Something about the way the Pink Carnation said it made Laura very, very nervous. “What do you mean?” she asked.

Miss Wooliston countered her question with a question of her own. “How long will it take Jaouen to release Daubier?”

“Not long,” said Laura cautiously. “At least, that was the sense I received. But he must be gone immediately after.”

“If I gave you an address, could you make sure the entire party is there by dawn tomorrow?”

Laura thought of them all—de Berry and Daubier, the children, Jeannette. Jaouen.

“I believe so,” she said.

The Pink Carnation’s lips curved upwards in a decidedly cat-who-got-the-cream sort of smile.

“Excellent!” she said. “Here is what you need to do . . .”


Rain dripped down from the brim of André’s hat as he rapped smartly at the concierge’s door at the Temple Prison.

André had taken the carriage to the Prefecture, then slipped down a side stair and out one of the Prefecture’s many side doors. He had walked from there to the Temple, his coat held close and his hat pulled low over his head against the rain.

He had known for some time that his coachman was in the pay of Fouché, a fact that he now intended to use to good purpose. As far as the coachman was concerned, André was safely ensconced in his office in the Prefecture until evening; it would take hours before anyone realized he was missing.

It was a weak bluff, susceptible to all sorts of mischance, but every little bit helped.

The concierge had fallen asleep over his ledgers. He started awake as André rapped again, more forcefully.

“Monsieur Jaouen!” he exclaimed, rocking back in his chair. Papers sifted to the floor. There was a splotch of ink on the concierge’s cheek and a corresponding blot in the requisition book. “I didn’t expect you. No one told me—”

André waved aside his apologies. “No matter. I need the keys for”—he made a show of consulting the paper in his hand—“prisoner five hundred and fifty-two. Antoine Daubier.”

“D-Daubier?” The concierge was still fuddled with sleep. He scrubbed absently at his cheek. The ink must itch. There was nothing like having a man at a disadvantage for getting results. The concierge looked with dismay at his papers. “But he was only just admitted.”

André shared with him a look of man-to-man commiseration. “I like it no better than you. But the Minister of Police wishes him to be moved to the Prefecture. He believes Monsieur Daubier will find . . . better accommodation there.” He raised a brow meaningfully.

“Ah.” The attendant raised his chin and hastily lowered it again. In a loud whisper, much as one might speak of the devil, he ventured, “Bertrand?”

“Is in fine form,” agreed André. Bertrand’s interrogation techniques were legendary. Fouché had made use of them before.

“It is a pity,” said the concierge timidly as he fumbled for his keys. “Monsieur Daubier seems like such a nice man.”

“Even nice men have been known to stray, citizen. One cannot be too careful in these trying times.”

“Indeed, indeed,” the concierge agreed hastily. “Shall I come with you?”

“By all means,” said André blandly. “You can see all the proper papers signed. We must do this by the book, mustn’t we?”

“Papers,” said the concierge with a sigh, letting himself out through the grille, skidding on a few of the despised papers on his way. He left a large footprint smack on top of the record of Daubier’s admission. “Always papers. We have more papers than prisoners. Sometimes I have nightmares about it,” he confided. “Piles and piles of papers, swallowing me whole.”

“These are the trials of peace, I fear,” said André, forcing himself to maintain an even pace. “There was no time for such niceties during the Revolution.”

“It was easier, wasn’t it?” agreed the concierge naively. “But bloodier, too.” Fishing out his keys, he inserted one in the lock of Daubier’s cell. “Here’s the prisoner, sir. Will you be needing a constable?”

“For one old artist?” André forced himself to laugh. “Unless he intends to tickle me with his paintbrush, I doubt I’m in much danger.”

The concierge gave a nervous laugh. One did when powerful people cracked witticisms. “I doubt he’ll be in much position to, after last night.”

And with that, he pushed open the door.

It was a standard enough cell: a narrow cot by one wall, a single window barred by a grille, a chamber pot, a rickety table with a single candle. Daubier had been allowed no fire. Damp oozed off the walls.

He wasn’t asleep. The old artist sat on the side of the cot, huddled into his clothes. His festive clothes of two nights before seemed incongruous against the bleak stone walls. Daubier himself appeared to have shrunk within them; his gold-trimmed coat hung loosely from his shoulders as he hunched over his knees, his white hair hanging limp about his face.

