16

Pierre, meanwhile, pulls a fistful of coins from his pocket. ‘See, I’m not a complete buffoon.’

In a shot, I cover his open hand. ‘Flash your coin about like that and you won’t have it for long!’

‘Sorry!’ He puts the money away. ‘But I mean it, Magpie. We’re eating supper tonight – one that we can pay for. Then we’ll find a place to stay.’

‘D’you hear that Coco?’ I say, ruffling his feathers. He’s still tense from our little encounter with the blue-coated boy. It’s not helped that Voltaire’s reappeared looking smug.

‘Extra bread for our poultry,’ Pierre confirms. ‘As much as they can eat!’

I’d planned to be cross with him for leaving me for so long, but I can’t help smiling. ‘Where’s this money come from?’

‘I, my dear Magpie, sold my jacket and a silver buckle from my shoe.’

‘What about the other buckle?’ I ask, glancing at his feet. ‘Didn’t you sell that one?’

‘That’s tomorrow’s food.’

I nod, impressed: he’s learning. Hunger changes how you see things. A silver buckle isn’t fashion, it’s food in your belly, a bed for the night. And truth told, those fruit pies have done little to curb my appetite.

Picking the box up between us, we walk along the street until it joins another, busier one. Pierre chooses a café with steep steps leading down to a cellar. Inside it’s dark and hot, with candles stuck in bottles on tables. By Pierre’s standards it probably isn’t up to much, but I’m thrilled. We find a seat in the corner, stowing the box and our birds beneath our feet.

Supper is whole spit-roasted chicken, best eaten with your fingers. Afterwards, Pierre declares it the finest meal he’s ever eaten.

‘Don’t let Coco hear you say that,’ I reply.

I’m sneaking bread under the table to two hungry beaks when I notice the group on the table next to ours. They’re young people like us, laughing and thumping the table at jokes I don’t get. Pierre does, though, and can’t keep quiet.

‘Excuse me, I think you’ll find it’s vous, not tu,’ he says to the person nearest us.

As the young man turns round, I groan out loud. Him again – the stranger boy. Except he’s not quite a boy and not quite an adult; I’d guess he’s about fifteen.

He recognizes me too. ‘Ah, your friend returned, I see.’

I don’t answer. As Pierre offers his hand by way of greeting I hiss frantically in his ear, ‘That’s who tried to help me in the street earlier. Don’t trust him!’

Too late: they’re already shaking hands. The stranger boy, I notice, does this gingerly though, his right arm is no longer in a sling.

‘My name is Sebastien Delamere,’ he says. ‘Welcome to Paris.’

Pierre nods. ‘Pierre, Pierre Montgolfier.’

I roll my eyes: this is just what we need: people knowing who we are. Boys acting like their fathers.

‘And you are?’ Sebastien turns to me.

‘I think we should leave, Pierre,’ I mutter, ignoring him.

But no one’s listening to me anymore. Chairs are moved, cake is ordered and we find ourselves sitting at Sebastien’s table with his friends, who all look and sound as expensive as he does. We jam the box between our seats for safekeeping.

‘Keep your foot against it,’ I whisper to Pierre. ‘Don’t say a word about what’s inside it.’

Sitting Coco on my knee, I refuse to speak to anyone. What could I possibly have to say, anyway? I feel like I’m looking down on the world, watching everything from a distance. Girls like me don’t belong with boys like these.

But after a bit I find I’m watching Sebastien. He speaks quickly, musically: people lean in to hear what he’s saying. He smiles a lot too, and it is, I admit, quite a nice smile. Perhaps he isn’t so bad. Maybe I just don’t understand rich people.

Then I remember something.

‘How d’you know we’ve just arrived in Paris?’ I ask.

Faces, shiny in the candlelight, turn to look at me. Sebastien stops mid-laugh. ‘What?’

‘You said earlier, “welcome to Paris”.’

‘Did I?’ he says, all breezy. ‘I really don’t recall—’

‘You did.’ I stare at him. ‘How did you know?’

Someone coughs. I glance at Pierre, who looks embarrassed and says under breath. ‘He was being friendly.’

‘I’m doing my best to be,’ Sebastien says. ‘Anyhow, you’re carrying that box around so it’s obvious you don’t live here, else you’d have left it at home.’

I catch Pierre’s eye: Don’t say a word.

‘What’s in it?’ Sebastien rises out of his seat, craning to see between our chairs.

‘Nothing.’ I say. Heat spreads up my neck.

‘Oh come on, it takes two of you to carry it – it must be heavy.’

‘It’s only papers,’ says Pierre. ‘Nothing very exciting, I’m afraid.’

