24

Just before dawn, I wake up feeling stiff and cold. This floor’s not the comfiest I’ve ever slept on. Nor am I used to sleeping without Coco in the crook of my arm. I miss him. And I bet Pierre misses Voltaire too, though right now he’s still asleep. When I remember what’s happening today, the thrill of it hits me hard.

I’m fully awake and on my feet in an instant. The window, still open from the night before, lets in a draught that smells smoky. On eager tiptoes, I look outside. It’s a beautiful morning. The weather is fine – clear blue sky, and sunshine so perfect it makes my blood sing.

After yesterday’s round-up, I can’t imagine any English spies left in the world to ruin things. So in a couple of hours’ time when the balloon takes off, I’m going to enjoy it. After all, we’re in a room with a great view of the sky.

Our animals will be fine, I tell myself. Better this than the butcher’s block.

With a bit of heaving, I manage to climb out onto the roof. It’s a good thing I’m not scared of heights. The rooftop’s at least sixty feet off the ground and isn’t flat at all. It’s full of gutters and gulleys and more attic windows that pop out of the roofline like eyes in a toad’s head. It’s magic up here, our own secret world where we can see everything but no one sees us.

I look down.

Our window is slap-bang above the palace’s central courtyard, and if I shuffle forwards on my backside I can see right over the edge. I can’t believe our luck. From here we should even be able to see Coco and Voltaire being brought out for the flight. We couldn’t have nabbed a better spot if we’d tried.

‘Pierre!’ I call over my shoulder. ‘Get yourself out here! It’s amazing!’

It’s still quite early, yet down in the courtyard the final preparations are in full swing. Servants scurry about with trays, men on ladders put up flags and hang flowers. Hundreds of chairs have been set up around the fountain.

‘Pierre!’ I try again. ‘Wake up or you’ll miss Voltaire!’

Already the crowds are beginning to arrive. Carriages pull up, people come on foot. There’s a long line of traffic all the way down the drive. This isn’t Annonay marketplace: today is on a whole different, mind-boggling scale.

The balloon has to work.

Yet I’m suddenly struck by all the horrific things that could go wrong. The fire might spread. The balloon could crash into the crowd. Or what if it doesn’t take off at all and the Montgolfiers are the laughing stock of France? If anything does fail there’s tens of thousands of people to witness it. It’ll be all over the news-sheets in no time.

It’s not helping, thinking like this. I take a deep breath. English spies and stolen notebooks aren’t going to ruin today. Even so, I do a quick scan of the light summer frocks and tall grey wigs in the crowd for a woman who’d stand out like a crow amongst this lot.

Behind me, a scrabble. A grunt. Pierre, awake at last, squeezes himself through the window. I pat a place for him to sit beside me. But he stays back, clinging to the window frame for dear life.

‘No chance,’ he says. ‘I’m not sitting that near the edge. Not even for Voltaire.’

‘You won’t see anything from back there,’ I plead, holding out my hand.

He won’t have it, though. He won’t even move. Just being up here is making him go a funny shade of green.

‘Oh come on—’

He cuts across me, ‘SACRÉ BLEU!’

It makes me jump. ‘What’s the matter?’

He refuses to let go of the window frame even to point. But I see where he’s looking, at a spot beyond the house, beyond the courtyards. Blocking my view in that direction is of a row of chimney pots, but when I stand up, I can see right over the top to the ground below.

At first, I think something’s happened to the grass down there. It’s not green. It’s bright blue. There are patterns on it – gold ones. And this odd-looking grass runs from the courtyard edge all the way to the first set of garden steps.

Then I realize. ‘Oh . . . my . . .’

‘Exactly,’ Pierre finishes. ‘Isn’t it incredible?’

What we’re staring at is the completed balloon laid out flat, ready to be filled with air. No wonder the King hired so many people to help make it. This version is vast. It’s not done in the Montgolfier’s colours this time, but the King’s own sky blue and gold. Every inch of fabric is patterned with leaves and cherubs and swathes of ribbons. It reminds me of the King’s rooms where we met him yesterday: the paper on the walls looks just like this. Quite honestly, it’s a work of art.

