28

It turns out I’m a fighter. That’s what the surgeon says after he’s sewn up a three-inch hole in my chest. He makes me bite down on a leather strap for the pain. It doesn’t help, but at least I don’t faint again.

‘She’s tough, this one,’ Monsieur Etienne agrees; he sounds impressed. ‘I knew it from the moment I saw her.’

It also turns out that Pierre and his shirt sleeve saved my life. Without his quick action to slow the bleeding I’d probably not have made it.

‘You did the same for me once, remember?’ Pierre says when I try to thank him. ‘And back then you didn’t even know who I was.’

Oh yes I did, I think guiltily, I really did. But we settle on a teary ‘Merci’, and leave it there.

I’m moved from the surgeon’s table to a huge white bed and given more brandy and strict orders to rest. Tired and sore though I am, I want news. And Coco. I beg Pierre for both, so when the maid tending me isn’t looking, he sneaks Coco in under a blanket. But as for news of the balloon and the King’s reaction, he shakes his head: ‘Papa wants to speak to us about it.’

So I guess the telling off is still to come, after all.

It’s dark when I wake up. It must be the same day – even though the windows are closed, I can still hear the crowd outside. Someone’s lit the candles, and sitting next to my bed is Monsieur Joseph. Monsieur Etienne is with him, arms folded. From the other side of the bed, I hear quacking, so I know Pierre and Voltaire are here too. It feels daft to be just lying here, so helpless. Though when I try to wriggle up the bed, I’m too weak.

‘You’re angry, aren’t you?’ I say warily.

‘Angry?’ Monsieur Etienne’s eyebrows go sky-high. ‘My dear child, what you did put the whole flight in jeopardy! It took some pretty fast talking, let me tell you, to persuade the King you’d not been planted in that balloon basket by the English!’

I pluck at the bedsheet, ashamed. Beside me Pierre swallows noisily. Now, in the light of day, I can see how stupid we’ve been. I mean, we’d been arrested as spies, hadn’t we, so of course it looked suspicious. What makes it worse is that I start to cry.

‘We didn’t mean it,’ I sob. ‘Pierre was worried about Voltaire, and I got hurt by Madame—’

‘Stop, Magpie, that’s enough.’ Monsieur Joseph puts his hand over mine. ‘Now, listen to me, both of you. What you did today was very dangerous and I’m furious with you.’

Except, oddly, he doesn’t sound it. Looking up, I see he’s trying to keep a straight face. Monsieur Etienne doesn’t even bother to hide it; he’s now beaming from ear to ear. My mouth falls open. I laugh, unsure, then glance at Pierre, who’s smiling too.

‘It’s all right,’ he says.

And it is.

Maybe because I feel safe at last, amongst friends, I start to cry a bit more. Me and Pierre have done something no one else in the whole world has done. Together, we’ve flown in a balloon. Of course it was reckless. We didn’t know if it would fly or be safe, or if we’d come back to earth in one piece. But I’ve never been good at following rules.

‘Magpie,’ Monsieur Joseph says. ‘Oh Magpie.’ And the way he says it, warmed with a smile, makes it probably the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me. There’s a bit of awkward shuffling. An ‘ouch’ from me as he tries to wrap his arms round my shoulders, but in the end he settles for planting a kiss on the top of my head.

When he pulls away Monsieur Joseph takes out notebook and pencil.

‘I must have your account of the flight,’ he says to Pierre and me. ‘Tonight, before you forget it.’

‘I’ll never forget it,’ I assure him.

Once I’ve been revived with hot chocolate and a meat pie, it’s pretty exhilarating to go over the whole experience again: every sight, every sound, every movement – even Lancelot’s upset stomach. As we speak, Monsieur Joseph makes notes – lots and lots of notes – and Monsieur Etienne questions us until my head begins to droop.

Eventually, Monsieur Joseph lays down his pencil. ‘We’ve achieved great things here today, everyone. To make that balloon fly was the work of many months and many people. There were times when we thought it could never succeed. Yet, despite what fate chose to throw at us, today was a resounding success.’

