Prologue PROLOGUE July 15, 1866
I AM working on a pair of gloves. They are for a man. I wonder who he will be, if he will know where his gloves began their life.

Really, I do not need to do this: we mere accused are not obliged to do any work. Most of us choose to, even so. The sewing is something familiar to cling to in this place. From aristocrats to slum dwellers, we women are all united by our ability to wield a needle and thread. There are no distinctions in Saint-Lazare: all the accused are housed together in the common dormitory. Regardless of crime or class, we all rise together at five a.m., we pray together, we eat the same broth—which includes meat only on a Sunday—and we exercise in the same yard. There are prostitutes, drunks, thieves, vandals, swindlers—some of them children no more than twelve—and murderesses, like me. Word gets around quickly about us, and we are left to ourselves, so I am not bothered by any of the petty infighting I sometimes see among the others awaiting sentence.

This is a kind of purgatory, for none stays here long. We all wait to hear where we will be sent next. If we are lucky, it may be hard labor in the provinces; if we are unlucky, the Grande Roquette, and the guillotine that resides there. But I do not need to rely on luck.

I am going to walk free.


Chapter One CHAPTER ONE April 3, 1866
THE figure had been standing across the street for an hour now. When I first noticed it through the window, I had passed it off as simply another pedestrian, perhaps someone waiting for a friend. I was sure that the rain, just starting, would keep it from loitering about: Paris in the rain was a miserable place. The streets would be transformed from pleasant thoroughfares into swamps, churned to mud beneath shoes, hooves, and carriage wheels. Grime seeped into the seams of dresses and clung to the legs of urchin children. Watching this from my room, separated from the squalor by only a thin pane of glass, I was thankful for the protection of my warm apartment.

The figure proved hardier than I had imagined. When next I glanced outside, it was still there. Standing in the same spot. The cloak gave it an uncertain shape that seemed to waver at the edges where raindrops blurred the scene. Tall. Reasonably broad. The silhouette of a woman. No clues further than that; nothing to suggest that she was anybody of my acquaintance, but as time wore on, I became increasingly convinced that whoever it was, she was waiting for me.

I would get like this sometimes, even as a child: sure that the world was conspiring against me. Papa had called it paranoia; Mama, intuition. I supposed that which parent was correct depended upon the outcome. Which of them would prevail this time?

I leaned in to look closer, but my breath soon turned the pane as misty as a storm glass. All that I’d spotted before my exhalations obscured the view was a glint of pale skin beneath the shadow of the hood: her face appeared to be turned toward my building. The sight made me jump, and I stepped quickly back out of sight.

My boudoir was suddenly cold. The fire had burned low, and a creeping sensation was starting across my forehead where it had been pressed to the window. Silly nonsense. Letting my imagination run away with me. A fine habit for a child, but not one suited to a fully formed woman. I would not look again. The figure was surely awaiting an appointment, or perhaps was one of those women of a certain trade—although, granted, the shapeless cloak did not seem to match this latter theory. But what other explanation could there be?

Whether by the grace of this line of thought, or by the gloomy atmosphere of the day, memories of fairy tales and ghost stories began to stir. I could almost hear the whisper of Mama’s voice in my ear as she told the midnight secrets of the graveyard. But this morbidity would not do. I rang for the housemaid, Augustine, and directed her to build up the blaze. A good heat would soon evaporate these phantoms.

The girl set about stoking and piling and conducting the little maneuvers that one employs to coax a fire. It was an alchemy I knew well—better than Augustine, judging by the trouble she was having with stacking the kindling. The fires back at home had normally been built by Papa; though, when we were older, my sister and I had taken our turn as well. But now I had servants, and it would have been improper to correct them on their technique. A lady should not know how to perform such menial tasks; to demonstrate my knowledge could have raised doubt about my position. Eventually, Augustine managed to bring the fire to life.

Besides her difficulty with this, she was an otherwise competent girl of sixteen, who had been in my service for about six months now; a hard worker, if a little timid, and with a troublesome habit of neglecting to dust in the corners. Sensible, though. Yes, this would be easy to settle, I thought as I watched her work. Once the fire was satisfactory, I beckoned her over to the window.

