15

We end up walking through the night. When we stop, we sleep in shifts, though I’m too jumpy to rest for long. All the next day, we walk. And walk, the sun so hot it makes the road ahead ripple like water. The only thing to drink is what’s left in the puddles, and as for food, when we find a cherry tree, we eat too many all at once. It gives us the most vicious gut ache. Even then, doubled up in a ditch, I keep my eyes peeled for the English.

By the time we reach the outskirts of Paris, its evening.

‘At last! We made it!’ Pierre drops his side of the box with a thump.

We stand on the roadside, dazed and blistered. The sight of the city sprawling before us is incredible. I’ve never seen anywhere so vast, with streets running off in all directions as far as the eye can see.

An enormous archway seems to be the way into the city; beyond I see buildings so fancy they could almost be palaces, or very large, expensive cakes. There are people everywhere – on foot, on horses, in carts. I wrap my feet protectively around the box. I’m not taking any chances after lugging it all this way.

So this is Paris.

I stare and stare, and still there’s more to see. After Annonay, where every crooked rooftop jostled for space, Paris seems as planned as a painting. Perhaps life on the streets here wouldn’t be so terrible. And imagine what it would look like from above, from a balloon!

‘You think we’ll reach Versailles tonight?’ Pierre asks. He’s worried: I bet his papa will be too, once he realizes the box is missing.

Trouble is, Versailles’s still ten miles away along the road that heads west around the city edge, and I’m so exhausted I can hardly put one foot in front of the other. But the longer we’ve got the box, the riskier things are.

‘Let’s get on with it, shall we?’ I agree. Only, as I pick up my end of the box again, I go all lightheaded.

‘Whoa!’ Pierre catches me as I sway.

‘I’m fine,’ I insist. But a day and night without proper food and my body’s protesting.

‘Let’s get some supper and then decide,’ Pierre says.

I don’t have the heart to remind him we’re penniless.

Once through the archway, we soon discover another Paris altogether. This one isn’t planned or beautiful but smelly and noisy, full of old timber-framed houses and people shouting in the streets.

There are stalls selling cakes and pastries, cheeses and bread. Some look delicious, some have been out in the heat all day, though I’m too hungry to care about the details. It comes back to me straight away, that twitchy, urgent feeling. In these crowds, thieving’ll be easy.

Alongside a group of people watching a man with a dancing dog, is a stall selling fruit pies. I make a beeline. Pierre, on the other end of the box, gets dragged along with me.

I ask the seller for water. ‘It’s for my poor brother, see,’ and I point to Pierre. The seller glances over my shoulder. That split-second look is all the distraction I need. A flick of my finger sends two pies tumbling off the stall’s edge into my hand. Stepping back, I rejoin the crowds.

‘What did you do that for?’ Pierre cries, once we reach a quieter bit of the street.

I offer him a squashed apple pie, but he won’t take it.

‘You stole it, didn’t you?’

‘’Course I did. I’ve got no coins. Nor have you, so here,’ I offer him the pie again, ‘Eat it.’

He folds his arms. It’s not in Pierre’s nature to refuse food. He’s doing it to make a point, I know. It’s pompous of him. And it annoys me.

‘Don’t be an idiot,’ I tell him. ‘You need to eat.’

‘You should’ve paid for those pies,’ he says stubbornly.

‘You need to stop acting like we’re still in Annonay,’ I snap back.

‘Am not.’

‘You are. Madame Verte isn’t here anymore to make your meals so if you don’t want to starve—’

‘That doesn’t make stealing right, Magpie.’

‘Well, I’m not wasting them.’ I cram his pie into my mouth straight after my own.

‘Right, that’s it,’ he announces, and before I can stop him, he strides off down the street. Voltaire waggles after him.

In seconds, the crowds swallow them and I’m too weary to go after them. Proper fed up, I drag the box off the street, push it against a wall, and perch on top of it. Pierre’ll be back in a minute, I convince myself. He won’t go far without me.

I wait.

An hour or two passes and Pierre doesn’t return. I can’t believe he’s been so pig-headed, stomping off in a grump in a place he doesn’t know. He’s bound to get stupidly lost.

As it grows dark, I stop being angry and start to worry. Something’s happened to Pierre, I’m sure of it. He’s been robbed. Or beaten. Or both.

Up and down the street cafés light their windows and put chairs and benches out on the cobbles. The sounds of the city change. A man and woman argue somewhere. Cats squawk. A violin plays sad music. There’s the spit and hiss of frying meat. Something hangs heavy in the air, something moody and dangerous that makes my shoulders tense and I clutch Coco tighter to me.

I don’t see the boy coming. It’s his voice that makes me spin round: ‘Can I help with your luggage?’

In a flash, I hook my feet tight around the box. ‘Why? Who’s asking?’

The boy’s in spotless breeches and a smart powder-blue jacket that he’s wearing loose like a cape over his shoulders. He’s too well dressed for this part of town. I’m suspicious. He senses it too.

‘Dear me, I’m not a thief you know.’ He makes a good show of sounding offended. ‘I was just passing through, and thought you looked in need of help.’

I don’t believe him. Coco doesn’t either. He aims a sly peck at the boy’s arm. He misses. Just. The boy takes the hint, though, and moves back.

‘I’m waiting for my friend. He’ll be along any moment,’ I say.

‘Perhaps I should wait with you,’ the boy replies. ‘It can be rather lively here at night.’

‘I’d worked that one out already,’ I mutter. Turning my back, I make it clear I’m not in the mood for making friends. Nor have I shaken off that sense of being followed. It’s easiest not to trust anyone. I tap my foot, impatient, wondering where the heck Pierre is. I’m going to crown him when he finally turns up. Until that happens, I’m hoping the boy will get bored and clear off.

No such luck. He’s persistent. So I end up telling him straight. ‘Go away, will you? I don’t need your—’ I stop.

Ambling up the street in his shirt sleeves is Pierre. Voltaire’s sat proudly on his shoulder. I detect a bit of swagger about them, which makes me want to wring both of their necks. I don’t of course: I jump up and down with sheer relief.

‘Oi! Over here!’ I cry, flinging my arms around Pierre when he reaches me. ‘Where have you been? Are you all right?’

‘I’ll be fine if you don’t throttle me, Magpie,’ Pierre laughs. ‘Who was that you were just talking to?’

I turn round just in time to see the stranger boy walk off. So much for him offering to carry my luggage — under his jacket, his right arm is in a sling.