Page 39 of Souvenir Heart

“Then why…” Marcus bit back the words, why won’t she let me save her?

“Did you think our handsome faces would be sufficient to convince her?”

“I would have thought our offer of help might have at least piqued her interest...”

“Aren’t you the one who always says the suspicious man is the one most likely to survive?” Andre shook his head, adding softly. “The man who doesn’t trust his friends enough to mention that he has a child, wonders why the lady hesitates to place her fate into the hands of complete strangers?”

“Must you keep moving? You’re destroying the pose,” Marcus growled. It was always challenging to argue with Andre, even more so when the man was right. “I haven’t time to start over….”

Andre drew out a gold pocket watch, the back and sides engraved with a delicate pattern of vines. “You have twelve minutes.”

“Oh my, that’s lovely.”

Marcus turned to see a pale woman, all cheek, collar, and wrist bones, peering over his shoulders at his sketch.

“I’ve often been told that I am a work of art,” Andre struck a pose—different than the one Marcus had been drawing, and winked.

A smile, like a hint of sun on a cloudy day, briefly glimmered on the woman’s face. “Have you a card?” she asked tremulously.

“Have you someone inside?” he said gently, pulling one out of his waistcoat pocket and handing it to her.

She took it and nodded; chapped lips pressed together.

“Do you wish me to paint a portrait of you, or…?”

“My…” She hesitated a moment, then lifted her chin, apparently deciding she had nothing left to lose and said firmly, “My lover. Simon Montrachet. Will you paint a miniature of him for me? Like those,” she pointed at the row of miniatures beside his easel. “I can pay.”

“How soon will you need it done?”

“By tomorrow.”

“So soon? I will do my best, Citizeness.”

“Gorneau. Thank you, Citizen.” She looked down at his card, more to hide her tears, he suspected, than to check his name which was emblazoned on a card below the miniatures. “Tisset.” She reached into a worn silk reticule hanging from her wrist.

“No, no.” Marcus put out a hand to stop her. “I only accept payment after the work is delivered,” he lied.

“What of a downpayment?”

“There is no need.”

He watched as the woman returned to a spot beneath a row of windows, then studied her for as long as it took to commit her profile as she stood, looking up, to memory. He thought he might draw a quick sketch and deliver it to Montrachet, the local painter. If time permitted. He felt for his pocket watch.

“Seven minutes,” Andre said, holding up his own. “I’m watching the time.”

Marcus set Andre’s portrait aside, pulled out a fresh square of paper, a piece of pencil, and began to draw. As he did so, couldn’t help thinking of the roll of paper and pencil he’d slipped into Marguerite’s sleeve. Was she using them now?

“It is a shame Citizeness Rouvroy refuses to allow any of us to visit her,” Andre said. “Particularly me. Sending you in to try and find a way to speak with her is a bit like sending a stone mason to do a sculptor’s job.”

Marcus kept his attention focused on his rough sketch of Citizeness Gorneau.

“If you do manage it, for the love of all that’s holy, try to avoid ordering the lady around.” Andre leaned forward, his tone unusually earnest. “Show her your better self, scribbler.”

Twenty-Eight

Marguerite’s morning began, as every morning had since her arrival at the Conciergerie, with the guards ordering, “Everyone up. Get up, you scum. Line up for roll call.” They rattled the bars with gun butts, clubs, and knife hilts for emphasis.

She rose from her tangle of sheets with a now-constant knot in her stomach and the equally constant question: Will this be the day of my death? Wrapping a shawl around her shoulders, she joined the line of women stumbling out of the cell. They stood blinking and rubbing their eyes in the poorly lit hallway, a huddle of men and women in various stages of half-sleep, terror, and undress.