Page 32 of Souvenir Heart

As Marcus moved to follow them, he heard the disgruntled spectator beside him hiss, “The aristo bitch won’t escape justice.”

His hiss turned to a hiss of pain, as Marcus ground his boot into the man’s foot. “Cleared the view for you, citizen,” he said.

Maneuvering through the rows of spectators, he continued to step on feet—though not intentionally, issue empty apologies, and to shoulder aside anyone who failed to get out of his way. He saw Andre glance back over his shoulder, catch his eye, and give an almost imperceptible nod of his head in the direction of a doorway on his right.

Increasing his pace, he brushed past Andre, Marguerite, and the guards. As he did so, a folder of papers tucked under Andre’s arm spilled open, documents with official-looking seals, fanning out across the floor.

Marcus strode on, ignoring the fluttering papers, flapping arms, and a thunk that sounded suspiciously like skulls connecting as Andre and one of the guards bent to retrieve the contents of the folder. Reaching the door Andre had indicated, he grasped the handle, cracked the door open, and slipped inside.

Twenty-Four

“Pardon me, citizens,” the man claiming to be Marguerite’s lawyer said, stopping at a door a short distance from the court room’s entrance. Three men arguing over a document swerved to avoid her and Andre de Saint-Just, and the two guards escorting them before continuing down the hall.

Saint-Just tapped several errant papers sticking out of his reassembled folder back into place. “I need to consult with my client.”

The two guards, one a stocky man with a flattened nose, the other a tall man with impressively large ears, glanced uncertainly at each other. They had found deciding whether they ought to stand guard or help the lawyer with his spilled papers a challenging decision.

“We’ll follow you in,” Flat Nose said.

“I need to consult with my client in private,” de Saint-Just amended, rapping the folder against his hand for emphasis. “Even an alleged enemy of the state has a right to representation.”

Flat Nose looked unconvinced.

“Come now, citizens,” her lawyer smiled. “Where’s the harm in it? You don’t think she’ll try to escape, do you? With you standing guard out here.” He waved the folder to indicate the wide hallway filled with lawyers and their clients bustling past.

Then he cracked open the door, revealing a small room with a table and four ladder-back chairs. Gesturing with the folder at the room’s single barred window, he added, “And that her only means of escape? The citizeness is slender, I’ll grant you. But not slender enough to slip through those bars. Not to mention, it would be quite the fall to the pavement below, even if she could. Do you really think she’s planning to jump?” He turned and addressed her, “You aren’t planning to jump, are you, Citizeness Rouvroy?”

“It hadn’t crossed my mind,” she replied without thinking. Indeed, her mind was rather overfull, what with the exposure of her drawing of Marat, the revelation that her neighbor had stolen her sketchbook and given it to the authorities—Why, Victorine? Why?

Not to mention the appearance of this human vortex who had whispered into her ear. “Trust me. We’re here to help.”

We? Who was “we”? Who was he?

“There. You see. Citizeness Rouvroy is not trying to escape the judgment of the people.”

She’d like to, though. More than anything.

“We simply need a moment alone to discuss her defense.”

“It’s not as if it will do any harm,” Big Ears said cautiously to Flat Nose.

“Or make any difference,” Flat Nose agreed. He pulled a pipe, a flint, and a twist of tobacco from his pocket. “But I could use a smoke.” He gestured with his pipe towards the open door. “Citizen, citizeness, you’ve got until I finish.”

Marguerite walked over to the nearest chair, fingers closing around the rough wooden slats of the back as the door clicked shut behind them. She closed her eyes, and inhaled as deeply as her stays would allow, trying to steady herself. The guards were right; there was little even the most talented lawyer could do for her now. But she was in no rush to return to her cell.

She straightened, opened her eyes, preparing to tell Saint-Just precisely that, but the words caught in her throat. There was a man standing to the right of the doorframe. He must have been concealed by the door when Saint-Just opened it so the guards could inspect the room.

It was the man who had been sketching her. Documenting her despair. His hair had come untied from its queue. Dark wings framed the slash of eyebrows, the high cheek bones, the aristocratic nose, and the severe line of his mouth.

“Who are you?” she gasped, with a directness that would have horrified the nuns and governesses who had beaten etiquette into her.

Following the direction of her gaze, Saint-Just glanced over his shoulder. “Him? That’s Marcus. He’s in charge of this rescue.”

“You were drawing me. Why were you drawing me?”

“You drew Marat as a fish.”

She blinked at the outrage in his tone. “No one was ever supposed to see it. I was bored. It was a joke.”