GREG HADN’T BEEN THAT IMPRESSED BY THE HEIGHT OF Notre Dame when he’d first seen it, back in the twenty-first century. For one thing, it was dwarfed by the Eiffel Tower. It was also shorter than half the buildings in New York City. But now that he was skittering across the peaked roof toward the two bell towers, it seemed very tall indeed. One false step and he’d wind up tumbling through the cold Paris night and leaving a dark stain on the street.
Dinicoeur and his men had blocked the stairwell, so Greg and Aramis had been forced to flee across the roof. In truth, Greg couldn’t tell if Dinicoeur or Richelieu was the one in pursuit; he hadn’t gotten a look at the hand. Not that it mattered. He was in trouble either way. Aramis had grabbed his most cherished belongings—a crucifix and a vial of holy water—then kicked out the window grating and clambered out onto the ledge. Greg grabbed the diary and the matches and followed.
Fortunately, Notre Dame had been built to allow people to move among every part of it. The cathedral was intended to last for eternity, with the understanding that it would require maintenance. And so Greg and Aramis were able to navigate a tricky exterior network of ledges and open catwalks—and even steps up the steep slant of the roof—though Greg’s knees started to feel like jelly. The ledges were thin, the steps were slippery, and every few feet Greg found himself face-to-face with a gargoyle.
From the street, the gargoyles appeared as small as toys, but up here Greg found they were the same size as he was. There were a few angels among them, but most were monstrous: griffins, chimeras, dragons, goat-people, winged monkeys, and bug-eyed homunculi. Half were making hideous faces, sticking out tongues or baring fangs. Greg couldn’t imagine what possible reason anyone would have for putting such things on top of a church.
Greg decided to scramble after Aramis on all fours to maintain his balance. It didn’t help much. His hands were trembling and his palms were sweaty. As they neared the bell towers, a chunk of the slate roof broke off beneath Greg’s feet and skittered down the roof. He watched it sail into the night and disappear. There was a disturbingly long period of silence before he heard it shatter on the ground.
“They’re up on the roof!” several voices cried far below.
Greg froze in his tracks.
Aramis glanced over his shoulder. “This way!” he hissed, pointing to the left-hand bell tower. Greg had no choice but to follow. He could see the guards racing to the front door of the cathedral. There was only one way to escape: up.
Upon entering the tower through a tiny window, Greg found himself chasing Aramis up a treacherous, winding staircase. The wood was slick with something slimy . . . and with a shudder, Greg realized what. Hundreds of doves and bats lived in the belfry. They left their droppings wherever they could.
Greg squinted toward the dark ceiling. There in the shadows hung Emmanuel: the gigantic Notre Dame bell. Greg remembered it from French history back at Wellington Prep. In 1615, it was probably the largest bell ever cast, weighing more than fourteen tons. The clapper alone was over a thousand pounds and the size of a wrecking ball. The rope used to ring Emmanuel stretched all the way to the base of the tower.
Greg’s feet skidded on the poop-slicked steps, his hands clutching at the flimsy excuse for a railing. Below, he heard the soldiers enter the bell tower, confer, and then laugh. Seconds later, the stairs began to creak under their booted footsteps.
“Why don’t you boys make life easy on yourselves and just give up?” a gleeful voice shouted from the base of the tower.
Valois! Greg shot a panicked glance at Aramis. Neither boy could see a thing in the darkness below.
“If you try to fight, you’ll die!” Valois called. “Try anything else and you’ll fall to your deaths. You have no choice but to surrender. The king commands it!”
Greg frowned. The king commanded it? How would Louis even know what was going on?
The boys reached the top landing and edged around to the far side of the bell. The walkway ended abruptly, a single spindly rail preventing them from dropping ten stories to the stone floor. Greg could hear the soldiers coming up the stairs quickly below. They were trapped—
“D’Artagnan!” Aramis hissed. “You’re good at climbing walls, yes? So I assume you can shimmy a rope?”
In a flash, Greg understood what Aramis was driving at. His jellified knees grew even weaker. “You don’t mean—”
“There’s no other way out,” Aramis hissed.
Greg’s grip tightened around the railing. The soldiers were drawing closer. The fragile wooden scaffolding buckled and jerked under their weight. Aramis’s idea was risky, but it still seemed far preferable to being caught by Valois or Dinicoeur. “I’ll try,” Greg agreed.
“Good, then wait for my signal,” Aramis instructed. He fell silent after that. The footsteps drew closer. The jeering cries grew louder. The scaffold began to tremble so much that Greg thought it might disintegrate. When Valois’s men made it to the highest landing, Greg caught a blade flash in a sliver of moonlight that spilled into the belfry.
