Everything That Burns Read online

  Camille was famished. She had woken in the gray hours before dawn, while he still slept. The rain had finally stopped, and the world felt remade. Lying on her side, resting her cheek against her arm, she had lain in the half-light, drinking him in. His black hair spilled like ink across the pillow, his long eyelashes resting against his cheeks. Under his ear his pulse beat slowly, steadily. His chest rose and fell, and she wondered what it might be like to kiss him while he slept. Would her kiss become a part of his dream, the way the rain had been in hers, last night? Or would he wake?

  And what then?

  Her breath caught as she remembered the fierce press of their bodies, as if they could eliminate every space between them, the tender but hungry exploration, the feeling that she was entirely herself and yet completely blown apart. What if last night could begin again?

  It would be delicious to find out.

  Bending, she kissed him gently on the corner of his mouth, the one that curled irresistibly when he teased or jested. His eyelashes fluttered, and his lips parted as if he might say something, but he didn’t wake.

  Should she kiss him again? It was barely dawn, and he’d traveled so far last night. She would let him sleep. He would be there when she woke. Believing this—not simply hoping for it—had been a new and delicious joy.

  A little shyly, she said, “Salut.”

  His gaze smoldered. “Getting out of bed wasn’t easy. You were so warm, and I imagined—” He stopped himself. “You were even in my dreams.”

  Flushing at the memory of her stolen kiss, Camille slipped on her dressing gown and joined him on the sofa, tucking her legs up underneath her. Faint city sounds of fishmongers and knife sharpers amid the din of horses’ hooves drifted into the room and those everyday sounds made what had happened between them seem very real.

  As she settled down next to him, he tucked a stray strand of her hair behind her ear. “What will happen if I can’t stop staring at you?”

  “We won’t be able to leave this room,” she said, surprising herself with her daring. “Not that I would mind.”

  On the low table sat a large oval tray, crowded with plates of sliced bread, rich butter, a crystal pot of the pear jam Madame Hortense made from the trees in the courtyard, rich and summer sweet. There were also a few small apples in a silver bowl, a pot of hot chocolate and another of coffee, steam drifting from its spout. Tucked under the tray were the latest newspapers.

  “How did you get her to bring so much food? The most I ever get is coffee and a crust,” she said. “And I am hungry this morning.”

  “I must have certain powers of persuasion,” he teased. He removed the poker from the fire, checked the bread, and slid the perfectly browned piece of toast onto a china plate. “Here’s a bigger crust for you, my sweet.”

  He certainly did have powers of persuasion. As she busied herself over the breakfast tray, pouring herself a cup of coffee and spreading butter and jam on her toast in the English way, she felt happiness like sunlight radiate through her. Lazare, here, in her room, was a joy. The flex of muscles in his neck and chest as he held out the poker, the careless ease of him lounging on her sofa … was he watching her as much as she was watching him?

  “Alors,” she said, trying to ignore the heat rising in her cheeks. She must at least attempt to behave like a normal person, a person who could think of something other than that. “Tell me everything about your trip. You traveled first to Lille?”

  He nodded. “Lille is pretty city on a river; from what I could tell, they hardly think of themselves as French and don’t care much for the revolution. It was a relief, in a way, not to have so much attention on us. One day we made a flight west, toward the coast.” His face went dreamy and far away. “The landscape wide and open, as if it could never end. Then there was the Channel at the horizon, bigger than I could have imagined.”

  She’d seen etchings in Papa’s books of the narrow arm of the Atlantic that separated France and England. She imagined something like the Seine, but broader somehow. “Tell me about it?”

  He sat forward. “Camille, it was like nothing I’ve ever seen. The sea was wide and gray, cut with thousands of tiny waves. Stretching out in every direction, like the sky. And beneath the surface, it’s said, are deep caverns and valleys, like we have here on land, but they are full of fish and … sea monsters.”

  She laughed, and gave him a little push with her foot. “Not those!”

