8

Yet before we get chance to start work, Monsieur Joseph makes a surprise announcement: he is building a brand-new prototype, after all.

‘He’s determined to find a way to fill the structure with warm air.’ Pierre brings me the news in the kitchen garden where I’m cutting salad for lunch. ‘It’s the heat part of things he’s interested in.’

‘I wonder where he got that idea from,’ I remark, though I’m thrilled something’s happening at last.

A couple of afternoons later, Monsieur Joseph holds a test flight outside. All of us household staff gather in the yard because we’re not going to miss this for the world. The prototype is a rectangle shape, made of paper moulded onto a wooden frame. The plan, so Monsieur Joseph announces, is to create smoke from a fire. The smoke, being warm air, should cause the prototype to lift.

Should.

I’m expecting a bonfire, but what Monsieur Joseph attaches with ropes to the base of the paper shape is a shallow metal tray about the size of a cartwheel. On it, Monsieur Etienne places red-hot coals from the kitchen range. The whole thing looks wobbly, clumsy. Yet amazingly, on the count of three when the Montgolfiers release it, the prototype rises.

At least it does until Madame Verte says, ‘What’s that burning smell?

‘Sacré bleu!’ Monsieur Joseph cries. ‘It’s catching fire!’

All that paper. All that wood. It burns quicker than a pork chop in a pan.

Once all the fuss and bad tempers die down, we’re back to where we started: the Montgolfiers have no more new ideas, so it’s up to Pierre and me to think of one: the King is waiting for news.

‘We need wood and string,’ I tell Pierre, as we start planning that same afternoon, ‘and as much paper as you can manage.’

For this he sets off to the Montgolfier’s mill, where apparently there’s paper in piles as high as the ceiling. We’re going to remake the original flying object, the one that caused the accident that day. Only ours will be much smaller so it’ll be quick to put together and easy to hide. We’ll also try to solve the hot air problem. Since Pierre’s refused to let his feet leave the ground ever again, it’s my job to size up trees in the orchard. I’m looking for one that’s an easy climb with a decent height on it.

‘What d’you think, Coco?’ I ask, stopping by an olive tree. ‘Will this do us?’

Coco’s answer is to stroll over to Lancelot, who’s keeping cool in the shade of a cherry tree. It’s a reasonable sized one with low branches at the base. It’s the perfect tree for our experiment; I like to think the animals helped us choose it.

It’s not long before Pierre returns with what we need. With the rest of the household now having their overdue afternoon kip, the house is still, the blinds down at the windows. We’ve probably got a clear hour to ourselves.

Joining Lancelot and Coco under the cherry tree, we get to work. The first attempts don’t go well. The paper keeps tearing. The wood won’t flex. What we end up with is a shape that looks like a hat box that someone’s stamped on.

Pierre sits back on his heels, frowning. ‘There’s no way on earth that’s going to fly.’

‘It doesn’t matter if it’s not perfect,’ I say, trying to keep his spirits up.

‘But we promised the King,’ Pierre groans. ‘We said we’d have—’

‘Imminent news,’ I interrupt. ‘Yes – and so we will if we keep trying.’

At moments like these he’s just like Monsieur Joseph. He can’t see past the worry. Voltaire, I notice, has given up watching us and waddled off. The other two animals are sound asleep.

‘Right,’ I get to my feet, brushing dust from my skirts. ‘Pass me that paper – the big sheet of the thick stuff. Come on, look lively!’

And so, together, we try again.

This time we make an egg-shaped structure. I’ve seen shapes like it in the front few pages of Monsieur Joseph’s notebook so it’s got to be worth a try. Certainly, it’s a lot easier to make. It doesn’t look like it’ll fall to pieces, either.

‘Let’s try it with the hot water,’ I say.

‘Is the structure strong enough?’ Pierre asks.

‘Won’t know until we try.’ This I call back over my shoulder. I’m already on my way to the kitchen for what we need next. I’m after a dish with handles; the one for serving meat in is perfect. The kettle on the stove is hot, so I take that too.

Back in the orchard, we tie rope to the wooden frame of the structure, then I climb the cherry tree. It’s not easy with the bulky egg-shape under arm, and I scratch my shins to shreds on the branches. But I’m too excited to care. While I’m still just within reach, Pierre hands me up the dish full of hot water. Securing the ends of rope round the handles, the bowl now hangs beneath the structure. Voltaire seems to have reappeared in time to watch disapprovingly.

Yet we know paper floats. It’s light and strong, but doesn’t stay airborne for long. Warm air seems to make things rise – Madame M’s undergarments were proof of it. Using the two things together just might do the trick.

‘Get ready to start counting, Pierre.’ I take a deep breath. ‘Five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . .’

I swing the prototype skywards. The dish tips madly. Water spills on the branches, on me. The whole thing, somehow, drags itself free of the tree, out into the open sky. Then it drops. I groan out loud. It’s not working.

