Page 80 of Souvenir Heart

“It was a team effort, madame.”

“A team that still has work to do,” Andre slapped David on the back. “I have to come up with a way to make this giant disappear in a crowd. Well-nigh impossible, but at least the national guard isn’t on the hunt for him. Not like that one.” He cocked his chin in Marcus’s direction.

She shot Marcus a worried look. The man was eating his omelet with no apparent sign of concern. Were they searching for him because of her? Surely it was too soon for anyone to have made the connection.

“Please God, something other than a Les Halles fishmonger,” David grumbled good naturedly.

“With those shoulders, you should be glad it’s so easy to disguise you as a sans culotte. All you have to do is slap on some dirt and a leather apron, et voila, centuries of good breeding disappear. Whereas in my case…” With a mock sigh, he swept a hand from his head to his knees.

“Ah yes, you’re right, it’s so much more difficult to conceal centuries of fornicating noble scoundrels.”

Andre laughed.

“Could you at least manage clothes that don’t smell like fish or offal?” David asked, as they headed towards the door.

“Think of the odor as an advantage—sleight of nose, if you will. Keeps folks from looking too closely at your face.”

“I understand how sleight works; I’m just wondering why your disguises are never quite as odiferous or as uncomfortable as ours.”

“Alas, we can’t all smell like sunshine and leather.” He glanced over his shoulder at Marcus and winked.

Marcus picked a greasy bundle off the table and tossed it at Andre. “Since you’re on your way out, give this to the dog.”

“Bloody beast always tries to bite me.”

“I’ll do it.” David plucked it out of the air, mid-arc. “The dog likes me best.”

“Only because you’re always feeding it.”

“Dogs can smell sincerity.”

“Is that what that odor is?” Andre sniffed dramatically.

The two men left, bantering amiably; Marcus moved his art box to the center of the table, unbuckling the clasps. He pulled out pastels and chalk.

Marguerite’s hand drifted to her chest; the sight of them made her feel if a weight was pressing down on it. “I…” she wondered if she should tell him that whenever she attempted to draw her hands shook so much, she couldn’t even manage a solid line? As they were starting to do now.

But if he noticed, he gave no sign, bending down to pick up a leather artist’s bag from the floor. He peered inside it, dark brows drawn together.

Her bag. Blood pounded in her ears as she took in the familiar pattern of paint smears and scratches on the leather. The bag he’d taken from her apartments. That he’d used to smuggle pieces of the uniform she’d worn during her escape.

She wanted to ask if he’d taken anything else from her apartments. He’d seen her work. Had even praised it. Had he saved any of it? But the question died on her lips. He’d been paid to save her life. Not her art. She would make more. Wouldn’t she?

The pressure on her chest increased; it felt like trying to breathe through a pinched straw.

“You’ll want to start with these,” he said, placing graphite and chalk beside her hand, either unaware, or ignoring that her hands were clenched in white-knuckled fists. “But feel free to use anything else you might find in the box.”

Reaching inside his coat, he drew out the sketchbook he’d been holding the first time she saw him. He held it out to her. When she didn’t take it, he set it down alongside the pencils.

He was speaking. But pinpricks of light were gathering at the edges of her vision, and she couldn’t make sense of his words. She focused instead on the timbre of his voice, steady and warm. The weight on her chest began to ease.

“Feel free to use anything you find in the box.” He slid out a narrow drawer from its base.

Her gaze sharpened as the sparks of light dancing on the periphery of her vision winked out. “Are those…secret compartments?”

“David’s handiwork,” he said. “As you noticed, the man’s always tinkering. He’s a wizard at this sort of thing.”

“And your talents are…?” Her eyes drifted to his hands, shaped like an artist’s, but hardened like a soldier’s.