Chapter 19

Gabrielle took five minutes in rue d'Anjou to fling off her evening gown and change into her britches. She thrust her pistol into her pocket, wrapped a cloak around her, tucking her hair beneath the hood, and ran back to the carriage, still waiting at the door.

"The flower market, Gaston. As fast as you can.''

"D'accord, comtesse." The drive^ touched the peak of his cap and cracked his whip.

She sat on the edge of the seat as the vehicle swung around corners, the team of horses obeying the urgent encouragement of the driver's whip.

She wouldn't allow herself to think of anything but the immediate plan. She had to get there ahead of Fouche's men. That was all she needed to consider. Nathaniel would have an escape route, just as Guillaume had always had. So long as he had enough warning, he would escape the trap.

The carriage came to a halt in the eerily deserted square that in the daylight was a riot of color and a hubble of noise as the flower sellers jostled and competed for customers. Gabrielle's feet echoed on the cobbles as she jumped down, looking round at the silent buildings flanking the square, the central pump, the wooden struts that supported the canvas awnings. It was a stage set waiting for the drama to commence. It had been raining earlier, and puddles glistened in the faint moonlight and the ground was slippery underfoot.

She ran through the narrow streets at the side of the vast edifice of Notre Dame, its crenelated spires reaching above the pitched roofs, arrowing into the rain-washed sky. She crossed the bridge to ile St. Louis and plunged into the darkness of its central cobbled street, so narrow that the night sky was a mere dark sliver between the opposing roofs.

She splashed in puddles heedless of the debris that clung to her boots and the hem of her cloak, her eyes fixed on the corner of rue Bude ahead.

Suddenly she heard the tramp of booted feet behind her. She dived into a doorway, pressing back into the shadows as she looked up the street. A group of lanterns was advancing. Her heart jumped into her throat. There were six men, all holding lanterns on poles, all bearing staves, all clad in the distinctive black cloak and black cocked hat of Fouche's police.

They were heading toward rue Bude.

Gabrielle dived into rue le Regrattier, her mind racing, her heart thundering in her chest as she ran toward the river. She would have to approach the house from the Quai d'Orleans. Less direct, but she had the advantage of speed and she knew they were there. Fouche's men didn't know they were running a race.

Her pistol was in her hand now as she ran faster than she believed possible, her breath sobbing in her throat. A huddled figure in a doorway yelled something after her, but she ignored him. A dog set up a frantic barking from a backyard and a woman's voice screamed abuse. The dog howled as something struck the ground with a violent clatter.

Gabrielle kept running. Two men lurched out of a tavern, too inebriated to do more than blink bemusedly as the lithe figure sped past them. Then one of them lumbered forward in pursuit but quickly gave it up as Gabrielle disappeared around the corner of rue Bude.

She didn't pause in her headlong dash along the street, her head down, as if she could reduce her visibility to anyone approaching. But there was no sign of a lantern, no sound of booted feet.

Where had they gone? Panic flooded her. Surely they weren't already in the house. The street ahead was empty. Could they already be inside? No, it was impossible. They'd have needed wings to overtake her, and besides, she would have heard the noise. Fouche's men had no reason to go quietly about their business.

She reached number thirteen and hammered on the door with her clenched fist, gazing frantically over her shoulder, down the street, expecting at any minute to see the sinister group of lanterns wavering toward her.

But Fouche's men, seeing no need to hurry on their errand, had made a small deviation into a tavern, where they were slaking their thirst in blithe ignorance of their quarry's imminent escape.

Shutters flew open above the door, and Monsieur Farmier's head, nightcap askew, stuck out. A stream of obscenities accompanied his demand to know who was raising the dead at this hour.

"Ouvrez la porte!" Gabrielle spat out in an impassioned whisper, her white face glimmering in the darkness. She had no way of identifying herself, but her urgency must have communicated itself and the baker withdrew from the window, the shutters banging closed. She heard feet lumbering down the staircase, then the bolts screeched as they were pulled back.

"Merci. You have someone staying here, where-"

"Gabrielle!" Nathaniel was springing down the stairs, pistol in hand, before she could finish her sentence.

"Fouche's men," she gasped.

"Where?"

"Behind me… a few minutes, I think, but they disappeared."

Nathaniel wasted no further time on questions. He grabbed her and pulled her behind him, upstairs, and into the garret, where he began throwing his possessions into the portmanteau. Jake sat up sleepily.

"Gabby?"

"Hush!" Nathaniel swung round on him, his voice barely a whisper but ringing with ferocious authority. "You are to say nothing, not one word, not one sound until I give you permission. Is that understood?"

Jake nodded, gazing in scared silence.

"That goes for you too," Nathaniel instructed Gabrielle. He pressed the wall, and the slab of stone slid back. "Take Jake and get in there."

"But you-"

"Do as I say!"

Gabrielle picked Jake up from the bed, grabbed the blanket, and went through the wall. The slab closed behind her.

Alone, Nathaniel moved with economical efficiency around the tiny space, removing every sign of habitation, shaking out the pillow on the cot, straightening the coarse sheet on the straw mattress. He poured the water from the ewer out of the window, wiped the surface of the dresser with his kerchief, and cast one last look around before grabbing the candle and his portmanteau and pressing open the slab again.

Gabrielle and Jake were standing against the wall, Jake wrapped in the blanket, Gabrielle's arms around him.

Neither of them said anything as Nathaniel opened up the far wall and gestured ahead of him. They had reached the third house along when the sounds of hammering came faintly from number thirteen. Gabrielle jumped, glancing anxiously at Nathaniel, but his expression was impassive as he pushed her ahead of him.

In the last room Nathaniel reached up and removed two rafters from the steeply pitched roof.

"Up you go, Jake," he said softly, lifting the child and thrusting him into the darkness. Jake whimpered.

"Now you, quickly, and keep him quiet." Nathaniel lifted her by the waist and hoisted her up so that she could grasp the edge of the opening. "Use my shoulders."

She scrambled her feet onto his shoulders and pitched herself forward into the dusty crawl space, then leaned down to take the portmanteau and candle from Nathaniel, and then the two dislodged rafters.

Nathaniel swung himself up and through the opening with the agility of an acrobat and deftly replaced the rafters. The space was barely big enough for the three of them. It was inky dark and what air there was was thick with dust.

Jake sneezed and whimpered again. Nathaniel pulled him into his body, turning the child's face into his chest, muffling all sounds.

They seemed to be entombed in silence, and Gabrielle felt the old nightmare tenors nudging at her mind. Once before she'd lain hidden in a roof from a rampaging mob. The musty smell of the rafters, the prickle of dust, was in her nostrils as it had been on that day. This roof pressed down on her as the other one had. In a minute she would fall… or she would cry out-