18

Afterwards, Sebastien and I walk back across the city. The early sunshine is already turning hazy. It’s going to be a hot, sticky day, and breeches, I’m learning, are not as cool as skirts. I’m also reminded, once again, that there are people – as well as poultry – I care about in this world. Life’s not just about looking out for yourself.

‘Shall we stop for breakfast?’ Sebastien says as we pass a chop house opening its shutters.

At the mention of food, my stomach growls.

‘Let’s fetch Pierre first,’ I decide, knowing he’ll be hungry too.

As we arrive at the baker’s where we took rooms last night, Madame Petit the owner leans out of an upstairs window. ‘Oh Mademoiselle! Thank goodness you’re back!’

Moments later, she’s downstairs, rushing through the shop doorway.

‘It’s the boy. He’s gone!’ she cries. ‘A man came for him and . . . oh . . .’

‘Who came?’ I’m taken aback.

‘They left so fast in a cart . . . Oh that poor child – and in his nightshirt, too!’

I glance guiltily at Pierre’s breeches.

‘Slow down,’ Sebastien says calmly. ‘Now, tell us again.’

But Madame Petit can’t get her words out.

‘Was it Pierre’s father?’ I can’t think who else would fetch him away. ‘Did the man have a bald head? Or – hang on – he might be wearing his wig?’

All she does is shake her head and sob.

I’ve a queasy feeling this is about the box. Pierre was right all along to think Sebastien wasn’t behind any of the theiving attempts. How could he be when these past couple of hours he’s been with me?

Which makes me think again of that nasty piece who held up our coach. Or the sense I’d had of someone trailing us along the main Paris road: if it wasn’t Sebastien, who was it?.

Leaving Madame Petit, I race up the stairs to our room. Sebastien’s right behind me. The mess that greets us stops us both in our tracks.

‘Heavens above!’ Sebastien gasps.

I’m lost for words.

There’s no door – it’s been smashed to pieces. A window’s broken too, glass all over the floor. The bed’s on its side, the chair thrown across the room, a chest for clothes wrenched open. Everything’s been rifled through, fast and furious.

It’s not just Pierre that’s gone, either. The birds are missing. There’s not even a feather left behind. I shake my head, distraught.

‘Who could’ve done this?’ Sebastien asks.

I glance at him sideways, the old suspicions flaring up. But he doesn’t look like he’s pretending. His jaw’s clenched with anger.

‘The English,’ I say bitterly. ‘They’ve been after us right from the start.’

They haven’t taken the box, though. It’s still here on the floor, the lock torn apart, the lid open. All that’s left inside are ink stains and a dead wasp. There’s a tear in the paper lining. The notebooks, of course, are gone.

Despairing, I bury my face in my hands. If I’d been here when the Englishman came Pierre and I would’ve fought him off together. But I wasn’t here, was I? I was fighting an argument I started. The horrid truth is that I’ve let Pierre down so badly I don’t deserve him as a friend.

‘You look as if you need to rest,’ Sebastien says.

‘What I need,’ I insist, looking up, ‘Is to go after Pierre, as quick as I can.’

‘We don’t know where they’ve gone,’ Sebastien points out.

Squishing my eyes tight shut, I try to think of where the Englishman might take a boy in his nightshirt with two pet birds in tow. But all I picture is Coco stiff with terror, and Voltaire sulking, and poor Pierre begging oh-so-politely to be freed. It just makes things worse. If they’re travelling by cart like Madame Petit says they really could be anywhere by now.

‘Do his family live nearby?’ Sebastien asks. ‘I don’t wish to alarm you, Magpie, but he has been abducted, so we really should let his parents know.’

I unsquish my eyes. ‘Versailles – that’s where his father is. We were supposed to be going there anyway to deliver this box.’

Sebastien stares at what’s left of the valuables box on the floor. ‘Are you going to bring it with you?’

‘No point,’ I reply. ‘They’ve taken what they wanted.’

He looks about to say something, but thinks better of it. ‘Versailles it is then. If you hurry you might just get there before the weather breaks.’

Glancing out of the window, I see what he means. The sky’s turned a flat, hazy white. There’s not a breath of wind. In this tiny, smashed-up attic room, it feels hotter than ever.

‘Not on foot I won’t,’ I reply. ‘I’ll have to get wet.’

‘I have a horse,’ Sebastien offers.

I think it over. I’m not completely sure of him, even now. He’s a bit too nice. A bit too well-dressed. I don’t know how to be with people like Sebastien. Life was simpler when his sort were just a pocket to pick.

‘I can’t ride,’ I tell him.

He smiles his twinkly, sunshine smile. ‘But I can.’

We go straight to the back street where Sebastien’s horse is stabled. I’d imagined a smart courtyard attached to his family’s house, but this is just a row of stalls next to a coaching inn. The whole place runs alongside the river. In this heat, the smell coming off the water – night soil and rotting fruit – makes me want to gag. It’s an odd place to keep a horse, especially for someone like Sebastien.

The horse, though, is magnificent. He’s a huge, gentle grey named Dante, who pricks his ears at us and makes a whiffling noise when you say his name. Sebastien acts fast. Before you know it, Dante is saddled up ready and we’re both on his back. Sitting astride him is like doing the splits. I’m glad of these breeches, after all.

We leave Paris at a brisk trot, Sebastien in front, me behind clinging on for dear life. After the pot-holed city streets, the road to Versailles is straight and flat, lined on either side by poplar trees. There isn’t much traffic either so Sebastien pushes Dante into a canter.

At first I’m too terrified to look, though after a mile or two of the horse’s smooth rhythm, I decide it’s safe enough to relax a bit. Another couple of miles, and Sebastien tweaks the reins to slow Dante to a trot, then a walk. The poor creature is caked in sweat.

Swinging his leg over Dante’s neck, Sebastien jumps down. I catch him clenching and unclenching his hand like it’s stiff.

‘Are you hurt?’ I ask.

‘Of course not.’ He brushes it off. ‘Dante needs a breather, that’s all. We’ve still got four or five miles to go.’

I peer up at the darkening sky. ‘Looks like we’re going to get wet after all.’

Sure enough, it begins to rain. Steadily, the drops get bigger, pock-marking the dust on the road. The thunder overhead makes Dante flick his ears, which I’ve heard means a horse is nervous.

‘Don’t worry,’ Sebastien says, as I grip the front of the saddle. ‘It’ll take more than a thunderstorm to scare him.’

No sooner are the words out of his mouth than a huge white flash lights the sky. A beat later the thunder comes, so loud it makes the air hum. Dante goes tense beneath me. His head disappears between his front legs, he twists, kicks his back legs, throwing me onto his neck. As his head swings up again, he leaps forward, tearing the reins from Sebastien’s hand. I don’t scream. I’m too terrified to even unclench my teeth. Grabbing handfuls of mane, I sit tight as Dante takes off.

‘For heaven’s sake, pull the reins!’ Sebastien yells.

How he expects me to do that I’ve no idea. I can’t even let go of Dante’s mane. Careering from one side of the road to the other, he’s completely out of control. The rain blinds me. I’m slipping sideways on the wet leather. I don’t know what to do, but I can’t hold on much longer. I’m going to die of panic, or be sick, or fall off into the road, whichever one of these fates gets me first.