Page 85 of Souvenir Heart

“I don’t believe it.”

“Man’s so straight, I bet he doesn’t even bend to take a shit.”

“If he’s been paid to let this one go, then why’s he in such a foul temper?”

One of the soldiers snickered. “Maybe the assignats turned out to be fakes.”

“I haven’t heard of any alarms. Are they out looking for her?”

Marcus froze mid-scratch.

“Not that I know of. That’s what makes the whole thing smell….”

“And here, I thought the smell was you.”

“More like that fellow there.” One of the soldiers cocked his thumb at Marcus. “He smells like horse shit.”

“Citizens.” The serving maid had returned with a tray full of bowls; she began setting them down. The clatter of dishes and utensils interrupted the conversation and by the time all the soldiers had been served, the conversation had moved on to protests over the cross-eyed man’s attempt to steal food from his neighbor’s plate.

“Dubois, you’re such a pig.”

“Liberty, equality, fraternity. Means I’m free to take your chicken leg because we’re brothers, doesn’t it?”

Marcus waited a bit longer, but the conversation moved on and he heard nothing more useful. He glanced over at the bar, wondering if Aylesworth’s eavesdropping was proving any more productive. Catching his eye, David made an almost imperceptible gesture with his fingers, signaling he was ready to leave.

Marcus rose, dumped the ashes from his pipe into his half-empty plate, and tossed a handful of coins on the table.

“Good news,” he said, when he met up with Aylesworth several blocks from the tavern. “They know she’s missing, but they haven’t sent out any search parties.”

“Seems you were correct about the good prosecutor’s desire to cover up his role in the escape.”

Marcus began to whistle.

“Though I wouldn’t be quite so cheerful if I were you,” David’s tone was so grim it stopped Marcus mid trill.

“They may not be looking for the lady, but they’re sure as hell looking for you.”

“We already knew that.”

David drew a wrinkled pamphlet out of his pocket. “Yes, but now they have a picture.”

Fifty-One

Wrapped in the pale light of her tablecloth cocoon, Marguerite pressed her fingers to the lingering warmth where Marcus had kissed her forehead, before telling her to add his decorating services to her father’s bill. He was the most confounding man she’d ever met, she thought, surveying the pile of passes and certificates, pencils, pastels, chalk, and the leather-covered sketchbook he’d left her.

Her breath quickened, her heart began to beat faster; she reminded herself he hadn’t told her she had to draw. He’d only said to look, study, to take her time.

Taking a deep breath, she inhaled the scents of toasted bread, fried eggs, and freshly ironed linen.

Her father had given Gerard a handsome dowry upon their marriage, and yet her husband had never treated her with such gentle care. Neither had he suggested she turn her talents to forgery.

Marguerite reached for Marcus’s sketchbook. As she opened it, she couldn’t help thinking of the verse scrawled in the margin of her art book: If ever the Devil leads me to love again, I shall demand of my lover, do not tell me of your heart, fair one, but show me your art.

“So, Marcus Tyndale,” she murmured, slowly turning the pages, “show me your art.”

His drawings were small, the lines tightly controlled, the details incredibly fine. She stared at the fine hairs on the drawing of a cat, the weathered face of an old woman peeling onions. She couldn’t imagine any man, woman, or beast sitting for the hours it must have taken to capture them in this way.

She remembered the first time she’d seen him, leaning against the wall of the courtroom with this very sketch book in his hands. She’d imagined he was part of the crowd reveling in the despair of their neighbors.