27

It probably looks worse than it is. If it was really bad, it’d be painful, wouldn’t it, and all I can feel is a little bit of stinging in my chest. There’s a stupid amount of blood, though. It’s all over my hands. As I go to wipe them in the skirt of my frock, I find that’s bloody too, which is annoying. I want to be gazing at the view not tending to a stupid scratch.

With something to focus on, Pierre stops looking green about the gills and becomes quite bossy. He tears an arm off his shirt and folds it into a sort of pad.

‘Press it hard against your chest,’ he instructs me. ‘And keep it there. It’ll stop the bleeding.’

I do as he says, though it hurts then – a nasty, leg-buckling pain. I don’t mention it, mind you. I just want to get back to enjoying the ride.

Beneath us is a long, thin ribbon of dirt, which I guess is the main road back to Paris. Every so often, we pass over a house, a barn. In one field, a group of horses sets off galloping and bucking at the sight of us. There are birds who shriek, people on the ground who wave. It’s incredible. I want to stay up here for ever.

‘You all right?’ Pierre asks more than once. ‘You look cold.’

‘I’m great!’ I tell him, though I do feel a bit lightheaded.

When the basket gives its first little shudder I hardly notice. The second time, it’s more of a shake – and quite a strong one. Glancing up, I notice the balloon is rippling as if it’s lost air.

It’s Pierre who spots the tear. It’s a third of the way up the balloon, curved, about a yard in length. It looks newly done, jagged round the edges, like someone’s taken a swipe at it with a sharp weapon. The dread hits me when I realize I’m not the only thing Camille Delacroix has cut.

‘It’s not that big,’ I say, trying to stay upbeat.

‘You said that about your wound,’ Pierre points out.

And really, I know any tear isn’t good – in a person or a balloon. A cold sweat breaks out on my forehead. Our flight is going to be over sooner than we thought.

With a jolt, we begin to lose height quite quickly. Coco chooses this moment to wake up so I put him down on the floor. Lancelot, finally realizing she isn’t in a field, starts pacing, which makes the basket rock, and Voltaire flap his wings in panic. Pierre braces himself against the basket. He looks as pale as I feel.

We’re dropping fast. And it seems to be getting faster. Beneath us the treetops loom closer. I see details again – the colour of curtains at a window, the swishing of a horse’s tail. Above us, the balloon topples to the side. Instead of drifting straight down, we seem to be at an angle. Just up ahead is another road – this one’s a crossroads. There’s plenty of traffic on it: horses, carriages, people on foot, all staring up at us. I pray we don’t come down on top of them.

‘Will there be a bump when we land?’ Pierre asks.

‘A little one,’ I lie.

Somehow, the balloon limps on for a few hundred more yards. We brush the tops of a copse of trees. Then, before us a blessed sight: open ground. Standing in the middle is a person who, as we close in, I see is a boy with fair hair. My heart goes double time because it’s Sebastien.

‘Oi! Watch out!’ I yell. ‘We’re going to land! Grab a rope if you can!’

Coming in low, we’re on course to clip Sebastien’s right shoulder. Just in time he goes sideways and we avoid him. Then we hit the ground once. Twice. The basket tips over. There’s a scratching of claws, flapping wings, beaks, hooves and Pierre and me all tangled up together. Everything’s spinning. With a final thump, it stops.

What comes next is a very long silence. I feel a mad throbbing sensation in my chest. My frock is wet, sticking to my skin. I don’t need to look to know it’s blood. Someone starts groaning; I think it’s Pierre. Out on the field, Lancelot is already grazing. Voltaire rushes from the basket then stops to paddle his feet in the grass. If a duck could ever look glad to be on firm ground, he does. Yet a few yards away, Coco lies still.

As soon as I move, the pain spikes under my ribs. I catch my breath as the field spins. Somehow, I drag myself the short distance to Coco. I’m hoping, begging he’s just stunned.

‘Come on little friend,’ I murmur, scooping him into my arms. ‘Time to wake up.’

I stroke his chest in tiny circles, just the way he likes it. Finally, he opens one eye, then the other. I’m so relieved I want to cry.

Then, the biggest surprise.

Coco, my silent, sleepy rooster, tips back his head and crows. And crows some more, on and on, and so loud they probably hear it in England.