‘Don’t tell him!’ I snap.

Pierre holds up his hands. ‘I hardly think—’

‘He might be an English spy!’ I blurt out.

Sebastien, eyebrows raised, points to himself. ‘So I’m a spy? Is that what you’re suggesting?’

Around the table, his friends laugh uneasily; a glare from him and they stop.

‘You think I’m a spy?’ he says again. He’s not smiling any more.

‘You might be,’ I mutter. ‘How are we to know?’

With a look of disgust, he turns to Pierre. ‘Do you agree with her?’

‘Well, no, I—’

‘Someone must’ve put this idea into her head,’ he interrupts. ‘I can’t imagine she’d have the wit to think it up by herself.’

‘Being poor and dark isn’t the same as being stupid,’ I tell him.

Sebastien ignores me. He’s now locked onto Pierre.

‘You offend my honour, sir.’ He stares at Pierre, who’s gone visibly pale. I’m not sure why when I’ve heard far worse curses on the streets. But the others at the table share a meaningful glance, sort of horrified and excited.

‘Why’re you all looking at each other like that?’ I demand. ‘Pierre’s done nothing wrong. I’m the one who called you a spy, Sebastien, so you leave my friend alone.’

Sebastien’s response is to whip a leather glove from his pocket and slap it down on the table. His friends draw in one big sharp breath. Poor Pierre looks ready to faint.

‘Tomorrow, Monsieur Montgolfier,’ Sebastien says, ‘You’ll give me the satisfaction of meeting at the south entrance of the Tuileries Gardens, by the wall, at dawn.’

Out in the street, Pierre turns on me. ‘You idiot, Magpie! What did you go and say that for?’

‘What did I do?’ I cry, exasperated. ‘For all we know he could be a spy! Anyway, you were the one who mentioned the papers.’

‘But it was what you said that caused offence. Don’t you ever think before you speak?’

‘He was pestering me earlier, wanting to help carry the box! And what about his arm, the one in the sling?’

Pierre tuts in irritation. ‘He wasn’t wearing a sling.’

‘Not when you saw, no. But he was earlier – on his right arm – the one he’d probably use to hold a gun.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Think about it.’ Now I’m angry too. ‘There’s been talk of spies for weeks back in Annonay. On the road we get robbed by a blond-haired, blue-eyed boy, then another one turns up in Paris and is unusually friendly.’

‘You think that was Sebastien?’ From the look Pierre gives me he clearly doesn’t.

‘It’s possible,’ I mumble, though the doubts creep in when I remember how the robber wore a scarf over his face. Just like I’d done, in fact, when I’d broken into Pierre’s house, and he’d not recognized me.

‘Mon dieu! You’ve no proof! You can’t just accuse people! What you said to him . . .’ Pierre splutters, ‘. . . why couldn’t you have kept quiet?’

Dropping his side of the box, Pierre takes a long breath through his nose. He picks up Voltaire, who’s flapping about worriedly, and tucks him under his arm.

‘Magpie,’ he says, trying to stay calm. ‘You know what all this means, don’t you? You know what Sebastien’s just said?’

‘Which part of it?’

He rolls his eyes. ‘You don’t know, do you?’

I didn’t.

‘. . . the satisfaction of meeting . . .’ Pierre puts on Sebastien’s silky voice, but somehow it isn’t funny. ‘He wants to fight a duel. I’ve offended his honour.’

I stare at him in disbelief. ‘But I’m the one who offended him.’

I know what a duel is. Not that I’ve ever seen one, but I’ve heard stories of men shooting each other or fighting with swords. These aren’t messy, drunken, scraps like the ones I’ve seen aplenty in the streets. It’s how rich people settle their differences. And with a horrible, sickening realization, I see what trouble I’ve stirred up.

‘Let me go back to the café and explain,’ I plead.

Pierre shakes his head. ‘Leave it. It’s me he wants to fight. I’m a boy, you see, of a similar class. That’s how it works. If I don’t fight then I’m a coward. My reputation is ruined.’

‘Didn’t know you cared about your reputation.’

‘It’s not a joke, Magpie!’ Pierre is fierce. ‘Tomorrow at dawn I’ll go to the Tuileries Gardens. I have to accept Sebastien’s challenge.’

‘But it’s just stupid name-calling. You can’t risk your life over that.’

Yet no amount of arguing or begging will change his mind. This stubborn side of his character is new to me. It’s like shouting at a locked door.

‘Whatever you say, it should be me fighting him,’ I say miserably. ‘I was the one calling him a spy.’

Pierre sighs. ‘Girls don’t fight duels, Magpie. Not even ones with short hair.’

He’s wrong about that.