  “Oh yes, those. Though I can’t promise they’ll be there when we fly over.”

  We? “Is that a promise?”

  He smiled, the heat of it dazzling. “Soon, I hope. You would love it. With my long glass, I could see dolphins racing alongside a schooner’s bow. They were … so free.”

  She sniffed the air. “Is something burning?”

  He turned suddenly to the hearth, where the toast was charred. “Merde!” He pried it off the poker and tossed it in the flames. He watched as the pieces crisped to black, then crumpled, the center caving in. He was silent for a long time.

  “Lazare? What’s wrong? Was it the flight? It sounded so beautiful, but—”

  “What if we went to London?”

  “You’re feeling restless?” She thought of Paris’s crowded streets, its tilting buildings and grand houses. London was larger, a vast and sprawling city, completely unfamiliar. “Have you tired of our city?”

  “I love it because it’s where you are,” he said simply.

  First the magic lantern show, then the trip to Lille, now London … she tried to be brave. “But Paris is full of ideas and balloons—”

  There was a discreet knock on the door, and Camille tensed.

  “You think it’s Sophie again?” he said low.

  “She would have barged right in, especially if she knew you were here.”

  From the hallway came Adèle’s voice. “Madame? An urgent letter for you, by messenger.”

  “I suppose I must.” Camille called out, “Come!”

  A bit nervously, Adèle entered holding the letter tray; as soon as Camille had taken the note from her, she curtsied and fled. “I think she’s smitten with you,” Camille said as she broke the seal. It was from the bookseller, Lasalle. As she read, her heart began to pound.

  “What is it?”

  Wide-eyed, she said, “The chance of a lifetime! Lazare, we must go to Versailles!” She leaped from the sofa and ran to the screen where a few dresses hung on hooks beside his coat. She stepped into a flouncing set of petticoats, then slipped into her stays, snugging them tight around her ribs. Apart from his coat, Lazare’s clothes lay strewn about the room. She picked up his cravat and tossed it at him.

  “But why?”

  “Women from Paris are marching to demand bread from the king! They’re going all the way to Versailles.” Quickly, she twisted up her hair and pinned it. “If we leave now, I could be the first to write about it.” She glanced at the paper again. “There are already several thousand women marching, and they are bringing in people from the shops and markets to join them!”

  She imagined the women arm in arm, sauntering down the streets. Other Parisians joining in, seeing how necessary it was to support the woman who had the least and the most to fight for. Realizing that they shared a common cause. It would be glorious. That alone would persuade the king. It would be nothing like the storming of the Bastille. This would be a peaceful affirmation of the revolution’s ideals.

  “The revolution continues,” he said darkly. “After that dinner, I’d had enough to last me a while.”

  “But women standing up to the powerful is what revolution should be.” Camille tugged on the dress she’d chosen, a simple gown in celadon green. “Will you lace me up?”

  Lazare rose and came to stand behind her. Slowly but firmly he tugged the laces that ran up the back of her dress. His breath on the nape of her neck made her tremble.

  “You think these market women are any different than the revolutionaries at that dinner?” he asked.
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br />   “What reason would they have to pretend? They are hungry and angry and want justice.”

  “I’m sure you’re right.” He did not sound convinced.

  She desperately wanted him to come with her. “What is it that’s bothering you, if it’s not the women?”

  Carefully, he tightened her lacings. “When we were at Lille … all Lafayette could talk about was war.” He dropped his voice in a perfect imitation of Lafayette’s. “Of course,” he said in English before shifting back to French, “it is what they would do in America!”

  “But going to war would be a disaster!” It would only increase the suffering of the poor, diverting food to the army and attention away from their plight. And the revolution would become splintered, a battle fought on at least two fronts.

  “He does what he believes is best for France.” He gave her laces a final, definitive pull. “I wish I’d never become involved with it. But there was such pressure to say yes.”

  “Because you needed the measurements for your cloud studies?” she guessed.

