waited. Not daring to breathe. If she’d had that vial of blur, she thought desperately, she could have snuck around to the stables. But now she was trapped.
Puissant lowered his head, snuffled again at the gate. “A rat, no doubt.”
In the light that fell from the gate’s lantern, the men loomed monstrous. Already bigger than ordinary men, their high-crowned hats made them even taller, as did the long cloaks that twitched at the slightest movement. On their shoulders glowed the badge of the Comité: a white hand, fingertips blackened, surrounded by flames. Magic burning. One of them held a branch that gleamed dull silver in his hand.
The biggest one grabbed the gate and shook it so it rattled. “Open up! We have a search warrant!”
On the second floor of her house, a window suddenly brightened. Someone was there, watching. Adèle? Sophie? Soon they’d discover she wasn’t home. Perhaps they already knew, perhaps they were waiting for her. Either way they’d be frantic with worry. Her pulse ticked faster. Their fear for her might make them open the door. Cross the courtyard to see if she was in trouble—
The gatehouse door opened and ancient Timbault stepped out, a determined scowl on his face. “It’s late, messieurs. Go to bed. Warrant or not, you’re not coming in.”
The dog barked. Saliva dripped from its long yellow teeth. “We are here by order of the Comité. King’s business.”
Through the glowing window’s thin curtain, Sophie stared out, statue-still. Camille wished she could signal to her somehow. What if the guards came to the door? Came inside? Sophie was strong, Camille knew. But they might take her as a witness, or use her to get to Camille. It was an old familiar fear, growing new tentacles.
The burly guard shook a length of chain at Timbault. “We will pull this gate down if we have to.”
Timbault shrugged. “Try it.”
They conferred, and then one of the smaller guards said, “Warded, is it?”
Timbault said nothing. The dog raised its head and howled, the frustrated call of a predator denied what it wanted.
“These old houses,” the burly one spat. “Centuries of magic to tear down. But it’s possible.”
Long minutes went by as they argued. More windows were illuminated in the Hôtel Séguin, and the lawyer who lived across the street came out to stand in his doorway, holding his own growling mastiff by the collar. Anything the Comité tried would wake the neighborhood, and for now, at least, they wished to seem lawful, more like the police than the mob.
As Camille waited—like an owl, she thought, staring into the night—something shifted.
“We’ll be back, traitor,” one of the guards threatened. “You won’t keep us out forever.” And with one last shove at the gate, the red-cloaked figures and their dog melted into the night.
Camille sank back against the wall. Waited until she had heard every last footstep diminish into silence. And then she slunk to the gate, not daring to step into the light of Timbault’s lantern.
But he’d already seen her. “Madame,” he hissed. “Get inside now!” The bolt was shot, the key turning in the lock, and she was inside. “To the house,” he ordered her, “before they return!”
She fled across the court and up the stairs, where Daumier was waiting to let her in.
“Mon Dieu!” Instantly Sophie had her arms around Camille. “I can’t believe you were out there with them!”
“This night of all nights I decide to walk home alone!” Camille sagged onto the marble bench as Adèle, Sophie, and silent Daumier, who stood with his back against the closed doors, regarded her worriedly. “Everything is all right. They’ve gone.”
“All right?” Sophie squeaked. “The Comité was at our door!”
“At the gate, and we survived.” She tucked her hands under her skirts to keep them from shaking. “Timbault and the house protected us.”
“It is warded,” Adele agreed. “Every magician who owned this house worked magic to keep it and its people safe. But if they come inside—”
“That will not happen,” Camille said briskly.
“We do have to go outside,” Sophie snapped. “Occasionally.”
Daumier tried to diffuse their worry. “It’s not you they want. It’s what’s in the house.”
The bleeding tapestries. The bespelled artifacts. The documents covered in invisible ink, the oils of magical landscapes, the mirrors that reflected other rooms than their own. The floors, the chandeliers, the enchanted locks, the armaments. The snuffboxes and the curios and everything in the attics she’d not yet dared to examine. Her dress. The books. They would burn it all.