“Do you see that person standing across the road, Augustine?” I attempted nonchalance in the tone of the question, but the accompanying gesture of my palm rubbing across my forehead likely betrayed my unease—something that I realized only once it was too late. Augustine peered out in the direction I’d indicated and, when I saw that she had noticed the figure, I said, “Yes, that one. Please send Virginie to inquire of the porter who it is.”

That done, I hid myself a little behind the curtain and watched to see what would happen. Presently, the porter hove into view. He was a stout man with large red whiskers: unmistakable even through the rain. As I had requested, he crossed the road and shared some words with the woman. After a moment, she raised one arm and pointed directly at my window.

My heart gave a savage leap against my ribs; I was forced to hurry out of view. Who could this stranger be? And what could she want? My husband always warned me to be cautious: a man of his position was sure to make enemies, sure to merit blackmail. Every secret that I had ever held churned within my brain as I tried to find one that would explain this strange apparition. That this person wished me harm, I was certain, as if gripped by premonition. Erring on the side of Mama.

When a knock sounded at my door, I almost cried out in fright. Then I realized that it was Virginie, my lady’s maid. I smoothed my hair and called for her to enter.

“What word from the porter?” My voice managed somehow to remain steady despite the gasping of my pulse.

“Monsieur Coulomb sends his apologies, Madame,” Virginie replied, “but the lady outside would give neither her name nor purpose. She did, however, request that I bring you this visiting card. Only, she directed that neither I nor the porter was to look at it.”

Virginie held the card facedown so that the lettering could not be seen. I took it from her and turned away. It was a simple design, with none of the fashionable miniatures or messages that many of the upper class preferred. All that it bore was a name and address: Mlle C. Mothe, 34 rue de Constantine, Belleville.

At the familiar words, the thrumming of my heart gave way to a strange tranquility. I lowered the card. There was a mahogany writing desk against one wall of the boudoir, with a drawer that could be unlocked only by the key that I wore about my neck. I crossed to this now, opened it, and placed the visiting card inside. Then I fetched a coin purse and took out a couple of francs.

“Please show the lady into my rooms,” I said, moving back over to Virginie. “Make sure that my husband does not see—perhaps the servants’ stair would be best.”

Virginie bobbed her head. “Of course, Madame.”

“And Virginie…”

“Yes, Madame?”

I reached for her hand, pressing the money into it. “You will not tell anybody of this?”

“Of course not, Madame,” Virginie replied. Her expression was unreadable, just as any good servant’s should be. Frustrating when one wished to gauge a reaction, however. I would have to trust that the money would outvalue the social capital one might gain from such gossip. And Virginie was not known to be a gossip.

While I awaited Mademoiselle Mothe, I relocked my desk and then examined myself in the looking glass. It had been over two years—oh, how I had changed in that time! A smattering of gray had already begun to appear in my hair, and my waist was threatening a decline beneath my stays. This was the price of having a paid cook to hand! But my wardrobe was considerably better, my posture more refined: I looked a respectable, well-bred woman.

Taking a seat on the Turkish divan, I tried to arrange myself as impressively as I could, and awaited Virginie’s rap at the door.

When it came, I called out, “Enter!”

Virginie led the cloaked figure into the room. The latter was dripping with water from where she had stood so long in the rain, but, appearing now in the warm boudoir, she looked far less ominous.

I directed Virginie to take the cloak and hang it before the fire—which seemed to take an age—then finally dismissed her.

At last, I was alone with the woman who had waited so long to catch my attention. “So you found me, Charlotte,” I said.

Charlotte only smiled in response. Her smile hadn’t been at all altered by the years. My resolve softened at the familiar features: her square jaw in contrast to my rounded one; her blond hair honeyed, where mine was ashen; her thick, clumsy wrists the disappointing twins of my own. Yet she was in some ways entirely different, more haggard. There was a recent wound upon her brow, about the length of a little finger and not quite healed. Her under-eyes were dark, her face sallow.

