of the Lost Girl pamphlets for Lasalle. And another fifty of her pamphlets on the women’s march on Versailles.
Later that day, as Camille was finishing the last of a set of pamphlets, Odette wandered into the room. She trailed her fingers over piles of paper and picked up books to inspect their spines before setting them down as if they weren’t what she wanted. Idly, as if she were only making conversation, she pointed to the curving iron lever raised in its top position.
“Some insist women aren’t strong enough to pull the lever, and so they can’t be printers.”
“Rubbish,” Camille said with a smile.
Thoughtfully, Odette ran her hand along the lever’s curve. “So much power. And so much responsibility.”
The longing Camille caught on Odette’s face as she touched the press reminded Camille of a reflection she’d once seen of her own face in the window of a printer’s shop after Papa had died. “Did you want to work on something while you’re here? I could—”
“What I write is different.” Odette unpinned a sheet from the line and began to read the pamphlet. When she came to the end, her mouth crimped with dissatisfaction. “Something new? It’s quite bold. Different than the girls’ stories.”
“It’s not about the girls. Well, not directly. It’s meant to be different.”
Odette’s eyes narrowed. “Are you criticizing the march?”
“I’m still trying to understand it. It was … more complicated than I thought it would be. There was so much blood, so much killing—”
“You are against spilling blood?”
Camille stared. “Aren’t you?”
“What needs to be done will be done.” She shrugged her narrow shoulders. “Sometimes things happen. It’s not the fault of the revolution.”
“Whose fault is it, then?” Camille snapped. “It wasn’t lightning that killed that boy.”
“Have you never seen a farmer harrow his field to get it ready for planting?” Odette said scornfully. “There may be weeds growing there, but he uproots them so that new seeds can grow.”
Anger crackled along her skin, fever-hot. “The boy was a weed?”
“I didn’t say that.” Odette tapped the pamphlet. “I wonder why didn’t you write about the magician effigies?”
Uneasy dread sifted through her. To write about them would have been to draw attention to them. “I saw only the effigies of the king and queen.”
“Didn’t you hear the chants from your balloon? ‘Vive le Roi!’ the people cried. ‘Mort aux magiciens!’ You must tell the truth about what happened.”
The tiny hairs on the back of Camille’s neck rose. What Odette was saying was no different than what hundreds of pamphlets and posters slapped up all over Paris had been saying since the king’s speech. But hearing it in her own house made her feel terribly exposed.
Steady, she told herself. Slowly, she raised the lever and removed the last pamphlet from the press. The black letters coiled and gleamed. It gave her some dark comfort. Over her shoulder, she said, “I didn’t see them clearly enough.”
“How could you not? They were swaying from poles! Black-fingered, tears running down their faces.” She chuckled, a rough sound, as if she wasn’t used to making it. “It’s probably the only thing the king and the people agree on. Include the effigies in your next one. I bet you’ll sell a lot.”
Camille’s jaw clenched. She noticed that Odette was wearing a black Kashmiri shawl, embroidered in cream silk, that showed off her pale skin and red hair. It was one of Camille’s favorites. “Are you going out?”
“I plan to visit a few of the cafés in the Palais-Royal. Last I heard, the talk was of aristocrats fleeing France. Imagine if we had a net to catch them in? Those émigrés are traitors and cowards fleeing the problems they helped create. Perhaps we shall devise a plan.” Gesturing to a stack of the new pamphlets, she asked, “May I take a few with me? I know some people who would be very interested to see a different point of view.”
“Please do.” Camille wiped her fingers on her apron, and laid a blank sheet of paper in the press as Odette gathered up the pamphlets. When she was at the door, Camille said, “Wait, Odette.”
“Yes?”
Did Odette really believe that blood had to be spilled for change to happen? That some people, maybe the boy or maybe the magicians, had to be sacrificed for the revolution? And if she did, why? Was there something in her story that would explain it?
“After what happened at Versailles,” Camille said, “I was hoping you might tell your story along with the other