12

The demonstration in the marketplace is set for ten o’clock. A little after seven we head off for town, walking single-file alongside the loaded carts. It’s Monsieur Etienne’s idea that we dress to match the balloon’s colours. So, Monsieur Joseph’s wearing a blue frock coat and Pierre’s in a red jacket that’s already making him sweat. Monsieur Etienne is done up in all the colours – red coat, butter-yellow waistcoat, blue stockings. I’m torn between thinking him magnificent, and that he looks like an enormous parrot.

Even I’m given something new to wear. I’d have been happier in my maid’s dress, but everyone insisted. So here I am in a blue gown, tied at the waist with red ribbon – except you can’t see the ribbon because I’m carrying Coco in his sling. Madame Verte says it ruins the look but I won’t leave him behind.

At first, the new dress makes me feel prickly and hot. I’m scared to move too much in case I rip it. By the time we get to town though, I’m glad to be wearing it. The red, blue and yellow of our clothes link us all together like a team or an army, and it’s one I’m chest-burstingly proud to be part of.

The marketplace has been cleared for us. Judging by the church clock it’s only a quarter to eight, yet already a few early gawkers are here to stare, which makes me get another flurry of nerves. Soon this place will be heaving with people, all here to watch us. I just hope we give them something worth looking at, something they’ll remember for years to come.

Pierre and Monsieur Etienne get to work straight away, bashing four wooden posts into the ground to form an oblong. In the middle of it all the firewood is heaped. With Odette and Madame Verte joining us, we ease the balloon from the cart onto the cobbles and begin unrolling it. Again, I’m struck by its size. It’ll take a lot of hot air to lift something this huge off the ground. We’ll need one heck of a fire.

‘Are there more logs?’ Monsieur Joseph asks, stopping to wipe his brow. Out in the open, the pile looks worryingly small.

‘That’s all we’ve got,’ Pierre replies.

Between them, they get the fire started. The wood’s very dry, the flames hungry for it: I reckon on an hour’s burning time, at most. We need more fuel. Monsieur Joseph sees it, too. ‘The fire has to be bigger.’

‘And hotter,’ I add. ‘Much, much hotter.’

‘Bit late to realize that now.’ Monsieur Etienne’s mood is quickly souring. ‘We haven’t got more wood, and there’s no time to fetch any.’

In the last half an hour, the crowd has swelled dramatically in size. Five hundred people or more now stand in the marketplace, many more leaning out of windows or climbing onto walls for a better view.

‘We should’ve charged them to watch,’ Monsieur Etienne remarks. ‘Just a few coins each. Think of the money we’d make.’

The mood feels carnival-like, excitable, and incredibly noisy. Times like these are perfect for picking pockets, though today I’m the one slapping stray hands away, as people keep trying to touch our equipment.

‘Oi! Stay back! Get off that fabric!’ I cry for the umpteenth time.

Monsieur Joseph, flustered about the state of our fire, goes from person to person, asking if anyone has a woodpile nearby. All he gets though are shrugs and headshakes.

‘We should’ve planned this better,’ Pierre mutters. ‘Is it too late to call it off?’

‘Are you going to tell Viscount Herges, or shall I?’ I say, nodding in the direction of the King’s man who’s watching everything at the very front of the crowd.

Pierre’s right though; a bit more practice in the orchard beforehand wouldn’t have been a bad idea. If we don’t bring in more wood from somewhere, we’ll never get this balloon up in the air.

In the end, Monsieur Joseph gives up asking for wood. We’re going to have to work with what we’ve got, which is next to nothing. Our sorry little fire is gasping to stay alight. A team of townsfolk gather around the balloon to hoist it upwards. More people fasten each of the four ropes to the posts in the ground.

‘All right, everyone! Stand by!’ Monsieur Joseph cries.

Stand by for what? I think, frustrated. They can ready themselves all they like. It won’t work without heat – proper, intense heat. And I bet Madame Delacroix is here somewhere in the crowd, writing all this down so she can share a great long list of our mistakes with the English.

A sudden breeze whips up the fire. Hot ash – a tiny whirlwind of it – falls on my new dress, burning through the fabric and making me yelp, though I’m more worried it’ll land on Coco.

‘Watch it!’ I warn Pierre, whose red jacket is streaked with grey. All around us people are now patting their clothes and hair.

‘Arrggh! I’m alight!’ a woman cries.

‘It’s on your bonnet! Take it off!’ The man next to her pulls it from her head and flings it to the ground.

