innocent daughter of the noble house of DeCabrillac. That child was gone forever. They faced Justine DuMotier, agent of the Police Secrète. She had not been destroyed. She did not give her enemies that victory.
Outside, the wind shifted and nosed into the hall with a sound like breathing. She narrowed her mind to this moment only and then to the next moment that came after it and did not think any more about dying or the failure of this mission. Madame said, “There is a mighty army of what could be. Do not exhaust yourself fighting it.”
Time passed. And passed.
Her eyes had become so accustomed to the darkness that she saw when the empty, dark space at the top of the stairs grew faintly light. She heard, not voices, but the softest shuffle of feet. A scrape against a wall. The Cachés were climbing into the hole in the wall. Escaping. Good. Good.
Minutes passed, heavy as if they were cast in lead.
Inside the parlor, a chair grated on the floor. The voices fell silent.
They’d heard something. She swallowed. Gathered herself to fight. Tensed her legs, her arms, her shoulders. Prepared to spring and shoot the instant the door opened.
Evil chances poured through her mind. Her death, Hawker’s death, and terrible revenge upon the Cachés. Madame disgraced. Séverine alone in a country at war.
My fault. Everything. My fault. Suddenly and completely, she understood what it meant to be the one in charge.
Don’t think of that. It’s almost time. Be steady. She laid her finger beside the trigger with immense care. The pistol was perfectly still in her hands. She listened for the scrape of the door. Soon, she would turn and fire. I am not afraid.
When she ran, they would follow her out into the street. Hawker and his friend could kill at least one man. She was sure of it. Maybe two. Hawker’s reputation said he could kill a man.
Blood pounded in her ears. She held her breath, listening.
In the parlor, the rhythm of speech began again.
So it was not discovery. Not disaster. Not yet. She removed her touch to the trigger. This was worse than fear, this reprieve. She was filled with nausea and cold, trembling. It was hard to keep her breath even and quiet. Words of a psalm repeated in her mind, stately, full of weight. I will fear no evil. I will fear no evil. She held on to those words. She, who had given up belief in God long ago.
Then Hawker was at the top of the stairs, casting a gray, stepped shadow, coming downward on its path, making no sound. He was beside her, unexpected because he moved so quickly, as if there were no distance across this hall.
He set his fingers on the barrel of her gun to say, “Put that down.” Made a motion to say, “We’ve finished here. Come,” and, “Good job. Let’s get the hell out of here.”
She lowered the gun, uncocked it, and tucked it away in the pouch under her shirt. The Cachés were on their way. It was done.
There was light outside.
Hawker turned the same instant she did. The window and the open space of the door lit up. Someone was in the courtyard, carrying a lantern, walking quickly toward the house, making little noises.
There was time, barely time, to throw herself across the hall to the far wall. To take one side of the front door as Hawker took the other.
The hall filled with light. A man stepped into the doorway.
Thirteen
SHE SAW THE MAN’S FACE AND KNEW HIM AND FELT a fierce exultation. She did not know when she drew her knife, but it was in her hand when she attacked.
The moment hung clear and motionless in the air. Time did not move.
Drieu had slung his jacket over his left arm across the valise he carried. In his right hand he held the lantern. His waistcoat was unbuttoned in the heat, his shirt blatant and white down the length of his chest.
She used both hands to hold the knife. She drove it into that white, into his belly, up under the breastbone and almost cried out with the triumph of it.
She had been taught to use the knife at the
Outside, the wind shifted and nosed into the hall with a sound like breathing. She narrowed her mind to this moment only and then to the next moment that came after it and did not think any more about dying or the failure of this mission. Madame said, “There is a mighty army of what could be. Do not exhaust yourself fighting it.”
Time passed. And passed.
Her eyes had become so accustomed to the darkness that she saw when the empty, dark space at the top of the stairs grew faintly light. She heard, not voices, but the softest shuffle of feet. A scrape against a wall. The Cachés were climbing into the hole in the wall. Escaping. Good. Good.
Minutes passed, heavy as if they were cast in lead.
Inside the parlor, a chair grated on the floor. The voices fell silent.
They’d heard something. She swallowed. Gathered herself to fight. Tensed her legs, her arms, her shoulders. Prepared to spring and shoot the instant the door opened.
Evil chances poured through her mind. Her death, Hawker’s death, and terrible revenge upon the Cachés. Madame disgraced. Séverine alone in a country at war.
My fault. Everything. My fault. Suddenly and completely, she understood what it meant to be the one in charge.
Don’t think of that. It’s almost time. Be steady. She laid her finger beside the trigger with immense care. The pistol was perfectly still in her hands. She listened for the scrape of the door. Soon, she would turn and fire. I am not afraid.
When she ran, they would follow her out into the street. Hawker and his friend could kill at least one man. She was sure of it. Maybe two. Hawker’s reputation said he could kill a man.
Blood pounded in her ears. She held her breath, listening.
In the parlor, the rhythm of speech began again.
So it was not discovery. Not disaster. Not yet. She removed her touch to the trigger. This was worse than fear, this reprieve. She was filled with nausea and cold, trembling. It was hard to keep her breath even and quiet. Words of a psalm repeated in her mind, stately, full of weight. I will fear no evil. I will fear no evil. She held on to those words. She, who had given up belief in God long ago.
Then Hawker was at the top of the stairs, casting a gray, stepped shadow, coming downward on its path, making no sound. He was beside her, unexpected because he moved so quickly, as if there were no distance across this hall.
He set his fingers on the barrel of her gun to say, “Put that down.” Made a motion to say, “We’ve finished here. Come,” and, “Good job. Let’s get the hell out of here.”
She lowered the gun, uncocked it, and tucked it away in the pouch under her shirt. The Cachés were on their way. It was done.
There was light outside.
Hawker turned the same instant she did. The window and the open space of the door lit up. Someone was in the courtyard, carrying a lantern, walking quickly toward the house, making little noises.
There was time, barely time, to throw herself across the hall to the far wall. To take one side of the front door as Hawker took the other.
The hall filled with light. A man stepped into the doorway.
Thirteen
SHE SAW THE MAN’S FACE AND KNEW HIM AND FELT a fierce exultation. She did not know when she drew her knife, but it was in her hand when she attacked.
The moment hung clear and motionless in the air. Time did not move.
Drieu had slung his jacket over his left arm across the valise he carried. In his right hand he held the lantern. His waistcoat was unbuttoned in the heat, his shirt blatant and white down the length of his chest.
She used both hands to hold the knife. She drove it into that white, into his belly, up under the breastbone and almost cried out with the triumph of it.
She had been taught to use the knife at the
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