11

I don’t sleep a wink that night. All the next morning I’m gritty and grouchy. Though I throw myself into my work, I still can’t stop thinking about that blasted red box and why Madame Delacroix can’t just clear off and leave me alone, though I’m pretty certain that’s not going to happen. The closer we get to beating the English, the more desperate she’ll become. The thought of it weighs me down.

A delivery from the mill brings roll after roll of paper, then, late morning, the fabric arrives. It’s just the sort of distraction I’m after – yards of sackcloth-coarse cotton in gold, sky blue and brightest scarlet red, a sight that makes me grin with delight.

Yet the fabric’s hard to work with: it takes four of us to hold a length straight, never mind all the cutting and threading to be done. We need helpers – and lots of them – which is where Monsieur Etienne’s talents come in. Donning his smartest wig and brightest jacket, he heads off into Annonay to recruit helpers. In less than an hour he returns with a list of names as long as the river itself.

‘They’ve all promised to be here by two o’clock,’ he confirms.

Meanwhile, I’m taken from my normal duties and told to go to the haberdashers on Rue Montague to buy every single reel of thread. As Coco’s been as moody and scratchy as me so far today, I don’t suppose it’ll hurt to leave him behind this once.

‘Keep a close eye on him, won’t you?’ I ask Pierre. ‘Put him in his sling if he looks worried.’

Pierre pulls a face. ‘I’m not wearing that stinky old thing. Stop fussing, will you? You’re going to the haberdashers, not Paris.’

The errand takes only half an hour. Yet by the time I get back, the yard’s full of feathers: white ones, orange ones, and Pierre is crouched over a pail of water, bathing Voltaire’s neck.

‘What the heck’s going on?’ I cry, dropping my packages and rushing over.

There’s lots of blood on Pierre’s breeches and hands.

‘They were out here, keeping away from each other. And then . . . BOOF! Coco went crazy at something. He turned on Voltaire,’ Pierre clicks his fingers, ‘Like that! Something must’ve scared him.’

I find Coco cowering under the hedge. He’s got a bald spot on his wing, but thankfully it looks worse than it is.

‘You daft bird,’ I tell him. ‘What spooked you, eh?’ Though it doesn’t take much guessing. Madame Delacroix, keeping her word, is watching everything.

‘First, the paper and cotton must be sewn together. Then we’ll sew each segment to create a teardrop structure,’ Monsieur Etienne explains to our helpers when they arrive that afternoon. ‘The stitching needs to be as neat and tight as it can be.’

There are too many people to fit in the salon, so they spread out around the house. It soon looks more like a workshop than a home. Everyone sits with their heads bent as if they’re praying in church. It’s as quiet as one too – you can almost hear the tug of needle through cloth and paper.

My job’s to keep the workers refreshed with Madame Verte’s pea broth served in little cups. As I need both hands for the tray, Coco stays in the kitchen in a box under the table. Madame Verte says she’ll turn a blind eye for today, and I’m grateful because, after what happened earlier with Voltaire, the kitchen feels safer than the yard.

It’s as I’m in the salon offering broth that a woman holds up her needle for me to see.

‘This thread keeps breaking,’ she says.

‘Mine too,’ someone else agrees.

‘And mine,’ chips in a woman sitting by the window. ‘The stitches won’t hold – look.’

Suddenly, everyone is criticizing the shoddy thread.

‘But I bought it from the haberdashers in town,’ I try to explain. ‘Honestly, it’s the proper stuff.’

‘For darning petticoats maybe,’ says the woman who’d complained first. ‘This won’t hold together no flying machine.’

The work stops. People sit back in their seats, lean against walls, arms folded in protest. I don’t know what to say, or if they’d listen to me even if I did.

The first Montgolfier I find is Monsieur Joseph, who’s in the room next door with Pierre, measuring lengths of rope. I tell him what’s happened.

‘That won’t do at all.’ Leaving the rope, he stuffs his hands deep into his pockets, suddenly thoughtful.

‘We need stronger thread, papa. It’s not a problem,’ says Pierre.

‘Where will we get that from?’ he frets. ‘We’ve already bought every reel the haberdasher had.’ He turns to me. ‘Was there no other thread in the shop, Magpie? No twine? No string? No ribbons?’

‘Ribbons?’ I can’t help but frown. ‘No, monsieur, just buttons.’

Looking down at his frock coat, he inspects his own buttons. They’re gold. Shiny. One by one he does them up. In the same order, he undoes them again. I glance at Pierre, who shrugs: neither of us know what he’s thinking.

‘How many buttons did the haberdasher have?’ Monsieur Joseph asks, still looking at his coat.

‘I don’t know; I didn’t count them. Trays full, though.’

