26

‘Stand back!’ Madame Delacroix snarls like a hunting dog with a dead rabbit it won’t give up. ‘Don’t any of you come near!’

She’s got me: arm round my shoulders, sword at my throat. I can’t move a muscle. And I’m still holding this blasted balloon rope. The ache in my arms is fast becoming unbearable. I’m not sure how much longer I can hang on.

Monsieur Etienne tries again to grab the weapon from her.

‘I’m warning you,’ she says, swinging the sword in his direction this time. ‘I’ll use this if I have to.’

Now I see it properly it’s a scary great thing – a good few feet of silver. She must’ve swiped it from a careless guard. Monsieur Etienne holds up his hands in defeat. ‘Stop this, Camille. I don’t know what you want, but this isn’t the way to go about it.’

Camille. Etienne. First names. They know each other?

I’m properly confused. Hadn’t she been working for the enemy? Didn’t she want those papers to sell on so that an English inventor could claim his flying machine was the first?

I’d assumed this was a simple case of fame and money – lots of both, the sort of amounts people went crazy over.

First names, though, makes it personal. Madame Delacroix – Camille – doesn’t waste time in saying so, either.

‘You’re lucky,’ she goes on. ‘To have an invention that’ll put your name in the history books. You’ll be the toast of France, won’t you?’

‘Not if we don’t get on with it,’ Monsieur Etienne points out.

The crowd nearest to us can see what’s happening. They’re stunned, silent. But, further back, people are getting restless. Someone shouts, ‘Come on! What’re we waiting for?’ There’s a cheer of agreement.

‘Put the weapon down,’ Monsieur Joseph pleads. He’s sweating like a pig. ‘Whatever it is you want, we can talk. But not now; the King’s waiting.’

I can hardly feel my arms anymore. The other people holding on to the ropes are complaining too. But Camille isn’t going to rush.

‘All my life I’ve lived in your shadows,’ she says, ‘You had the attention, the education, the opportunities to achieve great things. What did I have?’

Monsieur Etienne interrupts: ‘Camille, stop—’

‘What I had,’ she keeps talking, her voice high and tight, ‘Was a mother’s love. She promised me magic. And in the end, when you already had so much, you took that away from me too.’

She’s ranting. She must be mad. But when I glance at the Montgolfiers they’re both looking so shifty I’m suddenly not sure. The point of the sword is back against my throat again, pressing ever harder. She’s sweating too – we all are – as the flames get higher and brighter.

I can’t hold my rope any more.

As I let go, the balloon lurches upwards – only in one corner though, throwing the whole thing off balance.

‘Watch out! It’s coming down!’ someone wails. And suddenly everyone’s rushing and shouting again. The crowd pushes against us, against Camille. Taken by surprise her sword slips – at least I think it does. I feel it scrape down my throat, before the panic kicks in.

‘Get off me!’ I scream.

But she’s still pinching my arm, and her face, close to mine, is tight with hate.

‘Once a thief, always a thief!’ she hisses. ‘But not any more. I want my brooch back.’

Her spit’s on my cheeks. I try to spit back. Bite. Anything to get away. Then I feel a sharp tugging at the front of my frock. The fabric tears. And just like that she lets go of me so fast it propels me backwards.

I fall against the passenger basket. It’s bumping along the ground, dangerously close to the fire. From inside, I hear bleating and clucking. Those poor animals! I have to get them out before the whole thing crashes into the flames.

I’ve already hooked my arms over the rim, when Monsieur Etienne yells for me to keep away.

I ignore him. With a kick, I get one leg over the side. No one else can hold onto their ropes. One by one in quick succession, as they let go, the basket begins to lift.

For a very long moment, I’m stuck. Half in, half out. My heart’s in my throat. Just when I start slipping to the ground, a hand grabs my frock. A great heave and I’m pulled properly inside the basket.

‘What the—?’ I yelp.

With a great thud, I land at Lancelot’s feet. She’s tied to the side of the basket, eating a pile of grass. I see the two bird crates, Coco and Voltaire still inside.

Sat with his fingers curled round the bars of one of them is Pierre, who looks about to be sick.

‘Honestly, Magpie, it was the only way I could get Voltaire to calm down,’ he tries explaining.

As I crawl across the floor to sit next to him, I make light of it. ‘Fancy seeing you here. Thought you didn’t like flying.’

‘I don’t,’ he replies. ‘And your moving about’s making it worse.’

Poor Pierre. He’s done this for Voltaire and my chest aches for him. If I could get them both back down safely, I honestly would. But the tethering ropes hang slack against the balloon. It’s too late to stop the flight. We’re floating free.