I’m still laughing with relief when a hand touches my shoulder. I look up to see Sebastien standing beside me, staring at the wrecked balloon in absolute amazement. Well, I suppose it is amazing to see two people and three animals drop from the sky. Maybe it’s shock, or the surprise of seeing him again, but my teeth start chattering and I come over all shivery-cold.

Pierre, wiping his hand on his breeches, offers it to Sebastien, who shakes it.

‘About the duel—’ Pierre starts to say. But Sebastien’s noticed I’m shaking and tries to put an arm round my shoulders. The pain makes me yelp.

‘Oh!’ He pulls away. I’ve left blood all down the side of his shirt. Quite a lot of it too.

‘It’s just a scratch. Don’t fuss,’ I tell him.

Yet the sight of all that red makes my head spin, and before I know it, I’m lying flat out on the grass. Sebastien crouches beside me, his lovely face knotted with concern. ‘It’s more than a scratch, Magpie. You need a surgeon, tout de suite!’

‘I suppose you’re going to offer to help me again, are you?’ I say, looking him straight in the eye.

He laughs easily. ‘That’s not a challenge to my honour, is it?’

It’s meant in jest, I know. But there’s something about him today. Don’t know what. Until I see his hand, that is, the same hand he was flexing yesterday, which despite him denying it, is swollen and bruised. I can’t think why he’d lie.

Between them, Pierre and Sebastien manage to prop me up. But by the time an open carriage and horses comes thundering across the field in our direction, I’m flagging badly. It’s Monsieur Joseph who jumps out first, and rushes to us. Monsieur Etienne makes a beeline for the balloon.

‘Idiot boy!’ Monsieur Joseph cries, crushing Pierre in a hug. I wonder if this is the telling off he’s been fearing: if it is then we’ve not much to worry about.

Next, a man I’ve never seen before appears. ‘I’m Monsieur de Rozier,’ he says. ‘I’ve an interest in science and am here to check the animals survived the flight.’

‘Animals?’ Pierre cries. ‘What about Magpie?’

‘I might’ve known you’d be in this together!’ Monsieur Joseph remarks. ‘What possessed you to do something so dangerous?’

‘Poultry, mostly,’ I admit.

He splutters, almost smiles. Then sees the blood and cries out.

‘Bandages, quickly!’ he snaps his fingers at Monsieur de Rozier. ‘And water and brandy! Hurry!’

As Monsieur de Rozier rushes back to the carriage, I glimpse another passenger still inside: a dark dress, sleek black hair. That old feeling of dread comes over me again.

‘She came quietly in the end,’ Monsieur Joseph remarks, following my gaze. ‘I think we’ve all got some explaining to do when we get back to the palace.’

Madame Delacroix – Camille – sits alone in the carriage, her hands in her lap like they’ve been tied together. Even now, she’s still wearing her gloves. I look away. I’m tired of her – tired of even trying to keep my eyes open.

I don’t shut them, though. And I wish I had. When everyone’s talking and fussing over me and he thinks no one’s watching, Sebastien goes over to the carriage. One foot on the step, he starts talking to Camille. I can’t hear what’s being said at first. Not until I catch a few words of it and realize with a shudder: they’re talking in English.

So much for honour.

It’s as if we’re back in the air, gazing down on familiar things that, from high up, look very different. Except I’m not flying any more. I’m in the middle of a field watching the handsome boy who’d wanted to help me deep in conversation with the one person who for months now, most definitely did not.

‘They know each other?’ Pierre’s shocked too.

I nod dismally. ‘Seems that way.’

What Sebastien’s part in all this is, I don’t properly know. I just feel such a fool – I’m usually smarter than this, but with him I let down my guard. I reckon I was closest to knowing the truth about him back in that Paris street when he’d offered to carry the box. The whole thing makes me feel exhausted.

Monsieur de Rozier returns with his bandages and brandy. He tries to move me but the pain makes me almost faint.

‘We need to get her to the surgeon at the palace,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘She’s losing too much blood.’

At least I think that’s what he says. He sounds really far away all of a sudden, like he’s underwater. Everything’s gone twilight-dark. I feel strange. But Pierre’s still here with me, and Coco’s tucked under my arm, so I’m not alone.

And we flew, I think, a warm, peaceful feeling spreading through me. Whatever happens now, at least we flew.