A Spark Unseen

uttered in my presence in English, and then Lane slowed.

The tunnel ended abruptly in a wall of dirt with reinforcing stone, but near the floor there was a low arch that one could slide through. “Where does it come out?” I panted.

I thought Lane might not answer. He was furious with me, of course, but I was in no mood for his temper. I glared at him. “It’s a drain,” he said, already on the other side, pulling through the wooden box, “just a small jump down. It goes to the Seine. We can climb out from there.”

Another, softer boom came down the tunnel.

“Keep counting your steps, Uncle Tully,” I said, “and when you jump, that’s a step, too.”

Lane helped him bend down and through, Henri holding up the candle, and then I remembered that I was still clutching the thing the emperor had pressed into my hand. I glanced down, and in my palm was a ring, a ring with a ruby the size of a dove’s egg. I closed my fist again, turned my back, and stuffed the ring down Mr. Babcock’s shirt and deep into my underclothes. Uncle Tully carefully jumped through the arch, still counting, pretending there was no one present but myself and Lane. He was doing so remarkably well.

“Eight hundred and ninety-seven!” Uncle Tully yelled. Another crash came down the tunnel.

I followed Joseph and Henri through the arch and said, “Uncle Tully, how would you like to ride in a carriage?”

Henri had money, to our collective relief, and slipped out of the drain to bribe a hired carriage to not only wait while we scrambled up the embankment, but to also not notice our strange and shabby condition. At my request, he also bought the coat off the driver’s back, and I put it over the head of my uncle Tully, so he could pretend to be elsewhere during our brief sojourn across a public street. It was a bright Sunday, the market packed, a park fluttering with autumn finery, both on the trees and the people. We ignored the stares and quickly shut the door of the carriage.

Uncle Tully sat on the floor at my feet, out of sight under the coat, his crate beside him. I could feel him shaking. I had him doing multiples of seven while Lane’s gray eyes stared at the passing streets, one hand running through his hair. Even after I had explained about the arsenic, he couldn’t quite get over his temper. Joseph slouched in his seat with his forehead wrinkled, watching Lane. I was doing the same, trying not to see the telltale traces of an emperor.

“Ah!” said Henri, tossing a newspaper he’d found on the seat into Lane’s lap. “The Russians have scuttled their own ships in Sebastopol. Perhaps our navies will not need this weapon after all, if their enemies will do the job for them, yes?” He leaned back in his seat when no one answered, grinning, somehow still managing to look sleek when he was covered in muck and stone dust. “Well, well, my friends, the emperor will now know what is in the tunnel, and also who is dead in the tunnel.”

Lane kept his eyes on the window when he said, “Napoleon may be a fool …” I winced inside. “… but he is not so great a fool that it will take him long to find out who Katharine is and where she lives.”

Henri nodded. “You will all three have to leave Paris. Very soon. Is that not so?”

My uncle was up to seven times one hundred and thirty-nine before Lane answered, and then he only said, “There is also the problem of Wickersham.”

“Ah!”

“I think it must have been Ben who had the grave opened,” I said. I wished I had asked him when I had the chance. “How could he have been so sure otherwise? Or do you think Mr. Wickersham’s reach was that long?”

Henri shrugged. “It is probable that it is not, or he would have done more than that, yes?”

“So it is possible Mr. Wickersham will still believe my uncle is dead.”

“It doesn’t matter anymore what he thinks,” Lane said, “because I posted a letter to Ambassador Cowley just as soon as I left the tunnels.”

“Did you?” said Henri. “Your ‘farewell stroke,’ as they say? Well, I think I can be of help to you in that. I am long overdue in paying my respects to the ambassador.”

Lane turned his gaze to him, still deliberately not looking at me. I pressed my lips together. Joseph slouched down farther in his seat while my uncle said seven times one hundred and eighty-seven.

“Cowley will want to stay in a good standing with my family. I think with this visit and your letter that Wickersham’s work here will be over. What is your opinion, mon ami?”

Lane nodded, his gaze back to the window.

“Shall you take Mr. Tulman to his home? Can you continue to keep his life a secret?”

When Lane was silent, I said, “That is exactly what I must do. Thank you, Henri. Truly.”

His dark eyes glanced once at Lane and then he smiled at me, but he did not tease.

“Noble,” said Joseph, out of nowhere, his tone almost sad. We all looked at him, but it was my gaze he was returning, his one word addressed to me. I remembered our first meeting, when he’d told me that Lane, or Jean-Michel, was noble. I felt my back stiffen. What did he know of Lane’s background? Or was he referring to something about Lane’s behavior now?

I looked at Lane, his dark and dirty skin betraying no expression, his eyes like two chips of stone on the passing streets beyond the window. I adjusted Uncle Tully’s coat and clasped my hands in my lap, my irritation combusting into flame. Lane had come to Paris to settle something, and now I did not intend to leave it without doing the same.

30

When the carriage stopped at the red doors, Mary burst through them, her tongue running faster than my overly occupied mind could comprehend. But I did note that she was brushed, pressed, and had her hair done differently, with curls in the front. Together we hustled Uncle Tully through the door, coat on head, and I sent him straight up the stairs with Mary for tea and toast and probably his bed. My head was aching and I couldn’t remember the last time I’d eaten or slept. I thought I might be surviving on my temper.

Lane, Henri, and Joseph came into the foyer having some sort of heated discussion in French, Henri and Joseph with the crate between them, and then I saw one of the things that Mary had undoubtedly been trying to tell me a few moments before. The salon door opened and Mrs. Hardcastle came out, the two Miss Mortimers and Mrs. Reynolds taking tea behind her. The pince-nez bounced on Mrs. Hardcastle’s bosom.

“Good Heavens, child,” she said. “Whatever has happened …” Her eyes went round. “Jean-Michel!”

Lane froze in the foyer, and I heard the sudden rattling of china and scraping of chairs and squeals from the salon. Joseph left the crate with Henri and scooted to the library, where I saw Jean-Baptiste’s head poking out, and then there were four faces in the salon door.

“Oh, Jean-Michel, you have a beard!” exclaimed the blonde Miss Mortimer.

Lane wiped his hands on his pants, smiled, and went first to Mrs. Reynolds, who had come out to greet him. He took her wrinkled hands in his, kissing both her cheeks even though he was filthy, burbling away like a Frenchman. When I saw the eager expressions of the two frilly girls waiting in line just behind her, I’d had enough. I didn’t care who he was, or what he thought he wasn’t.

“Mrs. Reynolds is perfectly aware that you speak very good English, Mr. Moreau.”

Lane’s back stiffened just a bit. He straightened, then turned around to face me. “My apologies, Mrs. Reynolds, but that is true,” the low voice said. He had spoken to her, but he was looking at me.

The brown-headed Miss Mortimer smiled in delight, not thinking beyond the English, while her blonde cousin stared at me with round, slightly frightened eyes. Probably because of the dirt. Or the pants. Mrs. Reynolds pretended I wasn’t there.

“Jean-Michel,” she said, her face softening pleasantly, “we are so happy to have you back. Do we have you to thank for this, Mr. Marchand?” Her gaze went straight past my face to where Henri must be standing somewhere behind me. “Do come next door and have some refreshment, Jean-Michel. Your room is waiting for you. Almost as you left it.” I caught the edge of her sharp glance. “I will have Hawkins get you settled immediately.