I sit tight until the rocking slows. Then I reach for Pierre’s hand. It feels cold and clammy, like it had that day when he’d wound the rope too tight around his wrist and got dragged into the sky. This time’s different. We’re inside a basket, together, with a balloon full of hot air above us. What’s more, the King of France is watching. The horror of the last few minutes slides away. I start smiling: I can’t help myself.

‘You might not believe me,’ I tell Pierre. ‘But you’re going to enjoy this.’

‘Don’t be stupid, Magpie. I’m going to throw up.’ Which he does over the side in spectacular fashion.

When he’s finally finished, I open the bird crates. It is wonderful to see Coco again, and he nestles in the crook of my arm like nothing is amiss. Lancelot too, legs splayed for balance, nuzzles my foot like she remembers me at last and breathes gently on Coco. Even Voltaire looks his usual dignified self again.

‘Don’t know what you had to panic about,’ I tell him. ‘You’re the only one of us who can actually fly. If this balloon goes down, you’ll be fine.’

‘Shut up!’ Pierre wails. He’s got his eyes closed. If only he’d open them and look up, he’d see.

Above our heads, the balloon has swelled magnificently. Against its bright blue and gold, even the sky seems a little faded. It must look brilliant from the ground. Not that I’d want to be down there: this is the very best place to be, especially as we’re still gaining height.

The noise of the crowd grows fainter as we drift away from the Palace. It’s so peaceful. Soon, all I can hear is the sighing of the balloon, and next to me, Lancelot chomping grass. Coco’s snoring, Voltaire’s perched on Pierre’s lap. We could almost be at home in the orchard, all together under a tree, that’s how calm it feels.

My mind drifts back to the very start, all those months ago in that field, or rather, in the sky above it. The world had, in that moment, looked so different. It made me think that things could change if only you saw them differently.

Very slowly, I get to my feet.

Pierre’s eyes ping open straight away. ‘Don’t move! Stay still!’

‘It’s not going to tip up,’ I reassure him.

Keeping my hands on the basket rim, I peer out for the very first time.

‘Oh, my!’ I breathe. ‘This is incredible!’

We’re over the gardens that surround Versailles. Behind us, the Palace is as small as a pile of toy bricks. At the front of it is the courtyard, packed with tiny dots. Beyond, paths and driveways span out like spokes from a wheel. Everything is cream-coloured or green, every line part of a pattern. No wonder the Queen’s farm was so perfect – the whole world looks that way from up here.

‘Pierre, you really should see this.’

He shakes his head. ‘I can’t.’

I feel my stomach lifting. We’re going higher. Suddenly though, Pierre leaps to his feet like he’s been stung by wasps.

‘The filthy beast has just . . . ugh!’ His breeches are splattered brown, and stinking to high heaven. ‘It’s eaten so much grass it’s got the flux!’

Lancelot, noble as ever, keeps chewing.

‘Stand here, beside me, and hold on to the edge,’ I tell him, trying not to laugh. I don’t tell him he smells worse than old cabbage. I’m just glad he’s got his eyes open at last.

As well as drifting up, we’re moving away from the Palace gardens now. There are more trees, acres of parkland with lakes sunk into the ground.

‘Oh, Magpie!’ Pierre gasps. ‘C’est merveilleux!’

‘Isn’t it fantastic?’

He nods shakily. ‘I didn’t know the world could look like this. Oh, everyone should see it! Everyone should get the chance to fly, shouldn’t they?’

‘Yes, they should,’ I agree, glancing at him sideways, ‘Even people who thought they’d be scared.’

A wide smile spreads across his face. Seeing him like that makes me smile too, though the best part of everything is having my favourite person in all the world here to share it with me.

‘Magpie.’ Pierre turns serious. ‘You do realize we’re the very first people in history to fly in a balloon, don’t you?’

He’s right. No other living creature has been up in the air before. Even the animals here with us are the first to try a flight like this, to see how they fared. We’ve beaten the English, Madame Delacroix, a couple of robbery attempts. We’ve even beaten the Montgolfiers themselves, who’ve made a balloon but never set foot in one.

‘We’re not supposed to be up here though, are we?’ I remind him. ‘So it might not count, you know, in the history books and all that.’

‘We know, though, don’t we Magpie?’ Pierre says.

I nod: we do. No history book can take that from us. I’m so lost in it all, I don’t notice that Pierre’s staring at me. It’s a funny, wide-eyed expression he’s got. I just hope he’s not about to ruin the moment by going moony on me or something.

‘What’s up with you?’ I ask, a bit sharp.

He points to the front of my frock. ‘The brooch. It’s gone.’

‘I think that crazy lady with the sword took it,’ I say.

Looking down, I see a tear in the fabric just below my collarbone where the brooch had been. In its place is a big, dark stain.

Pierre’s suddenly looking sick again. ‘You’ve been hurt.’

The stain is wet. I frown, touch it, taste it.

It’s blood.