alone, working small magic and needing everything to change. Into that life had stepped Lazare—and also, a much more dangerous magic.
A few girls turned her way, listening.
Encouraged, Camille pressed on. “I was afraid of having to get money in ways I didn’t like. I was afraid that if I died, my sister would be defenseless against him. To my brother we’d become things, something to trade away. He tried to erase me,” she said bitterly. “He wanted me to stay silent. But you don’t have to.”
Odette picked up the newspaper and stabbed the air with it. “We don’t want to talk to reporters.”
“I could write your stories myself. I can’t print eighty thousand copies. But I would do my best. Together we might change Parisians’ minds.” Ignoring Odette’s wary scowl, she promised, “It would be done only with your consent. I’d write the first one and print it. After we saw how people reacted to it, if you didn’t like it or felt it made things worse, that would be the end of it.”
The room was still, the only sounds the snap of the fire and the idle lap of the river beyond the walls. The minutes dragged by and no one spoke. It was another resounding no. Behind her back, Camille clasped her empty hands to keep them from shaking.
“Giselle, you know where I live, if you change your minds.” Heavy-hearted, she squared her shoulders and once more turned to leave.
“Wait.” Giselle stepped forward. “I believe in you. You saw me. Everyone else at Sainte-Chapelle looked through me as if I was invisible. But you spoke up.”
“And now you trust her with your life?” Margot asked, hurt coloring her voice.
Angrily Giselle said, “Camille stood up for me the way that you stand up for me. We’re out of options, and I’m betting she can help us keep the house. Let me go first.”
“Giselle,” Odette warned. “You’re not thinking this through—”
“I already have.” She faced Camille then, full of fire and certainty. “I’ll tell you what happened.”
10
It was late by the time Camille returned to the forbidding Hôtel Séguin. As the door closed behind her, the housemaid Adèle came into the entry hall. Her eyes were saucer-sized. “Your shoes, Madame!”
What had once been a pretty pair of boots were now unrecognizable lumps thick with mud. Above them, Camille’s stockings and petticoats were stained a vile, creeping brown, as if she’d been wading through a sewer.
“It doesn’t matter,” Camille said quickly. “Please don’t go to any trouble.” She hated the thought of someone cleaning them for her. And worse, with each moment that passed, Giselle’s words threatened to slip away.
“Your sister has been worried—she wanted to send the young men to search for you through all of Paris!”
Guilt pricked at her. “But they didn’t, did they?”
“Monsieur Mellais convinced her to let you go.” Adèle flushed. “He said it was very important to you.”
My heart. “He’s right. And my sister—will you tell her I’m home?” Camille would have to apologize later. Wrenching off her shoes, she headed for the elegant doors that led to the dining room, where the printing press waited.
Adèle followed. “Madame, do you not wish to bathe? It’s late to be working now, and in such a condition. You will most certainly become ill!”
Camille bit her lip. “There are girls living under the Pont Neuf who will be evicted if we do not help them.”
“Under the Pont Neuf?” Adèle recoiled. “You will have contracted a terrible disease—”
“Adele, if you’d spoken with them, you’d say the same as I do, I am certain of it.”
Mollified, Adèle curtsied. “If it’s important to Madame, it is important to all of us at the Hôtel Séguin.”
“I’m grateful for your support.” Camille spun on her heel and set out once more to the printing room.
“Madame?” Adèle asked, trailing after her. “Is there anything I can do to help those girls?”
“May I have some coffee, please?” Camille opened the dining room doors and inhaled the dry scent of paper, the exhilarating wet bite of ink. How could she have thought she would give this up? Already her mind was shaping the words she would use to tell Giselle’s story. “It would be a great help, for I have much work to do.”
* * *
Pacing the length of the printing room, she reread the notes she’d taken when Giselle had told her story. A few of the girls had refused to listen. Others had crowded close, intrigued by the spectacle of Camille scribbling on a poster’s