Free The Black Hawk by Joanna Bourne Page A

soldier,” Séverine said. “He is Belle-Marie’s particular friend.”
    So Théodore got his bite of apple. Séverine was content to finish the rest of it. The dolls, after all, had their lovely plates of round white stones.
    Séverine had opened the windows at both ends of the loft. It could not be said to be cool, but a little breeze found its way here, often enough. The loft was shaded by the height of the stable. It was as comfortable a place as any to pass the heat of the afternoon.
    Under the disorder and the deliberately cultivated dust, this was a place of refuge. One could rest here . . . and she was very tired. This last week, her days had been filled with schemes and excitements and work that must be done. Robespierre had fallen. The government had changed. There had been a small amount of riot and fighting. She had been soaked in the rain, not once but twice, and had run the length of Paris a dozen times arranging small matters with huge consequences. She could not remember when she had last slept.
    She said, “I must work tonight. I’m sorry.”
    “It is all right. Babette lets me sleep in her room, you know. She is teaching me to knit. I am making a shawl for Madame, but that is a secret you must not tell anyone.”
    “I will be as silent as soup.”
    “You are very silly. Soup is not silent. Soup goes . . .” and Séverine made a slurping sound.
    “I will be silent as a potato then. Potatoes are the quietest of vegetables.”
    The festivities upon the napkin continued. Séverine discussed the weather politely with Belle-Marie and Théodore.
    Justine took advantage of the decrepit chair that was overturned behind her. Blankets were stacked here, ready to make up rough pallets for the next occupant of this refuge. She pushed them about to make a pleasant softness and leaned back against the chair and closed her eyes. In a while, she must go to her room and sleep. For now, she would enjoy being with Séverine, who had abandoned the plates on the floor and was walking both dolls over the tops of some barrels.
    Justine said, “What are they doing now?”
    “We are through with luncheon. We are going to the office of the avocat. ”
    “That’s good.”
    “Théodore will give Belle-Marie a nice settlement. He is very kind.”
    She opened her eyes. “What?”
    “He will take her to live in the Faubourg Germain in a grand appartement and buy her pretty clothing. He has promised it.”
    “Oh. Well.” She sat up. She did not feel like dealing with this. She did not know how.
    “She will give him her youth. It is like Virginie, who is giving her youth to Monsieur le Citoyen Barbier. She has a beautiful bracelet from him. She showed me. It has red stones in it.”
    Belle-Marie and her Théodore decided they would go to the park instead. So they jumped from crate to crate, going to the park. Then Séverine pulled a box over to the window and stood on it and looked out to wave at Jean le Gros.
    “Look.” Séverine leaned very far out the window. “Jeanne has brought a new man home. I hope he does not have diseases. Virginie says we will all catch diseases because Jeanne has the brains of a peahen and brings home any man she meets in the park. Will we catch diseases?”
    “No.”
    She cannot stay here. What am I going to do?

Nine
     
     
     
    “WERE YOU FOLLOWED?” THE OLD BITCH SAT DRINKING coffee, glaring at Hawker.
    She wasn’t just any old bitch. She was Carruthers, Head of the British Service for France. She could order him killed just as easy as stirring sugar in her cup. Easier, because she liked sugar and she didn’t like him.
    A fellow might as well talk to a pillar of iron spikes when it came to reasonable discussion. He said, “People don’t follow me.”
    “Really?” Just a well of skepticism, Carruthers. You had to wonder if she trusted her own earwax.
    “I switched back on my trail a dozen times. Crossed the Seine twice. Went all the way down to the Sorbonne. It took me an hour.