  “In part.”

  “Is it the pilots?” She was almost afraid to ask. “Do they still not respect your command?”

  His hands lingered on her waist. “That’s been resolved.”

  She wished he would tell her what was wrong, what troubled him—what secrets he was keeping. Instead she said, “Come with me, Lazare.”

  “You don’t need me with you, fretting over how the revolution is losing its way.”

  “Listen, my love.” Camille cradled his face in her hands. “You doubt the revolution. I don’t blame you. It doesn’t sit entirely well with me, either.” If he only knew how the revolution threatened her. “But please—come with me today. See for yourself. It won’t be about Lafayette’s strategy or courtiers who change with the wind. Instead it will be the hardworking women of Paris demanding bread from their king. This peaceful march will be the people standing up.”

  His eyes did not leave hers. What did he see there? Her hope—or her fear? “You truly wish me to go with you?”

  “There’s nothing I wish more.” She would show him that the revolution was more than spying at the Austrian border. It was more than speeches or raising money or wearing tricolor cockades in your hat. The revolution was what was happening with the girls and these women, France’s downtrodden. It was about change for the people who most needed it.

  And then, she wondered, the hope as thin as a wisp of smoke, once the king did the right thing for his people and they were well fed and had the freedoms they deserved, might not they forget about their hatred of magicians? Might she not have to choose which version of herself to be? Women were marching on Versailles and suddenly anything—anything at all—seemed possible. And she could not let Lazare turn away from it.

  “You believe in it?” he asked.

  “I do. This will be the moment when the revolution becomes what it is destined to be, when everything changes.”

  His face softened. “Do you remember what I said, when we went up in the balloon the last time?”

  She would never forget it. “Tell me again?”

  “I said that I didn’t know what was going to happen, but whatever it was, I wanted to go through it with you.”

  Her pulse quickened. “Then you’ll come?”

  His broad smile was a yes, and she flung her arms around his neck and kissed him, emphatically. “You won’t regret it.”

  He raised a dark eyebrow. “A bold claim.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that.” On a nearby table sat a little silver bell. She was about to set it ringing when his hand closed over hers. Playfully, his long fingers eased the bell’s handle from her grip.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “Stopping you from ringing it.” He brought her hand to his lips.

  Desire threaded through her, rich and compelling. “Lazare—”

  “Let me take you by balloon.”

  Bewildered, she asked, “But how? Isn’t your balloon still at the border?”

  “A benefit of Lafayette’s scheme is that we now have access to a whole fleet of them. One could be ready in an hour. It won’t be the trip over the Alps I promised you.” He raised a dark eyebrow, the one with the scar in it. “But I will try to make it as thrilling as I can.”

  Camille flushed. “I have no doubt you will make it quite thrilling indeed.”

  28

  As they approached Versailles, Camille looked out over the palace and gardens and for a dizzy, unsettling moment, she thought: home. Below lay the familiar road she’d traveled so many times: going to court with the glamoire glittering under her skin or trundling back to Paris at dawn, her pockets heavy, her body aching as the magic left it, her mind spinning over what she’d seen and done.

  The great palace’s pale stone shone in the vague, rainy light. There lay the court where she’d first arrived, unsure but determined, stepping down from her hired carriage in her glamoired dress and her dreams. Behind lay the unending gardens, their gravel paths radiating from the long mirror of the Grand Canal. There she had played late-night games in the dark and fragrant greenery. There she’d heard nightingales sing in the towering yews and peacocks scream from the roofs.

  “Do you think we can drop a little lower?”

  Lazare nodded. “I’ll release some air.”

  Slowly, the balloon lost altitude.

  Below, crowds swarmed into the courtyard. Guards from the palace were moving among the people, who were carrying—weapons? Uneasy, she took the long glass from Lazare’s pocket and held it to her eye.

  As if he sensed her worry, he came to stand beside her. “What do you see?”

