Page 82 of Souvenir Heart

Expressions of shock, suspicion, and utter delight warred on the face of the dung collector at Andre’s offer to rent his horse and cart for the day. He was an elderly man with lank gray hair and a spine as bent as a barrel hoop.

“And you’ll be bringing it back this evening?” He licked his chapped lips as he eyed the pile of coins in Andre’s outstretched hand. “And I can keep the fees from whatever you collect?”

Andre nodded, hefting the coins so that they clinked against each other.

Unable to resist this metallic siren’s song, the dung collector snatched the pile with both hands. As he shoved coins into the pockets of his stained tunic, he explained the idiosyncrasies of his cart and his sorrel nag, a bony creature named Colette. “She’s a hat stealer, a belcher, and you’ll have to keep a steady hand on the reins to keep her from stopping to sniff other horse’s shit.” He slapped Colette’s angular rump, “but she’s a hard worker.”

Andre climbed onto the bench of the cart, a three-sided affair made from a sorry collection of stained and splintered boards. Marcus eyed the base and wheels; deciding they seemed solid enough, he found a relatively clean spot on the cart’s back edge and sat down. David perched next to him, his feet nearly touching the ground.

“Wait, wait,” the dung collector cried, “You’ll need these.” He handed a shovel and a broom to Marcus.

“Thank you, citizen.”

“No, no, citizen,” the dung collector gave Marcus a gap-toothed smile. “Thank you.”

Andre gathered up the reins, then clicked his tongue at Colette. The nag lifted her head and they rolled out of the stable yard, the dung collector waving them a cheerful farewell.

Colette moved through the streets at a pace that was steady, but too slow to outstrip the cloud of flies accompanying them. They stopped periodically to shovel droppings into the cart.

“One can’t help wishing Andre wasn’t quite so creative with his disguises,” David said, waving at a cluster of flies dividing their attention between the dung and his hair.

“But you have to admit it’s working. We’ve passed through three sections since we set out and not a single guardsman has stopped us to ask for papers or inquire about our business.”

“They do seem rather eager to wave us on,” David admitted. He nodded at Marcus’s disguise. “And at least I don’t have to wear all that.”

In addition to a fake wooden stump on his left hand, Andre had outfitted Marcus with a wig made of none-too-clean hair, blackened several of his teeth and applied gum to one eye so that it appeared to droop.

Marcus rubbed the stump against his thigh as they bumped down the rutted street; It was hot, heavy, and it itched. But this venture was critical to ensuring their safe passage out of Paris.

And the flies, smell, and discomfort were almost enough to distract him from thoughts of Marguerite.

Almost.

It had taken every particle of his resistance to leave her, when he’d seen the panicked look in her eyes as he put on his coat. To kiss only her forehead. His ability to resist the lady, much like this cart, was absolute shit.

He tried to distract himself with thoughts of his studio, the sunlight and blessedly fresh air streaming through its long windows. And found himself picturing her standing in front of them, brush poised over a canvas.

Marcus shook his head. Less than two weeks. Then they’d both be back in England. She’d go her way, and he’d go his. He told himself it would be a relief to be left in peace, alone again.

“I’ve been meaning to ask…” David cleared his throat. “About the lady…”

Marcus turned to him with a practiced, warning glare.

Which Aylesworth blithely ignored. “Do you really intend for her to learn your, ah…” he glanced around in case anyone might overhear, though given their conveyance it was unlikely anyone would dare get that close, and lowered his voice, “particular skills?”

Marcus studied the street traffic, wishing he had his sketchbook. The last thing he wanted to do was discuss was how he felt about seeing Marguerite struggle to draw.

“Because you certainly spent a good deal of time setting her up with supplies,” he persisted. “Those canvases you saved. She’s a talented artist. With skills like hers, no doubt she ought to be a quick study.”

“Good god, no!” He was trying to save the lady, not introduce her to a life of crime. “I thought she might appreciate a distraction…”

“Ah. Good. I was just wondering. You do seem…well…unusually sensitive to the lady’s needs.”

Marcus raised an eyebrow. “Are you suggesting I’m usually insensitive?”

It was David’s turn to fall silent.

The downside of working with spies, Marcus reflected, was that they were trained to constantly observe and analyze the people around them. “You know what’s at stake here,” he said, pretending to misunderstand David’s concern. “These are dangerous times. Are you suggesting I pay less attention to all the moving parts?”