I push away from him, straightening. “You are here,” I say, steadying my voice and steadying my chin. “That is what matters. I trust your arrival in my chambers means you know the way out?”
Jacques almost smiles at that. Through the grime and the tiredness, his eyes become merry and warm. “Always straight to business goes Aurélie du Bessancourt. You should be a shopkeeper.” His gaze darkens again. “I have found your sisters, yes. They are safe and as well as can be hoped. And I have found a way out. We will go today. Now, if you will allow it.”
“If I allow it?” I am laughing now, though my tears have not yet dried. “You tell me this now, when you might have told me the moment you stepped inside? Of course I will allow it, you great oaf! Havriel and Father will be distracted. They will not expect an escape. We must hurry!”
Jacques nods, but he remains where he is. He disentangles himself from me and says: “I have something for you,” and ducks his head. “Before we go.”
I pause, peering at him. I see us both in the mirrored window, a tall boy and a tall girl, and I see him open his hand. In it is a flower, dried and pressed. A daisy. He lays it gently in my palm. “It was left behind by another servant—” Jacques twists his hands together, stumbling over his words. “I know it is not the time, but I wanted you to have it. There is a good woman, a tavern keeper on the outskirts of Péronne, a friend of my mother’s. I thought you might hide there until transportation can be arranged. Her inn stands in a field, off the Rue de Maismont. By the millpond, do you know the place? There are many more daisies there. Well . . . I thought—Let this one be a promise.”
The flower rests in my palm, dry and delicate. I can smell the warm tinge of straw from it. A memory blooms in my mind of Mama and my sisters and me, lying in a meadow, sunlight falling through the apple trees and dappling our faces. I do know the millpond. We went there once, in better days, with a picnic and silver forks and a painter with a great easel and a hundred daubs of vivid color.
I tuck the flower into my sash. I clasp Jacques’s hands, and I smile at him, and he does not smile back, but grins, his face folding like an accordion. And though we both know the worst is still ahead—there is running to do now, and fighting—a flame kindles under my tired heart, and in the light of it all the ills of the world seem suddenly small and faraway.
Together we move toward the panel in the wall.
“Are you with me?” Jacques says.
“I am with you,” I answer, and we step into the servants’ passageway and begin to run.
You’re dumb, Anouk. You’re dumb, and now you’re alone.
I slide around a door into a bare, unpainted antechamber and slam in the floor peg. Up ahead is another double door. I burst through them. Close them behind me as quietly as I can. I scan for a way to lock them. There isn’t one. From this side they’re just panels of pale-green brocade, two brass rings for handles.
I spin. I’m in another one of these people’s pointless ballrooms. The floor is ivory-hued marble, veined with black like dirty snow. The ceiling soars forty feet above me, the chandeliers glowing bright. The walls are a mass of stone carvings and alcoves full of animal sculptures. A row of tall golden candelabras extends down both sides of the gallery.
I run for the nearest candelabra and grab it. Wedge it into the brass rings on the door. Jiggle it once to make sure it’ll hold. Whirl and start sprinting for the opposite end.
I don’t know if I’m close to the perimeter of the palace, if this is a trap room, but it’s too late to worry about that now. I’m halfway down it, running like a crazy person.
A sharp crack sounds behind me as the floor peg in the antechamber breaks.
Something’s been following me. Don’t know what, don’t know who, but it might be Miss Sei, it might be Dorf. They’re probably already at the door I came through. I go up on my tiptoes, trying to quiet the squeak of my shoes on the marble. The ballroom is way too long. That candelabra won’t hold forever. If they have a gun, I’ll be dead before I’m three-fourths of the way down it.
Whatever’s outside begins banging hard and fast. The candelabra groans.
I slip to the side of the ballroom, looking around frantically for a side door.
With a ringing snap, one of the prongs on the candelabra breaks, spinning into the air.
No side doors. I won’t make it to the end. Soft and quick I shimmy up onto a ledge in the wall. My toes find the curling gilt. My fingers grip the moldings. I pull myself up silently. I’m a moderately good climber with harnesses and carabiners and a climbing partner waiting to rope me down when I slip. I’m an even better climber when running for my life.
My lungs heave. Every few feet along the wall are pillars, holding up the corners of the vaults. Each pillar is topped with a plinth. Each plinth has a tiny overhang. Maybe six inches of space. I make for the one closest to me, climbing spread-eagled along the wall. I’m high up now. If I fall, I’ll break bones.