathered for the execution. Men, women, and children so small their mothers held them by the hand. A man was selling meat pies, the aroma delicious and sickening. Several girls sold tricolor rosettes made of ribbon. Through the crowd ambled a juggler in a black-and-white striped suit, calling singsong, “Marvels are coming! Pay attention! Marvels are coming!”
Beyond the juggler rose the platform, and on it, the gallows’ ebony beams, its keen circle of rope. Nearby stood the broad-shouldered executioner, his hood thrown back, large hands easy at his sides. There should have been no one else there on that grim stage with him, but there was. Four scarlet-cloaked guards of the Comité, like crows come to the gallows to watch her die. At their feet, the silent, waiting hounds.
The tumbrel jolted to a stop. Giselle swayed, caught hold of Camille’s shoulder.
“What’s happening?” one of the women said, hope in her voice. “Why have we stopped?
An old woman grunted. “A carriage, all white and gold, that’s blocking the way! The horses are rearing up!”
Relief flooded through Camille. Now.
She raised her eyebrows at Giselle, who nodded. Héloïse’s little knife lay tucked in her sleeve, and she shook it out into her lap. “Quick,” she said to Giselle, “cut the rope!” Taking the tiny knife, Giselle sawed through the bindings. In a moment, Camille was free, and, willing her hands not to shake, she sliced the ropes that bound Giselle. “Now run,” she hissed as she cut through another set of cords and gave the knife to the startled woman next to her. “This is your chance!”
Without a backward glance, Giselle stepped out over the edge and dropped into the crowd. Camille stood, swaying, and then leaped away, the other prisoners overturning the cart as they jumped after her, the spectators in an uproar. Dogs howling like wolves. The jailor shouted for help, but the people, who’d come for entertainment, cheered. As they roared and pounded their thousand feet, Camille fled.
People got in her way, and she went around. The platform was empty and the Comité crows scattered. Red flashed as the guards moved through the crowd, fanning out. Hunting their prize. Not daring to draw attention to herself by running, she forced herself to walk, agonizingly slowly, pretending that she too was enjoying the spectacle. Inside she trembled with the terror of knowing they were an arm’s-length away. If she were caught by the Comité they would make an example of her, she had no doubt.
Very close, a scarlet cloak snapped in the wind.
Fear is what keeps a rabbit still when the fox comes, and fear is what tells it to run.
She ran.
Wishing she had but a drop of blur, she raced through the edges of the crowd until she found a reeking alleyway no wider than her arms outstretched. She didn’t dare go farther before changing—she had to make it to the stage at the square’s far end, and she couldn’t be dressed like this. She was so clearly a prisoner. Desperately she hoped her friends would be there, masked and ready to take over the puppets’ parts. What roles they’d play she did not know, only that she was to be the white bird. Mademoiselle l’Oiseau.
From the square, voices echoed, shouting for the magician to turn herself in.
Steady now. She had made it out of the tumbrel. That was the first step. She had freed Giselle and the others. Second step. Now, the third. Transformation. Her stomach convulsed, and she was sick in the alley. Almost there, she told herself, as she wiped her mouth with her sleeve. She spat in her hands and rubbed the painted tear off her cheek and the prison grime from her forehead. Almost there.
Out of long habit, Camille raised her hand to her shoulder, where she had always pinned the diamond brooch. But her fingers touched only silk. In her confusion, she’d forgotten she wasn’t wearing her enchanted dress. How had she thought she would change this dress? It would need blood, she knew. What had she done with Claudine’s little knife? A wave of panic coursed through her as she looked at her empty hands. That too was gone. For one dizzying moment, she stared at the