‘Watch out!’ I call to Pierre as it heads right for him.

He’s grinning. ‘No, you watch out, Magpie! It’s coming your way!’

Before my eyes, the shape’s beginning to lift again. It not the wind deciding where it goes: this time, it moves with purpose. It sails past me, past the tree itself. Soon it’s twenty feet or so above us in the air.

I’m up there with it. Or at least my heart is, fluttering away like a skylark. I know what it’s like to see rooftops, trees, rivers from above, animals so small they look like toys. I know that funny, lurching feeling and the strange, breathy quiet. It makes my toes tingle.

‘Zut alors, look at it!’ Pierre gasps.

‘Don’t speak!’ I yell. ‘Keep counting!’

Suddenly though, things don’t look right. Our egg shape is at a queer angle. What should’ve been nicely puffed paper is collapsing in on itself.

‘No!’ I’m desperate for it to stay flying. ‘Keep going!’

But the paper is covered in spreading dark patches. The steam, I realize, has made the paper wet. Our prototype isn’t strong any more. One of the ropes tears away, leaving the dish hanging. The whole thing sinks steadily, swooping between the trees, bumping over the yard wall. I scramble down the tree just in time to hear plop-crack as it hits the cobbles.

‘I counted two minutes and twelve seconds of flight!’ Pierre cries.

‘It’s a start,’ I admit. We’ve done all right, but I can’t help but think it’s not enough to impress the King.

Pierre though, grins from ear to ear. ‘It flew, Voltaire!’ he says, scooping up his duck and sitting him on his shoulder like some conquering hero. ‘Our experiment worked!’

In the yard, we’re greeted with a mess of broken china and splattered paper. Pierre prods it with his foot.

‘Leave it. I’ll tidy up,’ I tell him, bustling him inside; I don’t want him to see I’m disappointed. We need to do better next time. And that’s the problem – there aren’t many ‘next times’ before it’s too late.

Our experiment was better than Monsieur Joseph’s effort earlier, I tell myself as I start sweeping. The steam must be doing something right.

‘MAGPIE!’

I go stiff. The shriek coming from behind me is Madame Verte’s. She’s heading my way, her footsteps the fast, furious kind that tell me I’m in trouble. I brace myself for a thick ear, so when she pushes two empty buckets into my hands instead, I’m startled.

‘Water!’ she cries. ‘Quickly! Get heating as much as you can!’

I nod and take the buckets. I don’t ask why. Then she’s turned heel and rushed back inside and I just hope she didn’t see what remains of the blue and white serving dish when, honest to God, she almost stepped in it.

Back in the kitchen, Odette’s adding more wood to the stove. It’s already blazing: the heat coming off it makes me sweat.

‘We need that water upstairs for Madame M,’ Odette says, wiping her brow. ‘Bring it up when it’s hot, can you? Quick as you like!’

I realize with growing dread this isn’t bathwater we’re heating.

‘Is she all right?’ I ask.

Odette’s eyes fill with tears. ‘We’ve sent for the doctor – he’s with her now.’

Despite the scorching stove, the water takes forever to warm. As I wait, toes tapping, I churn over what Pierre told me about his mama. Such a pity she can’t have more babies. Poor Pierre, too. He’d make a smashing big brother. Which then gets me thinking about being a sister myself. Not that it’d ever happen, but I wouldn’t half mind finding out.

On the stairs, I meet Odette, who takes the pails of water from me, giving me an armful of bloody sheets in return.

‘Don’t look so horrified,’ she says, smiling. ‘The doctor’s just told us he thinks the baby will be fine.’

I’m so glad I start to well up myself.

Madame Verte then appears with orders from Monsieur Joseph for a celebratory lunch to be served tomorrow.

‘Let me help, will you? I’d really like to,’ I say.

‘You’re a good girl, Magpie,’ Madame Verte pats me on the shoulder, then turns to Odette. ‘When you’ve taken that water in, can you send word to Monsieur Couteau? We need him here first thing tomorrow.’

Odette frowns. ‘The butcher? I can wring a chicken’s neck good as he can.’

‘We’re not having chicken,’ Madame Verte announces. ‘We’re having lamb.’

It takes a moment to sink in. We’ve only got one lamb.

‘You can’t eat Lancelot!’ I burst out.

‘Lancelot?’ Odette’s eyebrows shoot up. ‘Who’s that?’

But I’m frantic. ‘She’s the prettiest sheep you’ll ever see! And honestly, she’s kind too and nibbles your feet! Coco adores her! Please, you can’t do this!’

Odette snorts. Madame Verte folds her arms. ‘What’s all this silliness?’

‘She’s named the sheep Lancelot!’ Odette laughs.

They look at me like I’m madder than the King of England.