‘Imagine what it’ll look like in the air!’ Pierre’s starting to sound excited. I’m the one worrying now, about the fire they’ll need to get this huge thing airborne, because it’s a mistake we’ve made before. If the balloon comes down too soon, it’ll mean the flight’s a failure. If it drops too quickly, it’ll put our living passengers at risk, and I don’t dare mention that to Pierre.

I shift forwards for a better look at the preparations. There is a fire down there, that much I can see – and smell – it’s where the smokiness I smelled earlier is coming from. So far, it’s burning well. But it needs to stay that way.

‘I just hope they’ve got enough fuel,’ I mutter anxiously.

Pierre nods to the left of the fire. ‘You have seen their woodpile, haven’t you?’

I have now.

It’s not a woodpile, it’s a wood mountain. And still servants are coming with armfuls of logs, handcarts piled high with junk – fence posts, rotten hay, what looks like old leather saddles. There are no rules as to what to burn, we learned that from Annonay. I’m relieved it’s been taken on board.

From the courtyard come cheers, applause, the roar of voices. Excited, I nudge Pierre; he nudges back and grins. Moments later, we see the reason for all the noise. It’s the Montgolfiers. They’re walking round from the courtyard to our side of the Palace, shoulders straight, chins up. They look different – braver, more determined, ‘Like soldiers going to battle,’ I murmur to Pierre. I can tell he’s pleased by that idea.

The Montgolfiers stop by the fire. Shake their heads. Give orders. Pierre and I crane our necks to watch. Monsieur Joseph, in a blue and gold coat that fits too tightly, keeps checking a scrap of paper in his hand. In the end, he’s had to make do without the notebooks. But then he never did much like writing notes and, as things have turned out, maybe it’s better that way.

Monsieur Etienne, ever the showman, wanders round the entire balloon, hands behind his back like he’s on an evening stroll. He stops every few paces to inspect some detail. Guards, servants, important-looking men all hover beside him, hanging on his every word. So do we. Not that we can hear what’s said, but we’re watching, holding our breath.

At last it seems he’s happy.

A nod to Monsieur Joseph and more servants rush forward to attach the ropes. You can almost taste the tension in the air. And oh how I wish I was down there in the thick of it. Far easier that, than standing here doing nothing. My feet fidget endlessly. I smooth my frock, touch the brooch still pinned to the front of it. I wish everything would just hurry up.

Two servants then appear round the side of the Palace carrying an enormous wicker basket on their shoulders.

‘What’s that for?’ Pierre asks.

‘It’s what they’ll put the animals in, I expect,’ I reply, which brings on another wave of nerves because each time we’ve tried to tie things to the bottom of the balloon, well, let’s just say it hasn’t gone to plan. Though I don’t remind Pierre of this fact.

The passengers come next.

People stand back to let them through, clapping and cheering and waving flags. It’s Lancelot I see first, as Ginger Moustache leads her towards the balloon. Muzzle held high, she carries herself like she’s already famous. She’s enjoying all the attention, I can tell.

Servants carrying crates follow behind. In one, I can just about see a dark orange shape, not moving. I feel a pang in my chest for Coco.

‘Bon voyage, little prince,’ I murmur.

The crate behind carries Voltaire. Something’s not right, though. Coming from inside is an awful screechy sound. I’ve never heard him make a noise like it before. Even up on the rooftop I can hear it. Pierre does too. He goes very tense and very quiet.

‘He’ll be all right in a minute,’ I say quickly. ‘It’s probably just the noise of the crowd.’

But we both know Voltaire is a brave, proud duck. It’s Coco who’ll be scared, not him.

Pierre steps unsteadily out onto the roof.

‘Come and sit down,’ I say, patting the place beside me again because he’s making me nervous.

‘Voltaire’s terrified. Listen to him. I can’t leave him!’ Pierre cries. He’s proper upset, flinging his arms about, which only makes him wobble more.

‘All right,’ I say, trying to stay calm. ‘We’ll . . . we’ll . . . Just don’t do anything stupid!’

Yet the words are barely out of my mouth before he’s swinging his legs over the edge of the roof.