23

Even when the King has gone, the Montgolfiers still pretend they don’t know us– there’s no eye contact, no hugs, no ‘what the devil are you doing here’s. They’re playing it extra-safe until the flight is over, and so must we; Pierre keeps hold of my shirt-tails in case I need reminding.

Ginger Moustache, meanwhile, is keen to get things underway. ‘Allow me to escort you to the kitchens,’ he says to the Montgolfiers. ‘We’ll weigh the sheep properly and find you some poultry, ça va?’

‘It needs to be alive,’ Monsieur Etienne reminds Ginger Moustache, as they leave the room. ‘And healthy. No palming us off with something half-dead.’

I seize my chance. ‘Please Monsieur Montgolfier. If you find an orange rooster and a white duck in the kitchens, please, please use them.’

Monsieur Etienne stops, raises an eyebrow. Monsieur Joseph looks back over his shoulder, his gaze darting to Pierre, then me. It’s the briefest of looks. An even briefer nod. I just hope he’s got the message.

The door to the King’s rooms closes behind him. There’s nothing more to be done now. The balloon flight will take place, the King will be happy, the Montgolfiers will get their names in the history books.

I’m trying to be hopeful.

This time tomorrow, when it’s all over, the Montgolfiers’ll come clean about who we are and we’ll be freed from our festering cell. Until then we’ll have to wait it out. Already I’m tapping my toes, grinding my teeth because this waiting lark might well be the hardest part of all.

A guard with tiny currant eyes is now in charge of us. He’s spent the last few minutes out in the hallway talking to Ginger Moustache and the Montgolfiers. He comes back into the room, rubbing his hands with glee.

‘Right you two,’ he says. ‘I’ve had my orders where to take you. Let’s get you locked up again, shall we?’

My mood sinks as I picture the dark hours stretching ahead. What makes it crueller is knowing that, outside in the sky above our heads, the balloon will be flying and we won’t get even the tiniest glimpse of it.

‘Here goes,’ I mutter to Pierre as we head for the stairs.

Yet instead of going down to the cells, the guards take us upwards. I’m totally thrown.

‘Where are we going?’ I ask more than once. Pierre does too, but as usual, they blank us.

Up and up we go, to the very top of the house, the attics. It’s hot up here and just as stuffy as being underground. But at least the last of the evening sun is still shining in through the windows.

At the end of a long, narrow passage we finally stop in front of a door. The currant-eyed guard wrestles with a set of keys, whistling through his teeth till he finds the right one. The door opens onto what was probably once a servant’s bedroom. It’s low-ceilinged, dusty, with a bed and a trunk for storing clothes in; I’ve definitely seen worse places to spend a night.

‘You’ve gone up in the world, you have,’ the guard remarks, ushering us inside.

It’s a bit of a shock, being spoken to finally, especially as he doesn’t even sound that unfriendly. Behind us, the other guards wait in the passage. Though I notice their hands aren’t on their swords any more. They’re not exactly standing to attention, either, but leaning against the wall. The whole mood feels different, almost relaxed. I look at Pierre, who shrugs: neither of us have a clue what’s going on.

‘Why’ve we been moved?’ I ask.

The guard considers me narrowly. ‘You might as well know,’ he says with a weary sigh. ‘Monsieur Montgolfier demanded it. Said it wasn’t right to put children down in the cells. What he wants, he must have. You heard the King himself say so.’

‘Oh.’ I catch Pierre’s eye and smile, though he doesn’t smile back.

‘And while you’re in here, find yourself some decent clothes.’ The guard aims this at me. ‘Shocked at the sight of you, Monsieur Montgolfier was. You should find a frock to fit you in that trunk over there.’

‘A frock?’ It’s a bit of a jolt to be reminded I’m not a real boy. And good guesswork from the guard because, filthy and short-haired as I am, I don’t look much like a girl.

Yet I think I understand. This is Monsieur Joseph’s way, saying in a quiet manner that he does know who we are, and he’s making sure we’re all right until this is over. And I’m glad of it.

Pierre, though, still seems in some sort of grump. Once the guards have gone, I soon find out what’s eating him.

‘How could you offer Papa our pets like that?’ he cries. ‘If that balloon isn’t safe enough for people, it’s not safe for Voltaire!’

‘Whoa! Steady!’ I hold up my hands in surprise.

‘I’m serious, Magpie. You of all people should know the balloon will probably crash land. What happened to you was bad enough – imagine those injuries on Voltaire, or Coco, or Lancelot! It’d probably kill them!’