My pose on the divan felt suddenly absurd. I rose hurriedly, leaning to kiss Charlotte’s cheeks in order to disguise the awkwardness.

“I am truly pleased to see you,” I told her. “Certainly, I should have preferred… Well, you are here now; I see no use in quarreling over it.”

“I weren’t sure if I should come,” said Charlotte, all in a rush. “I kept turning back, then changing my mind and whirling round again—I must’ve looked like a spinning top! Then I couldn’t get up the nerve to approach that porter of yours. I kept thinking, what if he sends me right away without even listening to what I’ve got to say? Truth told, I thought that’s what he was coming to do just now.” She finally paused long enough to take a breath. “But here we are.”

“Here,” I said, “come closer to the fire. It will be no wonder if you have caught your death. You never were one to behave sensibly, were you?”

Charlotte allowed me to guide her to the hearth. Her skirts immediately began to steam. “I s’pose not,” she said, but she sounded distracted. “You don’t need to talk to me like that, you know.”

I smiled thinly, refusing to be goaded. “I have no idea what you mean.”

“La-di-da,” she replied. Her eyes were roving around the room, taking everything in. “You’ve got a beautiful house. Almost like the ones that we used to playact. You remember those?” She adopted a silly, girlish voice for a moment. “?‘When I am grown up, I shall have a carriage with horses, and twenty servants, and a hundred dresses, and I shall eat Turkish delight every day.’?” She paused, peeling off her gloves to warm her hands before the flames. “Do you? Eat Turkish delight every day?”

“Charlotte… Why are you here?”

She hesitated, and then said, “Papa’s ill.”

“Not dying?” I asked, then winced at my own bluntness. It was not as if my sister would have come for anything less, not after how we had last parted. My nerves were beginning to buzz again. I could feel them like gnats in my skull.

“I… I don’t think so, no, for the time being. But if the doctor stops treating him…” Charlotte was looking very carefully at her hands. “I’ve burned right through my savings; the man’s good, but very expensive. I’ve done everything else I can think of, Sylvie, but I can’t pay the bills anymore.”

I shifted uncomfortably. “If you have come to ask for money—”

“That’s not why I’m here, I swear,” Charlotte said, holding up a finger to urge silence. “I know you can’t withdraw all that without the baron asking why. But I’m desperate. The kind of piecework I’ve been sewing just ain’t enough. Do you know what it pays? And to think that you and I used to make as much in a day as I now make in—”

Having already realized Charlotte’s meaning, I jumped in to interrupt. “That is entirely out of the question.”

“It’d only be one more time,” said Charlotte. “I’ve already found a client.”

“I want no more to do with all of that.”

“I don’t remember you being so particular about ‘all of that’ when it was paying your dowry.”

I avoided her eyes. That had been a different time, of course. A time when consequences were something that happened to other people, never to us.

Charlotte reached a hand toward my shoulder but changed her mind halfway through and let it fall limp between us. “Please, Sylvie, you know I wouldn’t ask if I’d got another way out of this. Believe me, it weren’t easy to find you again.”

With good reason. It had been no accident that Charlotte had never received the change-of-address card.

We were silent for a moment as Charlotte repositioned herself to dry her back. “Do you never miss it?” she asked. “The thrill, the excitement.”

“The danger of being found out.”

Charlotte gave a devilish smile. “But weren’t that part of the fun? And now here you are: you, Sylvie Mothe—”

“Baroness Devereux.”

“A society lady. A pretty wife. Tell me, how is it that you’ve spent your day? Embroidery?”

“I happen to find embroidery quite stimulating,” I told her tersely. But Charlotte’s words had stirred up the memories that I had carefully hidden away, like the visiting card I had just locked in the drawer of my desk. I put a hand to the key about my neck.

“We were the best in the game,” said Charlotte.

“Yes, we were,” I said.

I had meant this to highlight the past tense of the statement, but Charlotte seemed to interpret my words as agreement. She said, “You were. Sylvie, I understand your worry. I do. Your husband—”

My husband. That was a thought that instantly dispelled any nostalgic reminiscences. “Alexandre is a wonderful man,” I said a little sharply. “An important man. You cannot possibly realize just how influential one’s reputation comes to be in our circles. Even the smallest whiff of scandal… It does not bear thinking about. I have to consider his career. And our future.” I absently placed a hand across my midriff as I thought of all that the word entailed.

