10

The letter to the King changes everything. It’s as if a pair of giant hands has seized the Montgolfiers and given them a very decent shake. The celebration lunch is postponed: instead, over the next few weeks, the house becomes a whirlwind of notetaking, shape-designing, dropping different-sized paper objects from the top of staircases in the hope that one at least will float on air.

We’re all agreed now that hot air rises better than cold air. And that the heat needs to be the dry kind, though with this comes the risk of fire. What’s needed is some way of keeping that hot air inside the prototype, which Monsieur Etienne has named ‘le balloon’.

Each day, as I do my chores, Pierre seeks me out to tell me the latest developments.

‘It’s more like a teardrop, only upside down,’ Pierre explains one afternoon, drawing the shape with his toe in the dirt. ‘But they’re stuck on what to make it from – paper or cotton.’

I think of the laundry rack, full of undergarments. How the silk items floated up far better than the cotton ones. Paper, when we’d used it, didn’t rise the same way, either.

I look at Pierre. ‘Silk.’

‘Pardon?’

‘You need to make your object from stronger stuff than paper but not as strong or as heavy as cotton – silk. It’s about the strength of the material,’ I add, in case he hasn’t got it.

Pierre stares at me, amazed. ‘How do you know these things, Magpie?’

‘I keep my eyes open, that’s all.’

Though really it’s living on the streets that’s done it. You watch and listen. Look out for the things other people miss. Then, just when I don’t want her to, Madame Delacroix looms in my head. The hairs lift on my arms like when the sun’s gone in.

‘Listen.’ I drop my voice, scanning the gate, the hedges, the orchard just in case. ‘Your pa and uncle are being careful, aren’t they? With the drawings and the plans? They’re not telling anyone?’

Pierre laughs. ‘Of course they’re being careful!’

‘I hope so, because word gets around. Secrets get out.’

He sees I’m serious. ‘What are you trying to tell me, Magpie?’ And he looks right at me, then, like he knows something’s wrong. I wonder – just for a moment – if I could tell him about Madame Delacroix. But I can’t. Of course I can’t. It’d mean admitting everything.

‘We should do the opposite,’ I blurt out. ‘If we can’t keep it secret, we should let everyone know. If everything’s done in the open there’ll be no secrets for the English to steal.’

Later that week, during a break in the balloon preparations, the celebration lunch is finally served. As it’s a blazing summer’s day, we’ve set up tables in the orchard that are groaning under all the food: tarts, cold meat, pastries, herb omelettes, salad from the garden, peaches, pistachio cake, and a platter of sizzling lamb chops.

Madame Verte, Odette and I are invited to stay and eat our meal at the far end of the table.

‘Take that blasted chicken bag off for once,’ Odette mutters to me. Reluctantly, I do as she says.

It is funny being here in the orchard with no Lancelot, but I don’t feel sad. How can I, when Monsieur Joseph is on his feet, glass of bubbly wine in hand, toasting his wife and baby.

‘To my Maria,’ he says, and turns back towards the house, to the far window that looks out over the town towards the river. A woman is sitting there.

‘That’s her,’ Odette whispers as I crane my neck for a better look. ‘Madame M.’

She’s wearing a white chemise. Her hair is pretty – all dark and curling. Raising her hand, she gives us a little wave. I decide I like her: she looks the dead spit of Pierre.

Once the toast is over, I get up, thinking we need to tidy the food away. But Odette yanks me back into my seat again as, with a flip of the coat-tails, Monsieur Etienne stands.

‘Dear friends,’ he says in his silky-smooth way. ‘On this auspicious day, I have one more piece of news to share.’

I glance at Pierre: he looks baffled.

‘We could’ve done our first proper test flight here in the orchard. We could’ve aimed small. Instead, we’ve thrown ourselves into making the model at full size, which means we need a bigger space for flying it.’

He pauses like one of those street corner poets who stand on fish boxes, enjoying the sound their own voice makes.

‘Today, I spoke to the Mayor. He’s given us permission to demonstrate the prototype’s first flight in Annonay’s marketplace!’

There’s a gasp around the table. Everyone cheers. Glasses are refilled and another toast made: ‘To the marketplace!’

Yet my stomach starts doing odd fluttery things. It might be the lamb chops. Or that suddenly everything’s got so big, so fast, because Annonay’s marketplace is not for cowards. It’s a big, hot, open space that on the quietest of days is still crawling with people.

Pierre cuts himself another slice of cake and shuffles round the table to sit with me.

‘They’ve decided to make the prototype out of cotton and paper,’ he says. ‘Uncle Etienne thinks the silk’ll be too costly for a practice run.’

‘Oh.’ I nod, though I don’t know how the two fabrics will work together. They didn’t do too well on their own.

Seeing I’m doubtful, Pierre gives me a nudge. ‘I also told Uncle Etienne what you said about keeping secrets. That’s why they’ve decided to make the test flight public.’

I force a smile. I know I should be pleased. And I am. Trouble is, it gets me thinking about other secrets, the ones I’m holding on to for dear life.

It’s dark when we finally leave the table. I’m clearing the last of the dishes from the orchard when a figure steps out from behind a tree. I jump out of my wretched skin.

‘Bravo, Magpie!’ Madame Delacroix says, slow-clapping her gloved hands. It makes a thudding sound. ‘What a charming celebration. Indeed, what a productive few weeks you’ve had! I’ve been watching it all.’

I edge away, making sure the table is between us.

‘What’re you doing here?’ I croak, terrified someone will see us.

Her gaze flicks towards the house. She doesn’t come any closer. I think she might be nervous too.

‘About that box you’re collecting for me,’ she says.

She knows I’ve not done it yet because I can’t meet her eye. She licks her lips. Fixes me with her chips-of-ice-stare.

‘I won’t do it,’ I say.

‘I think you will,’ she replies. ‘After what I’ve seen here recently, I want that box more than ever.’

‘I can’t get it! It’s imposs—’

Her hand flies out. She seizes me by the face, squeezing it hard like a lemon gone dry. Pain shoots through my skull. ‘Don’t test my patience, Magpie. I’ve given you more time and that time is up. Do as I say or I’ll tell your dear Montgolfiers all about our little arrangement.’

‘They won’t believe you,’ I manage to say.

‘Course they will,’ she sneers. ‘Who’d listen to you, a brown-skinned little thief?’

I sob, panicked.

‘I’ll be watching you, Magpie. Mark my words.’ She lets me go with a shove.

Then, back to being oh-so-respectable again, Madame Delacroix bids me a polite bonne nuit.

And that’s the worst thing, it’s as if we’re the proper team, me and her, and with everyone else – Pierre, Madame Verte, even Odette – I’m just pretending. That’s not how it is for me. Though caring about the people in this house, I’m beginning to see, brings a danger all of its own.