25

One second he’s there. The next, he’s gone. I’m stuck to the spot, horrified. All I can see in my mind’s eye is the gruesome, pulpy mess Pierre’ll make when he hits the courtyard below. Yet I’m aware that no one’s screaming down there, so eventually, I tell myself to be brave and risk a look.

Deep in the crowd I see the top of Pierre’s curly head. My legs go weak with relief. He’s upright and moving, pushing against the hordes, though he’s not making much progress. Voltaire’s crate is still a few hundred yards away: inside it, the dreadful screeching goes on.

I need to get down there. An extra pair of elbows to dig through the crowds. Together we might reach Voltaire in time to soothe him or save him. Whatever it takes to stop that horrible noise. To my right there’s a hefty gutter pipe, perfect for shinning down, which I’m guessing was Pierre’s way off the roof. Dreaming of breeches, I tuck up my blasted skirts and follow suit.

It’s like jumping into a fast-flowing river. The second my feet touch the ground I’m swept along by the crowd. I’m carried almost back as far as the courtyard again. Forget elbows, it takes all my strength to stay standing, and by now I’ve lost sight of Pierre.

And still the people keep coming. Moving amongst the crowd are servants carrying platters of balloon-shaped biscuits. High above the rabble, on the Palace balconies, counts and countesses and other important types are gathering. The scene is all white wigs and fluttering fans – it’s like staring up at an enormous dovecote.

On the central balcony is the King himself. Beside him is the Queen, wearing the most eye-popping outfit I’ve ever seen. Everything is bright blue and dazzling gold – real gold by the looks of it, just like the brooch I’m wearing. The Queen’s skirts alone are wide enough to fill the entire balcony, and as for her wig – alors, her wig! – well, it towers above her head like a thundercloud. Attached to it is what looks like a toy version of the blue and gold balloon. Gabrielle is with her, talking, laughing and wearing a smaller version of the same wig, and even that’s so tall it quivers when she turns her head.

It’s the height of fashion, I bet people are saying, though when I think of how the Queen bargained with the King for her outfit, I’d rather have Lancelot any day of the week.

A stroke of luck and the crowd-tide begins to turn. People are moving closer to the fire now, and using all my strength, I’m able to fight my way towards the front.

Only ten, maybe twenty yards ahead is the balloon itself. It’s no longer flat on the ground, but is starting to float, to plump up with air. Above people’s heads, through gaps in the crowd, I glimpse gold leaves, bows, swirls. It’s so magnificent I feel a great smile spread across my face. The magic has begun.

Everything this close to the balloon is now a whirl of action. Shouting. Pushing. Heat from the fire. Guards are ordering people to stand back. Somewhere in amongst it all, Voltaire is still complaining. And then Monsieur Etienne’s voice: ‘What the deuce is the matter with that duck?’

Perhaps it’s because everyone’s forced to move back that I spot a sudden opening in the crowd. Elbows out, I push through. People push back, shout, try to grab or slap me.

When I come up for air there is none, only heat, so hot it scorches through my frock. I’m right in front of the fire now yet still can’t see Pierre anywhere. It’s all guards, servants, people rushing around doing last-minute checks. And Monsieur Etienne. When he spots me he’s furious.

‘What on EARTH? You can’t just turn up here!’ he yells.

‘But Pierre . . .’ I stutter. ‘It’s Voltaire . . .’

He keeps shouting: ‘We’re not playing at this anymore, Magpie! This isn’t a little experiment in the orchard!’

‘If it wasn’t for our “little experiment”,’ I spit back, ‘We wouldn’t be here today!’

Before we can say more Monsieur Joseph appears and hands me a rope. He’s angry too, I can tell, but his is the frosty, silent kind.

‘I don’t want to hear your excuses,’ he says. ‘Just hold this rope and do exactly as I say for once!’

I nod. I want to help, I really do. But I’m worried about Pierre, and stuck here holding a rope I’m not sure I’ll find him.

As the Versailles clock chimes the hour, a cannon booms, so loud I feel it through my feet. The crowd go ‘ahhh’ in excitement. On the count of three, the fabric is nudged further into the air. The ropes go taut. Above our heads, the balloon keeps growing. It’s so huge now it’s almost blocking out the sky. More fuel is added to the fire. Another wave of heat hits me. Take-off, I know, is only minutes away.

‘Steadyyyy with the ropes,’ Monsieur Etienne cries, like he’s soothing a nervous horse.

There’s another great ‘oooooohhhhh!’ from the crowd, as above our heads, the balloon grows taller and fatter. Slowly, almost lazily, it rights itself until it’s in position for take-off. All that’s left to do now is to attach the passenger basket. This time, it takes more than two servants to carry it. I’m guessing the passengers are already on board.

‘Mind your backs!’ one of the servants cries, as we step aside to let them through.

As the basket passes close by, I smell sheep fleece. Voltaire’s fussy quack comes from inside. Shame Pierre didn’t reach him in time, though thankfully he sounds calmer now, more his usual self. I hear Coco too, making his oh-so-familiar clucking sound like someone clearing their throat. I want to touch the basket, wish him luck. But both hands are full of rope. And as Monsieur Etienne roars: ‘Stand back for the signal!’ the basket passes on by to be tied to the balloon.

My arms are really starting to ache. More shouting. More people running and pulling. Everything’s happening so fast. The cannon booms a second time: the take-off signal.

‘Time to loosen the ropes!’ Monsieur Etienne yells. ‘Slowly now!’

We let them out a few inches at first. Then a few feet. What were great heaps of rope on the ground quickly unravel. As the pull of the balloon gets stronger, it’s all we can do to keep hold at all.

Suddenly, there’s another commotion at the front of the crowd. A woman has pushed her way through. She’s shouting and waving her arms about. A cold feeling trickles down the back of my neck when I see how she really does stand out like a crow.

‘Stop the flight!’ Madame Delacroix yells. ‘I demand it! Stop at once!’

She’s too late. The flight’s about to happen and there’s nothing she can do. Then, she sees me. She stops shouting and stares instead, a look that strips the skin from my bones.

‘You little thief!’ Madame Delacroix spits at me.

It’s hardly an insult. Yet she’s so poisonous with it, I’m afraid. Her sights are fixed beyond me though: she’s moving in on the Montgolfiers. Monsieur Etienne, frowning, backs away. Monsieur Joseph is completely bewildered.

‘Listen to me, Etienne. And you, Joseph,’ she says. ‘Do as I say and you’ll have your notebooks back. I’ll walk away and you can carry on as if nothing has happened.’

I lick my lips. She’s holding something and adjusts her grip. Her hands must be hot inside those gloves when we’re this close to the fire.

Monsieur Etienne lunges for her. In the tail of my eye, I see a flash of silver.

‘Watch out!’ Monsieur Joseph cries. ‘She’s got a sword!’

She swings the blade high above her head, then down again. Air rushes past my ear. Before I know what is happening, something cold and sharp presses against my neck.