“Now!” Aramis whispered, shoving the heavy rope into Greg’s hands.
It was nearly four inches thick. Greg clung to its rough surface as tightly as he could. He swung off the landing and over the abyss. . . .
Greg squeezed his eyes shut. His weight on the bell rope made Emmanuel swing.
BONG . . .
The deafening clang of the bell was a painful thunderclap in his ears. Emmanuel slammed into the soldiers on the far side of the landing. Some tumbled back down the stairs; others clung to the railing. Greg wrapped his legs around the rope and slid down, down, down as fast as he could. He felt the rope jolt as Aramis leaped on above him and followed.
It was a pretty brilliant plan, Greg realized. (Well, in spite of the fact that he might suffer permanent hearing damage and severe rope burns . . . But whatever; he could deal.) The rope was their escape route to the bottom, and Aramis had guessed correctly that the soldiers would be unable to communicate with the bell’s racket.
Greg glanced upward. Uh-oh. Not every soldier was out of commission. Valois was hacking at the rope with his sword. Several strands frayed with each slice.
“Aramis!” he shouted at the feet descending above him. “Hurry!”
In the echo chamber of the tower, he could barely hear himself. Greg shimmied faster now. His palms and thighs chafed and his arms and legs were cramping, but he ignored the pain. Down he went, hand over hand—and suddenly the rope jolted. Valois must have been close to severing it. Which meant . . . Greg’s blood ran cold.
The soldiers have orders to kill me. Period.
No. Wait. That wasn’t right. There was no way Dinicoeur or Richelieu could have known Greg had snuck back to Aramis’s room. Which meant they were looking for Aramis. But how did they know who he was? No one had mentioned his name in the king’s quarters; Richelieu had ordered his guards to arrest the boys immediately upon seeing them. Which meant Richelieu had recognized the other boys. Somehow he already knew who they were.
Either that, or Milady de Winter had given him the information earlier that night.
Greg tried to shake the thought away. If he couldn’t escape, then everybody else would surely end up dead: his parents, for starters . . . although Porthos and Athos might end up dead even sooner. After all, Porthos was easier to find than Aramis. His family was well-known. Had Dinicoeur and Richelieu already tracked him down at his country estate? Porthos and Athos could have been under attack right at that moment. If Dinicoeur was here, posing as Richelieu, then the actual Richelieu could be there, commanding a separate unit of soldiers at the same time. . . .
Greg was so caught up in his thoughts, he didn’t notice he’d almost made it to the bottom of the bell tower until he saw the floor just below him. He dropped the last few feet, almost kissed the cold stone in relief . . .
But froze at the sound of steel being unsheathed.
Dinicoeur was waiting for him.
Greg knew it was Dinicoeur, not Richelieu. The fake hand was gloved, but Greg could see how the madman favored the real one. He held his sword in his left as he sprang from the doorway. Greg scrambled away as the blade clanged against the stone but found himself backed against the wall. There was nowhere else to go. Dinicoeur blocked the only exit.
So this is it, Greg thought with a strange detachment.
In the movies, the bad guy always said something dastardly before killing someone. Not Dinicoeur. He simply looked annoyed, as though Greg were keeping him from a dinner date. He lunged forward, slashing with his sword—
Aramis dropped right on top of him. The two tumbled in a heap on the floor.
Greg noticed the bell rope suddenly go slack.
He dashed into the center of the room, grabbing Aramis and yanking him toward the door. Greg spun to see Dinicoeur stand up, his freakish dark eyes blazing in the shadows. He lifted his sword—
And the thick, massive bell rope, cut free by Valois above, flattened him.
Greg drew in a deep breath. Aramis didn’t wait around. He dragged Greg out of Notre Dame and into the Parisian night. Behind them, even with the bell still clanging, they could hear Dinicoeur’s scream of rage. Despite their aching legs, neither stopped running. They fled across the closest bridge onto the mainland, not quite knowing where they were going.
Aramis finally skidded to a halt. He had gone pale with fear. “That man,” he panted. “He’s not Richelieu’s twin.”
“Of course he is,” Greg panted back. “They look exactly alike.”
“Even so, he can’t be. He’s not . . . He’s not human.”
Greg tried to swallow. “What do you mean?”
“That bell rope is ten stories tall. It might weigh hundreds of pounds. It should have crushed him, falling from that height. But he was still very much alive.”
Greg didn’t want to believe Aramis. But he had to admit that the cleric had a point. “So what should we do?” he asked.
“Do you still have that diary?”
Greg checked his pocket. His great-great-grandfather’s book was still there. “Yes.”
Aramis wiped his brow. “Then let’s find a cabbage and get some answers.”