Free Genevieve: A Witchblood Story (Witchblood Series) by Emma Mills

Outskirts of Paris 1793
    The air was freezing. A young girl crouched down and traced her finger over the intricate petals of frost, sparkling on the cobbles. She was the only one foolish enough to be outdoors. Driven by necessity, and lurking in the shadows of the rotting wooden door, she scoured the alleyway before stepping out. A quiet moan reached her ears and she turned back to the dilapidated cottage, whispering reassurance.
    ‘I’ve got to go , Maman. We need food.’
    The girl’s mother lay half-hidden in a dark corner of the room, curled up beneath what had once been a finely woven blanket, now spoiled with mud and snags. The woman’s breathing was shallow, her body unaccustomed to the hardships of the last month, her emotions unable to compute the loss of her family... the betrayal of her eldest son.
    ‘Stay, Genevieve. Please?’ the mother begged, her eyes filling with tears as she stifled another bout of coughs.
    Genevieve ’s face creased with worry and her head pounded. Unable to remember when she’d last eaten, the muddy water they had shared churned in her stomach, making the hunger pangs worse. She knew they should stick together, but her mother could go no further and they needed food.
    The girl tugged nervously on the peasant trousers her younger brother Alfred had found for her, just days before Philippe had gone and betrayed them all. The trousers were loose and felt strange against her skin; the shoes were too big and slipped whenever she moved forward. She pulled her long cloak round her tiny waist and tucked the wisps of dark hair back into their hiding place beneath the hat she’d stolen. She felt small and vulnerable without the enormous panniers, corset, double petticoats, and dresses. Panniers made her three times the size of the male courtiers and her wigs had made her a foot taller, but now she felt like a child again.
    Pride no longer an option, Genevieve had become quite adept at stealing over the past couple of weeks. She had no choice. Frowning, she thought of the diamond earrings she’d received as an engagement present on her fourteenth birthday; it seemed a lifetime ago. So much had happened in five years.
    The foundation of the National Assembly, followed by the imprisonment of the king , had saved her from an arranged marriage and a dull life sitting pretty in Versailles. Yet her parents had snubbed Alfred when he had urged her family to flee. They had too much faith in their breeding; their royal blood. They were to be respected, admired. Papa refused to call it a revolution; to him it was merely political unrest which needed a strong hand. Unfortunately for them all, King Louis XVI was never revered for his leadership and, like much of his Court, he was known instead for excess and frivolity.
    Genevieve sighed and took a final glance at her mother’s shivering body.
    ‘Buy something for us then. We still have coins?’ her mother queried.
    Genevieve patted her waist. She still had the gold charm bracelet and a purse full of coins. She’d hidden them beneath the bandages wrapped tightly round her chest, in an effort to hide her curves. Life would be so much easier if she could only sell the jewels. The proceeds would pay for somewhere warm to stay, and food to eat, but she knew she couldn’t risk it. The coins in her purse weren’t the dirty coppers befitting of a peasant; they were shiny golden francs. Knowing that proof of any kind of wealth would mean their disguise as peasants would be null and void; not only that, but what would follow could only get worse. Age or gender didn’t matter. She’d witnessed childhood friends and their mothers beaten, raped, tortured and ridiculed. With their heads shaven, they were paraded through the mean streets, only to meet their ultimate demise alongside the rest of her family. No! The girl shook her head. She would find some bread. She would survive. They would survive.
    ‘I’ll be back soon,’ she whispered , before stepping