The Spymaster's Lady

Thirty-three

IN THE DEEP OF NIGHT, SHE DREAMED.

The prison courtyard was dark, full of bobbing lanterns and loud voices. She could not get to Papa. He was in the wagon with the other men. They grabbed at Papa. Shoved him.

“It’s the little girl,” someone said.

“Dieu. Get her out of here.”

It was not right. Papa should not look like that. Jerking like a fish on a string. Kicking and swinging. His face was…ugly. Not like Papa. Black and ugly with his mouth open.

They tried to grab her. Darkness around her and stone walls. She ran and ran, back the way she had come, into the prison. “Maman. Maman. Où es-tu?”

In the long corridors of the cells, she heard screams. Thin, high screams like a pig being killed. Soldiers were everywhere with their high leather boots and their guns. She clawed her way through. In the middle, Maman was on the floor. She was naked. There was red blood on her mouth.

The man had pulled his breeches down. White, hairy thighs showed under his jacket. He was hurting her. Making her cry.

She would make them stop. “Arrêtez. Arrêtez. Maman. Maman.”

Someone picked her up. She could see nothing but the blue coat with brass buttons while he carried her away.

“Maman…”

She woke in bed, sweating and cold.

Grey held her. “It’s a dream. It’s only a dream. Go back to sleep.” He spoke French and pulled the blanket over both of them.

She shivered. “She found them later. The men who hurt Papa.” She was only half awake. She put her arms around Grey, slipping back into sleep. “She told me once. The judges and the soldiers from Lyon. The men who killed Papa. During the Terror she found them, and they died for it. Every one.”