Page 59 of Souvenir Heart

He’d said to be ready at 8.

Where the hell was he?

She sat up. Reached for the hat she’d tucked into the corner of the bed. Put the key she’d hidden in the band in her waistcoat pocket and pulled on the bicorne. It was a bit too large, but anything that further concealed the feminine shape of her features had to be good.

If Marcus didn’t come soon, it was only a matter of time before she was discovered.

What if something had gone wrong? What if he had been discovered? Captured by the guards as he’d crept along the prison’s dark hallways. What if he was being held in one of the cells? An image arose in her mind, the body she’d dreamt about and drawn, now, beaten and bloody …

No! She had a uniform and a key. She could come up with her own plan.

Straightening her hat to ensure it was secure on her head, she untied the knots securing the shawl to the head and footboard, rolled it up and stuffed it and her pillow under the blanket in the shape of a sleeping figure. Padded it out with the hated red, white, and blue skirts and a petticoat.

Then she pulled on her shoes, offering up a silent prayer of thanks that she’d been wearing plain black walking shoes when they’d arrested her, and as quietly as she could manage on a floor littered with straw, stood up.

She tiptoed towards the cell door, one hand in her pocket, the metal of the key clutched tightly in her fist. She heard footsteps coming down the hall, men’s voices. And froze.

No time to turn back. No way to dive under the covers and hide.

Perhaps they’d walk past without noticing her?

Marguerite held her breath. Watched as splashes of lantern light on the walls, coalesced, and spread.

In another moment, she found herself standing in a pool of light. She threw up a hand to shield her suddenly dazzled eyes.

“You there. What are you doing?”

Her breath escaped in a gasp.

Even though the light was blinding her, she recognized that voice.

Thirty-Eight

Marcus forced himself to slow his steps—it wouldn’t do to tread on the heels of Laurent and Fouquier-Tinville. Having memorized the layout of the prison, he could have found his way with his eyes closed. A good thing, too, given how poorly illuminated the place was at night. Its few lanterns stretched arthritic fingers of light towards the great Gothic arches of the old palace’s ceilings. Despite the darkness, the place was far from quiet, the rows of cells echoing with occasional bursts of animated conversation, bouts of manic laughter, prayer, and weeping.

What was Marguerite doing? Did she think he’d abandoned her? The urge to race past the two men was nearly overwhelming.

Laurent was making slurred attempts to curry favor with the prosecutor. “So dedicated, citizen, working so late into the night, have you even spared a moment to dine this evening? Your good health, citizen prosecutor…so vital to the Republic.”

Marcus offered up a silent prayer that whomever Fouquier-Tinville had decided to question at this late hour was in a cell far from Marguerite’s.

“You, there.” The prosecutor stopped at the fifth cell door from the gate by the stairwell and demanded, “What are you doing?”

Heaven, apparently, was actively ignoring him.

He stepped back, blending into the shadows. For once, he didn’t miss the pocket watch he’d given Marguerite; he could practically see the minutes ticking by.

And then a voice he knew was attempting to sound manly, but more closely resembled the inconstant tenor of a pubescent boy, replied. “Searching, citizen prosecutor. I was told there was a report of a…” Marguerite hesitated.

Laurent was surely too drunk to notice, but the prosecutor? Knife, Marcus mentally willed her to say, counter-revolutionary pamphlets.

He could almost hear the wheels of her brain turning, searching for an explanation of why a young soldier was alone, at night, in a women’s cell.

His own were spinning. Gunpowder, poison…

“Escape attempt,” she said after what seemed an eon, but Marcus knew was only seconds.

“Escape attempt?” Laurent repeated with disbelief.