Enchantée(12)

“I knew you liked him!” Sophie laughed. “That must have been the strangest way for any lovers to meet!”

Camille still felt the warm strength of his hands on her shoulders, how he seemed to be the only thing holding her up in a landscape that was tilting and spinning. “How does someone our age come to have a balloon?”

Sophie pretended to think. “Money? He’s clearly quite rich.”

But the Montgolfiers who’d launched their balloon at Versailles had been paper-makers, nothing more. “Didn’t the curly-haired one, Rosier, say something about an audience? Perhaps they sell tickets?”

Sophie was about to reply when the sound of heavy footsteps echoed on the stairs.

“It’s Madame Lamotte,” Camille said in a hushed tone. “Tell her we have a plan for the money. She likes you best.”

Sophie stood up, the fabric roses in her hands. “But I thought we still had four days?”

The footsteps paused. Someone pounded on the door so it shook in its frame.

“It’s not Madame,” Sophie said.

The door swung open so hard it crashed against the wall.

Alain stood in the center of the doorway. In the old days, before, Camille would have thrown her arms around his neck and kissed him. Not now. Now there was an empty pit where once there had been that feeling.

“No smiles? No glad greeting?” He shook out his coat. Water streamed onto the floor. “I’d have guessed you would have been happier to see me, sisters.”

“We are!” Sophie said, moving to greet him. “We were surprised, that’s all.”

“To see your own brother?” Alain sauntered into the room. His blond hair hung lank around his face, his cheeks unevenly shaven. He reeked of last night’s wine and his shoes were caked in mud. “Well, I won’t trouble you much longer. Just give me what money you have.”

“Our rent is due, Alain,” Camille said as calmly as she could. She’d not let him provoke her this time.

“That’s fine.” He shrugged. “Just give me whatever you have.”

“We can’t,” Sophie said quietly. “We’ll be thrown out if we can’t pay Madame Lamotte.”

“But you have it?”

Camille imagined the strongbox, the iron straps binding it to the floor, twenty real livres inside. That was all they had. The key was back under the floorboards, though knowing that didn’t make it any easier to breathe. She wished hard that he would give up and leave. “We were hoping you might have some money, Alain. We’re still short by a lot.”

“If I had, why would I be here?” Alain stalked toward Camille. “Don’t jest about that which you don’t understand.”

“I wasn’t jesting.”

“Help us understand, then,” Sophie pleaded.

Alain clenched his hands. “I’m in debt to someone,” he said in a strangled voice. Camille could not tell if he was angry or scared. “My debts to him are large. Larger than you can imagine. And he’s tired of waiting.”

As am I. As is Madame Lamotte. “We’re all tired, Alain,” Camille said.

Sophie stepped sideways, closer to Camille and the table where the calico purse lay.

“Still, he wants his money.” Alain fumbled in his coat pocket and drew out a small bottle. He tipped his head back and drank, wiping his mouth on the cuff of his coat.

“It’d be easier to pay him if you stopped drinking,” Camille said grimly. “And went back to soldiering.”

Swaying a little, Alain let the bottle drop to the floor, where it rolled clinking toward the center of the room. “I will, I promise, but I must give him something now so he knows I’m keeping my word.”

How could he ask such a thing of them? “Why not tell your creditor that you’ll pay him piecemeal, when you have the money? Tell him how Sophie’s getting better, but still needs medicine. Surely he can be reasonable.”

“Reasonable is not the word I’d use,” he said.

“Look around this apartment,” Camille said, bewildered. “We don’t have anything, brother. Not even a chicken bone.”

“You think this is a joke?” Alain snarled. “He is not a kind man. I’ve seen what he’s done to others. I could tell him where you live and he would come here and steal you away as payment for my debt. He’d eat your flesh and crunch up your bones.” Alain wiped spit from his mouth. “Or make you his harlots. How would you like that, Camille?”

The girl in the street, her crimson lips, her filthy feet—a girl on fire. Camille would not let that happen to Sophie or herself.

“You are incroyable,” she said, furious. “You drink away the money I give you and return only to demand more. Then you threaten to sell me as a whore to your creditor?” She took a step closer, eyes burning, chin up, defiant. “Whoring is something I will never do. And if you think I’d do it to save your pathetic skin, you are terribly mistaken.”

His demeanor changed, then. She had only time for one thought—this is the real Alain—before he slammed his fist into her face.

Lightning exploded. The room collapsed.

Someone was wailing.

She didn’t know if it was Sophie, or herself.

Camille pulled herself to her elbows. Firelight flickered. Something was in her eye: a kind of red curtain. With the back of her hand, she rubbed at it. Blood caught on her eyelashes, trickled hot into her ear.