‘You’re being daft,’ I say, not liking that he’s got a point. ‘It won’t crash, they’ll be fine.’

‘Oh, you know that, do you? For certain?’

I glare at him. ‘Well, they won’t last the night down there in the kitchens. So at least I’ve given them a fighting chance.’

We’re both upset and bristling. And when I think maybe Pierre understands what I’ve done, he soon puts me straight on that score. ‘Don’t look too smug, Magpie. We’ve still got to face my father and uncle when this is over.’

‘You have,’ I remind him. ‘You’re the one who ran away. They’re not my family.’

He gives me a look I can’t quite read.

Later, we’re brought supper – bread and broth on a tray slid inside the door by a guard’s foot.

‘You can have the bed,’ I say to Pierre, once we’ve licked the dishes clean. ‘I’ll take the floor.’ We’re not arguing any more, but as the taint of it’s still hanging in the air, I’m trying extra-hard to be nice.

‘Thanks.’ Pierre flops down on the bed. It sends up so much dust, we both start hawking and coughing. There’s only one window – small, set in the eaves – and I don’t expect it to open. But, with a stout push, it does. Mid-shove, I feel a sharp something digging into my thigh.

‘Ouch!’ It’s the gold thing Pierre made me take from him on the stairs. What with everything else, I’d forgotten it. The window open, I set about unravelling the knot in my hem.

Pierre props himself up on an elbow, watching. ‘I’d better tell you about the brooch, hadn’t I?’

Holding it in the flat of my hand, I can see that’s what it is. The almond shape is in fact a feather, the work on it so fine you can see every little line and detail. As I turn it this way and that, the gold catches in the late sunlight. In all my thieving days, I’ve never seen such a stunning piece. I can’t take my eyes off it.

‘It’s . . . beautiful,’ I say, because no other word will do. ‘Where’s it from?’ There’s a pause. I look up in alarm. ‘You didn’t nick it, did you? Oh Pierre, tell me you didn’t!’

‘No, I didn’t steal it,’ he admits. ‘The Englishman was after something else inside the box, not just the notebooks, something hidden. But I got to it first.’

I frown. ‘What d’you mean hidden?’

‘He was searching the lining of the box. I saw him do it. Then he heard someone moving about downstairs and went to the door to listen, and . . .’

‘. . . you found the brooch and pocketed it,’ I finish, guessing the rest. ‘It must belong to your father if it was hidden in amongst his papers?’

‘I suppose so,’ Pierre agrees. ‘Though I’ve never heard any mention of it before, or seen my mother wear it.’

I stare at it longingly. ‘I bet it’s worth a bit. He probably wanted to sell it on.’

‘Maybe.’ He doesn’t sound sure.

‘What, then?’

Pierre sits up properly. ‘When the Englishman couldn’t find the brooch, he went completely, raving mad!’

I think of the room as I’d found it, chairs on end, the box all smashed up.

‘I know this sounds stupid, Magpie, but it was as if the brooch meant more to him than the notebooks. He was in such a state he almost forgot to pick them up.’

‘He’s a spy though, isn’t he? There’s loads of them here, we saw them on the stairs.’ To be honest, though, I don’t know what to think. Perhaps the man just got dazzled by a fancy bit of jewellery. It is an amazing bit of gold.

‘Put the brooch on, Magpie,’ Pierre says suddenly. ‘Go on. I can tell you like it.’

I grin, head on one side. ‘Really? Should I?’ and I’m thinking, why not? It can’t hurt.

But first I’d better find something half reasonable to pin it to.

Taking the guard’s advice, I search the trunk. It’s full of old stiff fabrics and yet more dust. The frock that fits me best is made of blue calico. It’s been inside the trunk quite some time because we find mice nesting in the skirts. Once I’ve tucked them safely back inside an old jacket, and shaken out the frock, it looks passable. More than passable when I’ve yanked it on and pinned the gold feather to the front of it, at the place just above my heart.

‘Voila!’ I say to Pierre. ‘How does it look?’

‘Like it was made for you.’ He smiles, lies back on the bed, eyes already closing sleepily.

The brooch cheers up the plain calico no end. It cheers me up, too, to wear something so lovely and pretty and not, for once, be thinking how much it’s worth or who to sell it on to. I almost feel a bit lightheaded, suddenly. It’s a nice sensation, like I’m about to be lifted off my feet.

Best enjoy it, I tell myself, because it’s the closest I’m going to get to flying.