Charlotte gave me a funny look. “You ain’t—?”

“No,” I said quickly, heat rising in my cheeks at the misunderstanding. “Not yet, but I mean that one day I hope to be. This is what I want, Charlotte. I know that you never wanted a life so… so ordinary. With your grand dreams of fame and adventure—”

“Our dreams,” Charlotte corrected me. “You played those make-believe games as much as I did.”

“But they were of your invention,” I insisted. “And my point is that those games of yours no longer fit into my life. So you understand that I am no longer at liberty to take the kinds of risks that you propose.”

Charlotte had wandered nearer to the mantelpiece now and was fiddling with the ornaments kept there. I watched to make sure none went into her pockets. “?’Course I can see why you don’t want to put all this at risk,” Charlotte said. Her face had the appearance of composure, but there was a slight twitch at the very corner of her mouth. It was the same twitch that always appeared when she was mocking someone.

Surely our first meeting in over two years need not end in a quarrel? With some effort, I ignored the jab at my pride. “I wish that I could be of more help,” I said firmly, “but there is nothing I can do.”

Charlotte did not seem to mirror my qualms about falling into an argument, as she curled a lip and said with a curdling tone, “I knew family meant nothing to you, but I never imagined even you would turn your back on a dying man.”

There was a moment of silence, as if we both were too struck by the audacity of the accusation to continue our conversation. Rain pattered like fingers at the windowpane.

“You will leave my house now,” I said at last.

“I—”

“You will leave, and you will not return.” Saying this, I crossed to the bell and rang. “Virginie will show you out. If you do not go quietly, then I will be forced to call for the gendarmerie and tell them about the statuette in your pocket.”

Charlotte sneered and thrust a hand into her skirts, pulled out the statuette, and then threw it to the ground. A porcelain Eros with bow and arrow. Luckily, it did not break—it was a favorite of mine, a gift from Alexandre in the early days of our marriage. It was spared from any further acts of destruction by the arrival of Virginie.

“Please escort this woman back outside,” I said, raising my eyebrows to indicate that it might prove a difficult task.

“Cast me from your house, then!” Charlotte exclaimed. “But I hope you enjoy hellfire, Sylvie Devereux, because the Lord’ll surely cast you from his.” As damnations go, it was an impressive one, but Charlotte only believed in the Lord when it suited her purposes. She shouldered her way past Virginie, who was forced to hurry after her.

Then I was left alone with my anger. And oh, was I angry! It was a swelling, sickly wave in my chest. How dare she come crashing back into my life with this? To talk of family and dreams and God! Charlotte was a hypocrite through to the bone. To suggest that I should feel any hint of filial duty to our father, after all the ill treatment I had endured, years and years of it before I had managed to escape… And now it transpired that my sanctuary was not safe from it all; my old life could come striding in at any time, dripping on my carpets and pocketing my ornaments. I looked down at the statuette and felt a sudden wave of disdain, as if Charlotte’s touch had somehow sullied it. Before I was quite sensible of what I was doing, I had plucked it up and cast it against the wall. There was a satisfying peal as it splintered into pieces.

And as for Charlotte’s visiting card, that could go too. I fumbled to unlock the desk drawer, hands shaking with barely contained emotion, and yanked it open, setting the contents rolling out of order. Where had the damned thing got to? I rummaged among my knickknacks, intending to chuck the card into the fire. I could not find it. It must have skittered under something. I lifted items out, hoping to uncover it: a pair of scissors, a notebook, a little velvet pouch. This last gave me pause. I considered it, and then tipped it up so that the contents fell into my palm with a chink-chink. A locket on a chain. It was a pretty thing, although the silver was tarnished and the hinge was stiff when I eased it open. Inside was a miniature—our mother. A high-browed and pale-skinned face with beautiful dark eyes. Not that the image could capture even a fraction of what her eyes had been in life: those deep, inky irises that seemed to contain other worlds, like windows to the night sky. Neither I nor Charlotte had inherited these; we had our father’s river-water gray. No, our mother had been an exceptional beauty; a beauty that could occur only once, that could not be passed on.

