5

Another few days and I’m well enough to get up properly. First thing I do is open the window, breathing in all the early morning I can get. Today’s sky is a beauty, pale blue and pink-flecked, the kind that promises another fine Annonay spring day. These weeks of being indoors have softened me up. I’m slower, sleepier, which is no good if you count on sharp wits to get by. Funny too how not being hungry all the time gives you a chance to think about other things – like flying, and how that object might’ve stayed longer in the air. Not that it’s my concern. I’ve poked my nose around here too much already.

Something down by the orchard catches my eye. It’s under the trees. A grey shape that’s there, then gone again. A shadow, probably, though it makes me suddenly afraid. I try not to think it’s Madame Delacroix, though I bet it won’t be long before our paths cross again.

Then Pierre arrives in a whirlwind of curly hair and coat-tails. Voltaire has to waddle fast to keep up.

‘Vite, Magpie!’ Pierre cries. ‘Papa’s asked to see you.’

I’m taken aback. ‘What for?’

‘I don’t know. But you’re to call him Monsieur Joseph, and wear these.’ He thrusts a bundle of clothes at me. ‘You are well enough, aren’t you?’

‘I think so.’ I’m actually glad of the distraction. ‘Look away then, while I get dressed.’

As Pierre turns around, I shake out the frock he’s given me. It’s like the ones Odette the servant wears, with a muslin cap to match: I don’t fancy myself in it much.

‘Where’s my own stuff?’ I ask. I’d a perfectly decent frock on when I’d got here. ‘Can’t I wear that?’

Pierre glances down at Voltaire: ‘Will you tell her, or shall I?’

The duck quacks; it sounds like a rude word, and I can’t help sniggering.

Pierre, though, keeps a very straight face. ‘Your old dress had lice in it, that’s what Voltaire’s trying to tell you. And it was rotten under the arms.’

‘Rubbish!’ I tell him. ‘That was my best dress.’

It was my only one, too.

The study looks different in daylight. Above our heads are three attic windows, each one full of sky: no wonder Monsieur Joseph spends his time staring out of them. Everything else – the papers, the books, the mess of the place – is just as I remembered, and it makes me both edgy and at ease. The man sitting at the desk I recognize as Pierre’s father. From the strain on his waistcoat buttons, I’d say he’s done more eating than running across fields recently. Despite all the mess around him, his desk is completely clear: no pens, no pencils, no paper, no notebooks. He’s obviously not working, Odette and Madame Verte were right. All over again I feel bad about the papers, because he needs them more than I ever did. My guilts aren’t helped by seeing the red valuables box on a nearby shelf, though I try not to stare.

‘The duck waits outside,’ Monsieur Joseph says. He clicks his fingers at Voltaire, who shakes his tail feathers in disgust.

‘Oh Papa,’ Pierre pleads. ‘You know how he likes to feel included.’

Monsieur Joseph sighs and sits back in his seat. ‘He also has a habit of pooping all over the place.’

I catch Pierre’s eye: he pretends to look annoyed but does as his father asks. Then it’s our turn for a finger-click as we’re directed to sit in two chairs. Both are piled high with books that we have to move first.

‘What work do you do, Magpie?’ Monsieur Joseph asks.

‘Ummm . . .’ I’m unsure how to put it. He’s got the same kind face as Pierre, only older, more worried-looking. But I don’t suppose he’d want to hear the truth.

‘I’ll cut to the point,’ he says. ‘Our housekeeper Madame Verte insists we need extra help now my brother is living with us. My wife, Madame Montgolfier, is unwell currently, which also puts a strain on things.’

Odette was gossiping about this out in the corridor, wasn’t she? I feel bad all over again for not being more grateful to her. With one sick person in the house already, nursing me was extra work she didn’t need.

‘So,’ Monsieur Joseph continues. ‘Pierre thinks the position may suit you. Would you be interested?’

I puff my cheeks in surprise. Me, work here, at the Montgolfiers’ house? After I’d stolen his papers?

He doesn’t know that thief was me, though. He just thinks I’m the girl who had the nerve to keep hold of his flying machine. I’m the girl who went up into the sky. And, you know what, I reckon I could get used to being her, even if does mean I’ll have to dress like Odette.

‘Or are you expected somewhere else?’ Monsieur Joseph asks.

I think briefly of the shadow I saw under the trees.

‘No Monsieur, I’m not expected,’ I reply.

‘Bon. You’ll start work as soon as you’re able.’ He peers at me properly. ‘Are you able? Has your shoulder healed enough?’

‘’Course,’ I say quickly, before he thinks I’m not up to it.

‘Now Papa,’ Pierre steps in. ‘While we’re here, why don’t you ask Magpie about her experience of flying?’

I grin – I can’t help it – because I’ve been hoping he might ask, and truth be known, I’m dying to talk it over. But Monsieur Joseph looks suddenly uncomfortable. ‘Pierre, I really don’t think—’

‘You should listen to her,’ Pierre cuts in. ‘It might help you start working again.’

‘My work is well enough – it needs no help,’ Monsieur Joseph mutters, with a shifty cough.

He’s lying.

Pierre rolls his eyes. ‘Papa, admit it. You’re stuck. You’ve done nothing since the day we brought Magpie here.’

‘Since the accident, you mean?’ Monsieur Joseph says with some force. ‘Our little experiment didn’t go well that day, did it? You’ve clearly forgotten that you and Magpie nearly died.’

Pierre flinches. ‘Of course I haven’t! I’m still having nightmares about it, but that doesn’t mean you should stop—’

‘Your dear mother would never forgive me if anything happened to you. Goodness knows, in her frail state she’d probably not survive the shock. No, I’ve decided. It’s simply too dangerous.’