“Antoine Daubier?” André snapped. He didn’t like himself for it, but it had to be done.

Daubier’s lack of reaction was more alarming than any reaction would have been. He roused himself, but slowly, by increments, like a duck rustling its feathers. It took him a very long time to turn, even longer to lift his head.

Two days of stubble dotted his chin, giving him a derelict look. His linen stock hung untied around his neck, gray with dirt. But the worst of it was his eyes. They were empty. Dead.

What had they done to him?

“Antoine Daubier?” André repeated. He made a rough gesture. “Get up. You’re coming with me.”

Daubier shook his head. Even the simple movement seemed to cost him an effort. “Please,” he said. “No. Just let me stay here.”

He wasn’t acting. He meant it. André narrowed his eyes at him. Daubier answered with a small shake of his head.

André made a snorting noise. “Pitiful,” he said, for the concierge’s benefit. “Come along. You can’t evade your fate.”

Daubier rose slowly to his feet, using his left hand to lever himself up off the cot. He still wore the breeches, stockings, and shoes he had been wearing when he was taken. They were all dirtied now, but otherwise he seemed to be intact. André’s practiced eye conducted a quick inventory. There was no blood on Daubier’s breeches, no signs of broken toes or shattered knees. He moved as though cramped by cold, but not in the way of one who had been beaten; André knew the signs.

And yet, somehow, they had broken him. Every line of Daubier’s face spoke despair. It sat ill on his formerly jovial countenance. “It’s not worth it,” he said quietly, and André knew he thought of Gabrielle and Pierre-André and the risks André ran in freeing him.

Well, there were risks the other way too. Even the most determined man might talk in the end. André had seen what happened after a skilled master of the question had done his work.

Daubier raised his hand. His right hand. “Let me die here. There’s no point to me anymore.”

Daubier’s hand was scarcely recognizable as such. Every single joint had been broken. The skin was a mottled mass of yellow, purple, and green. The fingers bent at odd angles, unsplinted, left to grow together again as they would.

The bastards. The bloody bastards.

André was filled with a cold rage, more determined than ever to get Daubier out. This was his doing too, at least in part.

If he had come sooner . . . if they had all been more careful . . .

What was the use of it? Practicalities came first. The important thing was to get them both out before Delaroche could wreak any more damage on Daubier.

“The Minister of Police disagrees,” said André coldly. “He believes you still have many things to tell us.”

“Please . . .” Daubier held up his broken hand, even that small movement causing him pain. Tears came to the old man’s eyes. “Don’t.”

André forced his face to hardness. “Your caterwauling bores me, Monsieur. Will you come quietly, or shall I have you bound?”

Daubier gave him a look that spoke betrayal. What betrayal? He was risking his own life and that of his children to get the man out.

“Will you come?” André repeated.

Daubier nodded, slowly.

“Good,” said André. He turned to the concierge. “I doubt he will be able to run in this state.”

The concierge nodded, eager to be seen to be in agreement. “Oh no, sir. Not like that.”

André nodded to a pile of fabric next to the cot. “Put his coat on him, will you? We don’t want him freezing on us—not before he talks.”

The attempt to pull the garment on over Daubier’s wounded hand made the man scream with pain. André could feel his stomach twist with it. It was necessary, he told himself. Daubier would be grateful for it later. Daubier would need the cloak, wherever it was they were going.

It would have been nice to know where that was.

When Mlle. Griscogne had returned the previous afternoon, all she had told him was that everything was arranged. She wouldn’t tell him what was arranged or how or where. Just an address and the instruction to be there, with Daubier, just past dawn the following morning. She would bring de Berry, the children, and Jeannette.

Hostages for his good behavior? It might, he knew, be a trap. If someone wanted a guarantee of his defection, strolling in with an escaped prisoner on his hands was sure proof. But as Mlle. Griscogne had so tactfully pointed out, he had no other choice.

They were a good half mile from the Temple before Daubier spoke. His voice was so low that André could hardly hear him. “You should have left me.”

“You should know better than that,” said André with an attempt at joviality that fell painfully flat. The mud sucked at his boots. “We were in this together, we’ll get out of this together.”