  She spun the rings to focus. “Women. Hundreds of them. They have shovels in their hands, rakes.” The weak sunlight glinted on a curve of metal, and her stomach lurched. “And scythes! Oh, Lazare, I fear they have come to fight.”

  Someone, somewhere, was beating a drum. Its rhythm was a wild heartbeat. The night the Bastille fell, the people of Paris had beat drums like that too, and she’d run stumbling through the city’s dark alleys to the safety—or so she’d thought—of the Hôtel Théron. She reached out to Lazare, who took her hand in his.

  “There are thousands of people here,” he observed. “If they want to go into the palace, nothing will stop them. They are armed to the teeth.”

  “Lasalle said they were protesting for bread.” Camille moved her glass to the line that snaked away, dark as a river, from the palace. A group of women had taken a cannon—from where?—and were hauling it along the road. There were wagons used as roadblocks. A forest of blades held high. And members of Lafayette’s National Guard, so many of them in their blue uniforms. Had they come to put a stop to it—or to join the women?

  The balloon sank lower.

  Guardsmen were inside in palace gates too, as were members of the king’s personal guard. The guards of the people faced the guards loyal to the royal family. At the courtyard’s far end, where a cart had been overturned to make a platform for speeches, protestors congregated. A tall woman with cropped hair and burly arms jumped down from the cart—and Camille saw she was not a woman, but a man, dressed in women’s clothing. Someone offered him a bottle of wine. He wandered off as the spectators turned to a young woman clad in a tall black hat and black dress, sitting astride a black horse. A sword swung from a red sash around her waist and a brace of pistols wrapped her hips.

  “Lazare, look there—it’s Odette! One of the Lost Girls!”

  Gathered around Odette were a few of the others: Claudine with a tricorne over her short hair, Margot the fruit seller in a bright green dress, little Henriette the forger with her pale cloud of curls streaming loose. All of them were watching Odette. The wind unfurled her red hair, blowing it behind her like a banner. Her face was fierce, determined. There was something about her that made people pay attention. And when she had their attention, her speech set them on fire. Though Camille could only hear snatches of what sh
e said, the hot blaze of those words was reflected in the faces of everyone who was listening.

  The balloon drifted down.

  Closer.

  Odette pulled a pistol from her belt and held it over her head. So loud Camille could hear it, she shouted, “Vive la révolution!” and fired her weapon in the air. Odette’s horse reared as the gun’s crack reverberated over the rooftops. People cheered, reaching up to grab her, but Odette kept her seat, smiling. Hands yanked at the horse’s reins and he crow-hopped, shoving people in the crowd. “She needs to get out of there,” Camille worried. “The horse is ready to bolt.”

  Odette swung her mount around, and the people fell back. A path opened up. She kicked him forward, the plume in her hat dancing. The crowd in the courtyard had grown denser, but to the side, where Odette had ridden out, a clear space was forming. It widened as people edged away.

  In the clearing a man hoisted a pike high in the air. It was heavy, and it wobbled as he tried to raise it. When he finally did, the crowd erupted into wild screams. On its point was a severed head. A woman grabbed it from him and raised it higher. “Vive la révolution!” she shouted. “Vive la France!”

  Behind her surged the crowd, hoisting high their scythes and pitchforks. From several of them hung effigies, clothes stuffed with straw. The king and queen in their fine clothes, their crowns tipped drunkenly on top of horsehair wigs. And behind those, there were more: painted faces, blackened fingers. Magicians. Swaying from scythes as if they were real bodies, hanging from lampposts.

  Camille’s hands shook so violently she feared she’d drop the spyglass. Instead she swung it away. In the middle of the courtyard lay a little boy. His jacket had come off, and lay beside him, like a blanket he’d tossed off while sleeping. His legs were bent. And his head with its brown curls was covered in blood and dirt. Her stomach heaved. On the boy’s shirt was the dark print of a shoe. Someone had stepped on his broken body.

  Camille clenched the edge of the basket as another wave of horror crested over her.