Fate.

The wound in my chest starts throbbing.

‘Did you get the brooch back from Camille?’ I ask.

Monsieur Joseph rubs a hand over his face. Glances at Monsieur Etienne, who goes to a side table and pours himself a glass of water.

‘It’s a bit more complicated than that, Magpie,’ Monsieur Etienne says. I get the sense he doesn’t want to talk about it, which makes me push.

‘How? She stole it. You were there. You saw her do it.’ I don’t mention what she called me, but I’ve a nasty feeling they might’ve heard that too.

‘As far as we’re aware she’s still got the brooch,’ Monsieur Joseph says wearily.

I’m surprised. I look at Pierre, who’s frowning.

‘But it was expensive, wasn’t it?’ he asks.

Monsieur Joseph shrugs.

‘And what about the notebooks in the box?’ Now I’m confused. ‘You know a man came for them, don’t you? He’s a spy for the English – a proper one, I mean. It’s him who smashed up Pierre’s face.’

Monsieur Joseph flinches at this, but shakes his head. ‘No, Delamere’s not a spy.’

‘They caught him,’ I argue, surprised Monsieur Joseph knows his name too. ‘He’s down in the cellar with all the others.’

It’s Monsieur Etienne who comes over and sits at the foot of my bed.

‘Magpie,’ he says, so gently it makes me nervous. ‘This is to go no further, but I think the King got rather carried away on security matters these past few days. I don’t actually believe any of those poor people he rounded up are English spies.’

Pierre gasps. ‘What, none of them?’

I’m starting to feel dizzy again. None of it makes sense. This has always been about the notebooks. Always. Right from the break-in on that very first night.

‘So Madame Delacroix isn’t a spy?’ I say, to be clear. ‘Camille isn’t working for the English?’

‘No. Nor’s her husband, Monsieur Delamere.’

My hunch was right then! They were working together.

‘How do you know her, anyway?’ I ask.

A glance passes between the Montgolfiers.

‘By birth,’ Monsieur Joseph says. ‘She’s our sister.’

I stare at him. He’s not lying. Or smiling. He means it. Of course he does. It’s why they know each other’s first names.

Camille Delacroix is a Montgolfier.

I shut my eyes; I have to, to stop the room spinning. I wonder if I’m still in shock from all that blood, or whether it’s because there’s something here I’ve misunderstood.

‘She didn’t steal the brooch, not exactly,’ Monsieur Joseph says. ‘It was hers in the first place. It’s always been hers. How it came to be hidden in that box I don’t know.’

The box was what she wanted, what she sent me into the house that night to fetch. Not papers, not notebooks: the box. Because all the time that gold brooch was tucked away in the lining.

There’s a creak in the bed as Monsieur Etienne stands up. ‘Let’s talk about it in the morning, shall we? You’re exhausted.’

I open my eyes. Monsieur Joseph is on his feet now too. Pierre’s carrying Voltaire under his arm. They’re all leaving.

‘Don’t go!’ I’m desperate for them to stay and tell me Camille’s story because there must be one – no one’s that angry without reason.

Monsieur Joseph mistakes my interest for fear.

‘Don’t worry, you’re safe tucked away up here,’ he says. ‘Camille won’t hurt you again. She’s spending the night down in the cells. They’re taking her to the city jail in the morning. From there we’ll determine if she’s a criminal or just very sick.’

It’s amazing how cool he sounds about his own sister. Not that I’ve forgotten how she threatened me – attacked me – so I suppose it’s justice of sorts. Yet something about all this still makes me uneasy. I can’t put my finger on it. But I think people are made of good and bad, and that nobody, not even thieves or English spies or scorned sisters, are all one or the other. I’d say that applies to Sebastien too.

If I want to hear Camille’s side of the story I’d better ask her myself, tonight, while I’ve still got the chance.