A smile lifts the corners of his mouth. ‘Trays full, eh?’

‘Trays full, monsieur, yes.’

I guess what’s coming next.

It turns out each tray holds one thousand buttons – or thereabouts. To be certain we have enough I lug three trays up the hill. The helpers, back on side once they see the task will work, stay well into the night to sew. Row after row of tiny buttons are stitched on to each segment, then that segment is fastened to another and so on until the massive teardrop shape is complete.

‘We’ve used eight hundred and twenty-seven reels of thread, and a whopping two thousand buttons,’ I tell Pierre when everything’s finished. ‘What d’you make of that?’

He tries to grin but it turns into a yawn. ‘Sometimes Magpie, I think you know too much.’

The morning of the demonstration dawns another fine, clear summer’s day. A good omen, I’m hoping with every scrap of my being. I hardly slept last night, either. Excitement kept me awake this time. So did the nerves. If we don’t fly this balloon today I’m likely to go off like a Catherine wheel.

We eat breakfast all together, which makes me feel that, for today at least, I’m not only the girl who feeds the animals; I’m part of something so huge it’s going to make history. Just to think of it: by sundown the name ‘Montgolfier’ on every news-sheet, Madame Montgolfier’s silk petticoats the talk of France. The English, beaten, will have no need of our secrets. Madame Delacroix will give up and crawl back under whichever stone she came from. It’s thoughts like these that make me push my plate away. I can’t eat a single crumb.

At six o’clock we go outside and start loading our equipment into carts. We don’t see the carriage pulling up at the gate – not until a man starts shouting: ‘I’m here on King Louis’ orders to seize the Messieurs Montgolfier!’

Everyone stops in surprise. The carriage is a smart, black one. Another man in the King’s livery jumps down from the driver’s seat. I’m alarmed, but only for a moment, because at least this time we’ve got news that should satisfy the King: the prototype has been built, and the proof is right here to see.

Monsieur Etienne takes charge, walking up to the gate with an almost-swagger.

‘You’ve kept us waiting far too long, Montgolfier,’ Viscount Herges remarks coldly once he’s let in. ‘The few extra weeks you requested are over. Time’s run out.’

‘What about the sheep?’ I ask. ‘Didn’t the Queen like her present?’

He glares at me. ‘Of course she did. She’s smitten with it.’

I catch Pierre’s eye and smile.

‘But,’ Herges goes on, addressing the adults now. ‘The King’s anxiety has switched back to the English again. We’ve heard more from England: the air problem is as good as solved. So I’ve orders to take you directly to the King. If you can’t get this flying device of yours finished here, then you’re to do so under his supervision.’

Monsieur Etienne bows. ‘I’m sorry for your trouble, Viscount.’

‘It’s the King himself who’s gone to trouble,’ Viscount Herges replies irritably. ‘Designers, seamstresses, a whole team of workers await you at Versailles. With your designs, they’ll get your invention made up in mere days.’

Monsieur Joseph, though, looks confused. ‘Before we rush into anything—’

‘Rush?’ Viscount Herges snaps. ‘You don’t know the meaning of the—’

He catches sight of the laden-up carts behind us. We step aside as he walks, trancelike, towards the great roll of balloon fabric.

‘What’s he doing?’ Pierre whispers.

‘Don’t know,’ I whisper back.

I certainly don’t expect him to pinch the cotton between his fingers. Or to stare in amazement like he does.

‘You’ve done it!’ Viscount Herges gasps. ‘I cannot . . . I’ve never . . . what I mean is, it’s ready to fly, non?’

‘We’re doing our first test flight here, today,’ Monsieur Joseph confirms.

‘But with cotton and paper?’

‘It’s what we could afford and could assemble quickly.’

‘Are you sure this will work? Is it not too fragile?’

‘We’ve experimented with both separately,’ Monsieur Joseph says, with a nod in my direction that makes me glow. ‘Each has its merits, so this time we’re trying them together. Though I admit silk would probably work best of all.’

Viscount Herges rubs his hands enthusiastically. ‘This is indeed intriguing! I can’t wait to see how it works in flight.’

Nor can we, I think.

He drops his voice. ‘Afterwards, Monsieurs Montgolfier, we’ll return to Versailles together. You’re to bring everything: plans, papers, notes – everything. We must make absolutely sure the English don’t get hold of any of your resources!’

That glow I’m feeling? Stamped out. Gone.

‘You’ve had word of spies?’ Monsieur Etienne sounds anxious.

‘Two of them at least,’ Viscount Herges says.

I take a long slow breath. I should’ve known Madame Delacroix wouldn’t work alone – she’d been quick enough to take me on, after all.