Gazing into this paltry representation now, I knew what she would say. Be kind to your sister, and forgiving to your father. They need your care more than ever now I am gone.

I thought of all the trouble that Charlotte could get herself into: with her clients, with Papa, with the law. There was good reason that we had always worked as a pair in the past. And as the elder by six years, it had been my duty to watch out for her for as long as I could remember. But even if I wanted to help, how could I? There was my husband’s position as a deputy prosecutor to think of. Alexandre must be my first loyalty now: he was my new family.

But the locket felt warm, skin-like, under my thumb. Mama’s head was tilted at a slight angle, as if patiently awaiting the answer to some question.

It was probably too late to catch Charlotte. Even if she had put up a fuss, she would have been chased off by now. Would she not?

Shoving the locket into my skirts, I hurried out of the apartment and downstairs.

On the street, there was no sign of my sister. Luckily, Coulomb was there, leaning against the porter’s lodge. A pipe curved out of his lips.

“The woman who was here,” I said, dispensing with the usual pleasantries, “which way did she go?”

Following Coulomb’s smoke-choked response, I hurried down the street. I hadn’t run like this since I was a child. What on earth must Coulomb be thinking? I had not even stopped to put on outside clothes. I was still in my house slippers! Never mind; with luck, I would catch Charlotte before I caught cold. Was that her there? The hem of a cloak turning a corner—yes! I called her name desperately, my voice hoarse.

Charlotte turned, a look of surprise painting itself across her face as she recognized me. This was immediately replaced with one of chagrin. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, if it means that much to you, you can have it back,” she snapped, pulling a paper fan from her pocket with a flourish.

I stared at it blankly for several moments before I realized that I had last seen it decorating a nook in the entrance hall. Christ, when had Charlotte even had the chance to take it? “Never mind that,” I said, then had to stop when a sharp pain hit my chest, knives of cold exploding within me. I held up a hand: a signal to give me a moment. Once my lungs had stopped screaming, I tried again. “I wanted to ask—Not that I definitely will—I still have to—But if I did—What is the job?”

“You’ve changed your mind?”

“Yes. No.” I drew in another breath, concentrating on the feeling of my lungs expanding like a pair of bellows. Expand, contract. “I need to know more,” I said. “But not now; we cannot talk here. And it will be dinner soon. Can you meet me tomorrow?”

“Even better,” said Charlotte. “I’ve got an appointment to meet the clients. Come with me. If it’s too much, you can pack the whole thing in then and there. And if not…”

We both let the silence trail on.

“Very well,” I agreed at last.

Once we had negotiated a time and place to meet, we said our goodbyes, and Charlotte departed once more. She melted so effortlessly into the bustle of the streets, it would have been easy to imagine her insubstantial. But I knew well enough that even the insubstantial could wield a great deal of power.

Returning to my rooms—giving Coulomb a civil nod when I passed, as if nothing untoward had taken place—I tried not to dwell on the way my afternoon had unfolded. Best to put it out of mind until tomorrow. Seeing the state I was in, Virginie hurried to assist me in changing for the evening meal. Glad as I normally was of her company, that day I sent her away as soon as we were done, preferring to brood alone. I took up a pattern that I had been embroidering, but, before even a minute had passed, I had thrown it down again in disgust. All that I could hear was Charlotte’s teasing voice. And now here you are: you, Sylvie Mothe. The people who had known me by that name would hardly have believed where I was today. And the people who knew me as the baroness Devereux, well… They never needed to know the details of the rock out from under which I had crawled.

I ought to have been frightened. After everything I had done to reinvent myself, here was the threat of exposure if I committed even the tiniest blunder. Yet that was the thing—underneath the anxiety and irritation, there was a tremor of excitement, just as Charlotte had said. I could feel it fluttering in my midriff like a caged songbird. It had been locked away for over two years, but now it was ready to sing.