you see, the writer is anonymous. But they sell well.”
“Why is that?”
“Straightforward and to the point. Exciting. People feel safe when they hang them up. My great-grandmother hung garlic, tied with red thread, on her front door. This is … a more modern approach.”
She gritted her teeth. Magicians were now evil spirits to be guarded against? How could people be so simple as to believe this? With a few well-chosen words, Louis XVI had made things much, much worse. “Do you think magicians are like vampires?”
“Can a magician slip through a keyhole? Down a chimney? Rumor has them everywhere in Paris. I doubt they even exist. They are the monster under the bed the king uses to make the people behave.” His mouth twitched. “Now! Madame, do you see this?” He pointed to a small metal box with a lock. “Donations for your girls.”
“Truly?” she gasped.
He gave it a brisk tap. “Customers have learned of their plight and given money in case it might be useful.”
“Thank you, monsieur!” The girls could use this, she knew. But more than money they needed their home. “Has your friend at the mayor’s office had any luck?”
Sagely, Lasalle nodded. “I believe it will happen. The mayor fears an outcry if he doesn’t stop the eviction.”
“That’s fantastic!” She wanted to throw her arms around Lasalle. “Can I tell them it’s over? That they can stay?”
He held up his hand. “Another few days. It’s the mayor’s decision.”
“But I can give them hope?”
“That you can do.”
The past few days had been dark and difficult, but now a tide of happiness welled up in her. Revolution was ever spinning, like a many-sided die tossed out in a game—you never knew which side might face up. Now the girls’ luck, at least, had changed. Even Lasalle had been changed, and the thought made her bold. “I have a business idea to propose.”
“Oh?” He began to fill a purse with coins from the box.
“A subscription, for a series called ‘The Lost Girls Speak.’ I’ve written two so far—why not keep going? If the girls get money ahead of time, they’ll be eager to continue. And might not a subscription bring in even more readers to the shop?”
“Clever!” Lasalle declared. “Indeed it might. I’ll let people know. You keep interviewing. Keep writing. And don’t send your pamphlets anywhere else, I beg you.”
“I promise,” she said as she took the heavy purse from him. It had the reassuring solidity of a hard-won victory. She and the girls had changed public sentiment. There was no turning back now: she must tell their stories a while longer.
And somehow learn to manage her magic.
* * *
After she left Lasalle’s shop, trying to forget the anti-magician pamphlet she’d seen there, she crossed the busy street of the old rue du Temple without looking. Out of nowhere a young man roughly plowed into her. Scrambling on the damp cobbles, she nearly lost her footing.
“Have a care, citizen!” Camille cried.
He wheeled around. With the carved head of his cane—an ivory dog with a jewel for an eye—he tipped up his hat. His was a handsome face, with high color in the cheeks and a wide, square jaw. Under his tricorne hat, his wavy, walnut-colored hair was free of powder, tied back with a blue ribbon. But the hazel eyes she knew so well were not full of merriment, not this time. Instead they were very grave.
“Chandon!” She could hardly believe he stood in front of her. “I’ve been thinking about you! What are you doing in Paris?”
“Hush!” he hissed. “Keep yelling at me!”
“What?” she said, bewildered.
He raised his voice. “It was you who crashed into me!” And he gave the tiniest tilt of his head to the right. Under the brim of her hat, she looked in that direction. In the crowded street, she saw a closed carriage drawn by a sweat-darkened horse, an empty vegetable cart. Nothing out of the ordinary. She was about to turn back when she saw: two streets away, a Comité guard under an awning. His black-hatted head was bent over a newspaper, but she could have sworn he wasn’t reading it. Instead, like a raven, he was waiting.
Watching.
Pretend, she told herself. “Hardly, monsieur! You are at fault and owe me for dirtying my skirts!”
“Foolish girl!” he shouted. “Take it up with my lawyer if you must—here is his address.” He pressed a piece of paper into her hand. “I myself am finished with you!” And with that he pulled his hat down