Page 60 of Souvenir Heart

No. Marcus bit back a groan. Rumors of an escape attempt would put the entire prison on alert.

“From the Conciergerie?” The captain’s voice dripped with drunken contempt. “Don’t be absurd. Step forward, soldier.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You don’t look familiar.” Laurent said.

Marcus held his breath. In the dim light would they see a beautiful young woman dressed as a man? Or simply a pretty boy?

“I’m new here, captain.” The tenor of her voice was still high, but it didn’t waver.

“New.”

He exhaled.

“That explains it. Someone’s been pulling your leg, boy. Prison guard pranks,” Laurent said, apparently addressing Fouquier-Tinville, added. “When I was a raw recruit serving at the Bastille, they sent me to check on the man in the iron mask. No such thing, of course. Just like there’s never been an escape attempt from this prison. Look around you boy, the place is impregnable. How do you think anyone, let alone one of these women, might escape?”

“I…I don’t know, sir. Wasn’t thinking, sir. You’re right, sir.”

“Damn right. Enough of this nonsense. Out you come…”

“Let me get my key,” Marguerite said.

The key. He hadn’t had an opportunity to test it.

There was a click as she slid it into the lock. Heaven had to be listening now.

Please God, let it work.

Even as he prayed, his hand moved to a particular button on his sleeve, careful not to touch the edge, honed sharp enough to slash a man’s throat. With a quick tug, he snapped the thread holding it in place. Slid it between his index and pointer fingers.

Another metallic click. A rattle. “Ugh,” Marguerite’s voice, “I always have trouble with these.”

Was she too nervous to turn the key properly, or was the design flawed?

“Damned raw recruit, give it here.”

Marcus knew she couldn’t. Even drunk Laurent would see it wasn’t a proper prison key.

“Just let me…” There more furious rattling. “I’ve got it”

“Damn it, boy. You’re wasting the prosecutor’s time.”

Marguerite’s nervous—or was it desperate? laugh, “Of course, it has to happen in front of Paris’s most renowned prosecutor…”

Marcus slid a foot forward, his eyes fixed on Fouquier-Tinville’s throat. One quick slash and the man would be dead. It wouldn’t save Marguerite, would doom him as well, but at least he’d die knowing he’d put an end to the bastard and saved Marguerite’s paintings.

“I’ll do it,” Laurent growled, keys jangling as he yanked at the ring on his belt. There was a click as he fitted the correct key in the lock. A squeal of hinges and the clang as the cell door banged open. “Out.” Laurent barked.

Marcus took a step back into the shadows as Marguerite’s footsteps echoed in the hall.

The door slammed shut. The lock turned.

Say as little as possible, Marcus prayed fervently. Salute. Then turn left. Come to me. He resisted the urge to spread his arms wide.

“You recognize me?” said Fouquier-Tinville.

Shit, shit, shit. His hands curled into fists, the button edge sliding into the soft flesh of his palm.