More garments quickly follow. Hats, bonnets, even pairs of shoes come hurling through the air, landing very close to, even in, the fire. Some are smouldering, others are properly alight. There are jackets, waistcoats, a parasol.

‘Keep ’em coming!’ I yell, for I can see what’s happening. As the pile of clothes grow, so do the flames. The heat, at last, begins to build. One thing’s clear – the people of Annonay’s clothes burn far better than their wood.

The balloon, no longer lying flat on the ground, billows, twitches, begins to rise. Through the opening at the bottom, the fire’s heat pours in, making the shape fill up just like the undergarments did when hung over the stove.

Yet this is no petticoat. It grows and grows till it towers above us, an enormous, brightly coloured teardrop. It’s a strange, remarkable, not-quite-real sight.

Now the balloon’s full, it fidgets to rise higher. Still tied down, the four ropes holding it over the fire stretch tight, the posts they’re fastened to shifting in the ground.

I watch. Wait. Will it on in my head. Any moment now, any moment . . .

But Monsieur Joseph is cautious. He checks the ropes, the fire, makes notes in his book. He shakes his head at his brother, who’s fretting and pacing.

‘Come on, come on,’ I mutter.

Though the bag stays tied down, it’s fighting back, turning and twisting with growing strength. The crowd is getting restless. It’s too hot this close to the fire; sweat pours down my back.

At last, when the balloon looks fit to burst, Monsieur Joseph raises one finger. It’s such a little signal; I almost miss it. Though there’s no mistaking the rush for the ropes. Nor the roar that goes up into the sky.

For a split second, the balloon hovers. Then it’s off. It rises quickly above our heads, travelling across the marketplace.

‘Follow it, Magpie! You’re the fastest runner!’ Monsieur Joseph cries. ‘See where it lands!’

‘Oui, monsieur!’

Ducking between legs, clawing past shoulders, I tear across the marketplace fast as I can. Everyone else is standing stock-still, heads back, mouths open. Even the boy midway through picking someone’s pocket stops to stare at the sky.

At the crowd’s edge, I slow down to check the balloon’s progress. The balloon’s risen fast in the last few minutes, its reds, blues and golds brilliant above the rooftops, looking for all the world like it’ll never return to earth again. Watching, I feel myself grow lighter, as if part of me is up there with it, with nothing but the clouds for company.

If only.

When we checked earlier, the wind was a south-easterly. Now it’s turned to more of a southerly, directing the balloon towards the river. Struggling to keep it in sight, I start running again. The street down to the river is shady, narrow. Twice I almost slip over. ‘Sorry, Coco,’ I say, because for him it’s a bumpy ride. Shoes – even servants’ ones – are useless for running in. In the end, I kick them off to go barefoot.

At the river’s edge, I check the balloon’s position again. It looks like it’s lost a bit of height. The sky above Annonay bristles with church spires but luckily our balloon just about clears them all. Half-running, half-staring upwards, I keep following. As Annonay dwindles to a single shack and a pigsty, the balloon drops further. I’m hard on its heels.

By now the balloon is wrinkling. It looks less of a teardrop and more like an old potato. The air, the heat is seeping out. Already this flight’s lasted far longer than any of the others, but I can’t bear for it to be over yet.

‘Just one more field!’ I will the balloon on. ‘Go on, you can do it!’

The balloon drifts over a wall. Over a field of sheep. Leaning heavily to one side, it’s only twenty or so feet off the ground.

Scrambling over the wall, I force my legs onwards. The sheep don’t look up – not at me, nor the huge cotton bag that lumbers past, just above their heads. In the field beyond though, someone is shouting. Two men in shirt-sleeves have stopped turning hay to stare in total amazement.

‘What is it?’ one of them cries. He’s got his pitchfork raised like the balloon’s a wolf he’s trying to fend off. I’m worried he’s going to do it some damage.

‘It’s the moon fallen from the sky!’ the other man gasps.

And fall it does. It hits the ground with a mighty thud. There’s a rush of air as the fabric spills out, blasting me with dust. I reel backwards, shaken, spluttering.

Gradually, the balloon settles on the grass. All around it, the sheep carry on eating as if it’s the most normal sight in the world. In his sling, Coco is fast asleep. To me, though, this is a thing of wonder. I feel proud and all choked up. It’s taken weeks of preparation, bad tempers, secrets and experiments, but in the end the design has worked.

There’s a crowd of people now striding up the field towards me, with Pierre, Monsieur Joseph and Monsieur Etienne leading the way. Their smiles are so huge I can see them from here. And who can blame them?

We did it. We made the balloon fly.