lantern from the table. “But you will.”
The door clanged shut behind him. His footsteps faded in the corridor, going toward the stairs and upward.
“PIG” She whispered it to the closed door, though that was an insult to pigs, who were, in general, amiable.
She could hear the other prisoners, the English spies, making small sounds on the other side of the cell, but it was dark, and they could no longer see her. She scrubbed her mouth with the back of her hand and swallowed the sick bile in her throat. It was amazingly filthy being touched by Leblanc. It was like being crawled upon by slugs. She did not think she would become even slightly accustomed to it in the days she had left.
She pulled her dress into decency and let herself fold onto the dirt floor, feeling miserable. This was the end then. The choice that had tormented her for so long—what should be done with the Albion plans that had been entrusted to her—was made. All her logic and reasoning, all her searchings of the heart, had come to nothing. Leblanc had won. She would withstand his persuasions for only a day or two. Then he would wrest the Albion plans from her memory and commit God knew what greedy betrayals with them.
Her old mentor Vauban would be disappointed in her when he heard. He waited in his small stone house in Normandy for her to send word. He had left the decision to her, what should be done with the plans, but he had not intended that she give them to Leblanc. She had failed him. She had failed everyone.
She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. It was strange to know her remaining breaths were numbered in some tens of thousands. Forty thousand? Fifty? Perhaps when she was in unbearable pain later on tonight, she would start counting.
She pulled her shoes off, one and then the other. She had been in prisons twice before in her life, both times completely harrowing. At least she had been above ground then, and she had been able to see. Maman had been with her, that first time. Now Maman was dead in a stupid accident that should not have killed a dog.
In the darkness, one feels very alone. She had never become used to this.
The English spy spoke, deep and slow, out of the dark. “I would stand and greet you politely.” Chain clinked. “But I’m forced to be rude.”
It was a measure of how lonely she was that the voice of an enemy English came like a warm handclasp. “There is much of that in my life lately. Rudeness.”
“It seems you have annoyed Leblanc.” He spoke the rich French of the South, without the least trace of a foreign accent.
“You also, it would seem.”
“He doesn’t plan to let any of us leave here alive.”
“That is most likely.” She rolled off her stockings, tucked them into her sleeve so she would not lose them, and slipped the shoes back on. One cannot go barefoot. Even in the anteroom to hell, one must be practical.
“Shall we prove him wrong, you and I?”
He did not sound resigned to death, which was admirable in its way, though not very realistic. It was an altogether English way of seeing things.
In the face of such bravery, she could not sit upon the floor and wail. French honor demanded a Frenchwoman meet death as courageously as any English. French honor always seemed to be demanding things of her. Bravery, of a sort, was a coin she was used to counterfeiting. Besides, the plan she was weaving might work. She might overcome Leblanc and escape the chateau and deal with these Albion plans that were the cause of so much trouble to her. And assuredly pigs might grow wings and fly around steeples all over town.
The English was waiting for an answer. She pulled herself to her feet. “I would be delighted to disappoint Leblanc in any way. Do you know where we are? I was not able to tell when I was brought here, but I hope very much this is the chateau in Garches.”
“A strange thing to hope, but yes, this is Garches, the house of the Secret Police.”
“Good, then. I know this place.”
“That will prove useful. After we deal with these chains,” he clinked metallically, “and that locked door. We can help each other.”
He made many assumptions. “There is always the possibility.”
“We can be allies.” The spy chose his words carefully, hoping to charm her so she would be a tool for him. He slipped velvet upon his voice. Underneath, though, she heard an uncompromising sternness and great anger. There was nothing she did not know about such hard, calculating men.
Leblanc took much upon himself to capture British agents in this way. It was an old custom of both French and British secret services that they were not bloodthirsty with one another’s agents. This was one of many rules Leblanc broke nowadays.
She worked her way along the wall, picking at the rocks, stealing the gravel that had come loose in the cracks and putting it into her stocking to make her little cosh. It was a weapon easy to use when one could not see. One of her great favorites.
There was a whisper of movement. A younger voice, very weak, spoke. “Somebody’s here.”
Her English spy answered, “Just a girl Leblanc brought in. Nothing to worry about.”
“…more questions?”
“Not yet. It’s late at night. We have hours before they come for us. Hours.”
“Good. I’ll be ready…when the chance comes.”
“It’ll be soon now, Adrian. We’ll get free. Wait.”
The mindless optimism of the English. Who could comprehend it? Had not her own mother told her they were all mad?
It was a tidy small prison Leblanc kept. So few loose stones. It took a while before the cosh was heavy enough. She tied the end of the stocking and tucked it into the pocket hidden beneath her skirt. Then she continued to explore the walls, finding nothing at all interesting. There is not so much to discover about rooms that are used as prisons. This one had been a wine cellar before the Revolution. It still smelled of old wood and good wine as well as less wholesome things. Halfway around the cell she came to where the Englishmen were chained, so she stopped to let her hands have a look at them as well.
The one who lay upon the ground was young, younger than she was. Seventeen? Eighteen? He had the body of an acrobat, one of those slight, tightly constructed people. He had been wounded. She could smell the gunpowder on his clothes and the wound going bad. She would wager money there was metal still inside him. When she ran her fingers across his face, his lips were dry and cracked, and he was burning hot. High fever.
They had chained him to the wall with an excellent chain, but a large, old-fashioned padlock. That would have to be picked if they were to escape. She searched his boots and the seams of his clothing, just in case Leblanc’s men had missed some small, useful object. There was nothing at all, naturally, but one must always check.
“Nice…” he murmured when she ran her hands over him. “Later, sweetheart. Too tired…” Not so young a boy then. He spoke in English. There might be an innocent reason for an English to be in France, in these days when their countries were not exactly at war, but somehow she was sure Leblanc spoke truly. This was a spy. “So tired.” Then he said clearly, “Tell Lazarus I won’t do that anymore. Never. Tell him.”
“We shall speak of it,” she said softly, “later,” which was a promise hard to fulfill, since she did not expect to have so very many laters. Though perhaps a few more than this boy.
He struggled to sit up. “Queen’s Knight Three. I have to go. They’re waiting for me to deliver the Red Knight.” He was speaking what he should not, almost certainly, and he would injure himself, thrashing about. She pushed him gently back down.
Strong arms intervened. “Quiet. That’s all done.” The other man held the boy, muffling his words.
He need not have worried. She was no longer interested in such secrets. In truth, she would as soon not learn them.
“Tell the others.”
“I will. Everyone got away safe. Rest now.”
The boy had knocked over the water jug, struggling. Her hands found it, rolled on its side, empty. It was perfectly dry inside. The thought of water stabbed sour pinpricks in her mouth. She was so thirsty.
Nothing is worse than thirst. Not hunger. Not even pain. Maybe it was as well there was no water to tempt