‘Papa, I think you should—’

‘The design was never right,’ Monsieur Joseph interrupts again. ‘We’ve suffered so many setbacks it’s wiser to cut our losses. We shouldn’t waste any more time and effort on something that’s doomed to fail.’

They both go quiet. Pierre stares at his feet, Monsieur Joseph at the wall. I know that if I don’t say something now I’ll regret it. Because one of those setbacks was my fault and if Monsieur Joseph could just hear, for a minute, what it felt like to be up in the air, then he’d know it was worth every tiny second, every risk.

‘Umm . . . Monsieur, that day in the field,’ I stumble to find the right words, ‘with the . . . ummm . . .’

‘. . . The prototype,’ Pierre nods in encouragement. ‘Go on, keep talking. Tell him what it was like to fly.’

‘You flew too,’ I remind him. ‘What did you think of it?’

His face pales. ‘It was awful. Terrifying. But you—’

‘I loved it.’ I finish for him. ‘It was incredible. If there was a way of making it steadier, and having some sort of control over the going up bit, then you could stay up in the air, well, for hours!’

Monsieur Joseph holds up his hand like he wants me to stop. But it’s all bubbling up inside of me, though I’m struggling to explain it.

‘It was like that curtain,’ I point to the open window behind him. ‘The wind lifts it, fills it up, then lets it fall.’

At least now Monsieur Joseph turns to have a look.

‘Yes, Monsieur,’ I tell him. ‘It only went upwards when the wind got . . . I don’t know . . . inside of it somehow. It made it bigger. Fuller . . .’

‘Hmmm . . .’ Monsieur Joseph mutters. ‘That might make sense . . .’

He’s beginning to consider me more seriously. Pierre nudges his father. ‘Shouldn’t you be writing this down?’

But Monsieur Joseph sits back in his seat, spreading his hands wide on the desk.

‘Let me be clear. You believe that our contraption only gained height with air inside the bag.’

‘Yes.’

‘Yet once the air seeped out again, height was quickly lost . . .’ He stops. Looks suddenly very intense. ‘Were you alone that day, Magpie? It’s important our prototype stays an absolute secret. If any of what happened gets out—’

‘I’m not a spy, if that’s what you mean,’ I say, sharp as you like.

The study door swings open. In strides a man I’ve never seen before, so tall and wide and strong as a tree that everything else in the room seems to shrink, me included.

‘Who’s he?’ I mouth to Pierre.

‘My uncle, Monsieur Etienne, Papa’s brother,’ he whispers and pulls a face.

‘You’re quizzing our guest, I see,’ Monsieur Etienne says, his gaze sliding over me.

I give him a quick once-over too but can’t find the family resemblance. There’s no kind face here, no worried brow. This Montgolfier’s all swagger and confidence. I bet he’d not give up on the prototype so fast, either.

‘Magpie’s just been sharing her account of the flight,’ Monsieur Joseph explains. ‘I confess it’s worth hearing.’

I’m ready to keep going, but Monsieur Etienne tuts irritably. ‘I realize girls can be clever, dear brother, but with all due respect, girls like Magpie don’t even have an education. Let’s not involve her in the finer details of our invention, eh?’

It’s true: I can’t read or write. But I’m far from stupid. Though I haven’t got a gob full of fancy words to describe what happened that day, I was there. I was part of it. And I’ve a few more ‘finer details’ to share.

‘It was the wind that kept your air bag moving,’ I say, before he can stop me. ‘You’ll need to weigh it down a bit to give it more direction. Get the weight right and it’ll go higher and be more steady.’

I see the look Monsieur Etienne gives Monsieur Joseph. It’s frustrating but I keep going.

‘Think about it,’ I tell them. ‘When it was me and Pierre hanging on, it only went so high. Then when he . . .’

‘Fell off.’ Pierre grimaces.

‘. . . well, on my own I travelled further and higher.’

Monsieur Etienne folds his arms. ‘Are we that desperate in our research that we’re now relying on your word? What on earth can a child – especially one like you – know about the mechanics of flight?’

‘I don’t know anything, monsieur,’ I mutter, feeling my face go hot. ‘Only what happened to me.’

‘That’s the point, Etienne,’ Monsieur Joseph says. ‘At this moment in time, neither do we. What we’ve been doing isn’t working. I’m not convinced it ever will.’

‘How do we know we can trust the girl?’ Monsieur Etienne asks. ‘She could be anyone.’

I feel his eyes on me again. Like they’re peeling back the layers and finding a rotten little thief at the core. I don’t like it. Maybe this place isn’t right for me after all. Maybe I should go and face my old life again.

But as I turn to leave, Monsieur Etienne’s quicker.

‘Oh no you don’t.’ He blocks my exit. ‘You think you’re going to run off and take our secrets with you?’

‘I wouldn’t do that!’ I cry.

‘Course she wouldn’t! Pierre agrees.

‘I think we can trust the girl,’ Monsieur Joseph says. ‘Her quick action saved Pierre’s life, after all.’

I’m touched by their loyalty, I really am. It makes me want to prove them right, that I am on their side. And that’s a new sensation too.

Monsieur Etienne, I can tell, isn’t sure about me at all. But there’s a buzz in the room now. Where it’s come from – my account or Monsieur Etienne’s confidence – I don’t know. I just hope there’ll be no more talk of giving up.

‘We’d better get a move on,’ Monsieur Etienne says, as if confirming it. ‘Otherwise the English will beat us to it, and then we’ll be the second inventors of a flying contraption. No one will even remember our names.’