a prison cell at La Petite Force, the iron lock and bars. But worse, much worse was what would happen to the others: Margot, Claudine, Little Céline with her sweet smile and sticky hands. Without them, what or where would she be? Her legs trembled as the circle of people tightened around her.
There was no way out. She might die here today. Hanged from a lamppost or a tree. Her head stuck on a—
Then the girl in the hat stood in front of her, blocking the others from view. Her gray eyes burned. “You must disappear! If the crowd doesn’t get you, the police will, and they won’t believe a word you say.” She grasped the leather strap of Giselle’s wicker tray. “Leave this and run! People have been killed for less.”
Giselle bent her head and the strap slid along her back as the tray came away in the other girl’s hands. “But I need it—”
The expression on the other girl’s face said, Not as much as you need your life. But somehow she understood, for she said, low, “Meet me in the little square at the end of the island, by the old oak, before six. Now go!”
Giselle choked out a “merci” and then shoved past the man, running faster than she’d ever run before. Past carriages and vegetable sellers and a juggler in a tattered costume, her breath in her throat, her heart a wild drum. Behind her came the mob, relentless as a cresting wave.
2
But Camille Durbonne, the young Vicomtesse de Séguin, did not run.
Instead, she stood, shaking, as the red-faced nobleman watched the crowd chase after the flower seller. Then he turned his rage on her.
“How dare you interfere with my business!” he snarled, raising his cane. “What right have you to go against me? I ought to have you whipped—”
Fear was a sudden hand at her throat, and she choked on the words she’d thought to say. Instead she stepped back and let him see her: the richly patterned fabric of her dress and its exquisite silk jacket, the lace at her collar and sleeves—unlike his, not excessive for these revolutionary times—the finest from Alençon. The straw hat that curved daringly across her brow was one of Sophie’s sweeping extravagances, and there was no mistaking Camille’s white fingers and smooth skin, the clean hems of her skirts, the unworn heels of her raspberry-tinted shoes. Everything she wore proclaimed money and power. Which, she suspected, were the only things this man understood.
As he took in her appearance his mouth fell open. “Mademoiselle?” he stammered.
Camille’s anger at the injustice ran like a fiery river through her. Seeing the flower seller trapped, Camille felt her own fear clawing its way back, sharp and raw as ever. But now she had a title, a mansion, and fine clothes. Shouldn’t she use them as weapons?
“Monsieur!” she said, disdainful as any courtier at the Palace of Versailles. “Do not speak to me of rights. If I were you, I wouldn’t put myself where I wasn’t wanted. The people of Paris no longer bend to your will.” She added, each word as sharp and scornful as she could make it, “They are human beings and might turn on you next.”
“Pardon!” he exclaimed. “I did not realize the girl was a protegée of yours! If I had known, of course, I would never…” He attempted a wan smile.
She wanted to kick him. Viciously. His pretend apologies and pathetic excuses were just like her brother, Alain’s. Weak, but still capable of hurting others. Like this nobleman, he’d never owned up to what he’d done, but instead just took, took, took. When would people like him finally understand the world wasn’t theirs for the taking? That a girl was more than a fruit or a flower to be plucked?
“A word of advice, monsieur: keep your hands to yourself and things will work out much better for you.” Behind his shoulder, the street had emptied out, the crowd dispersed. “Now that the revolution has come, no one is your property any longer. We are all equals, non?”
“How correct you are!” With a fawning bow, he held out the yellow roses to Camille. “You would honor me by taking these—”
Not trusting herself to speak, she silently took them and he scuttled off.
Though Camille’s performance had gone as well as she could have hoped, inside, she was trembling. Her hurt and anger threatened to consume her.
Steady.
She tried to breathe, still her pounding heart, and listen. The mob was