At the other end of the pit, flames chewed through set and props alike, throwing out billowing swells of black smoke, toxic with paint and metal fumes. The theatre interior was a nest of dry wood and rope and cloth, seeped in paint and oils. A deathtrap. But before anyone burned, there was a good chance half the crowd would be trampled. Nausea washed over her. They’d come to get lost in the crowd. Camille could be somewhere in it, and she might never find her.

Digging her nails into her palm, she turned to Al. ‘Come on. Something must be blocking the way.’

They skirted the crowd, stopping to check on the few people on the floor. Three dead, five with injuries, but still mobile after Al and Ada helped them to their feet. The crush hadn’t let up at either door. Some of the people at the rear had fallen away, scouring the auditorium for another exit, but the smoke drove them back. Countless more were trapped in the middle, squeezed between the lobby and doorway.

Al gestured to the emptied galleries above.

‘Give me a leg up.’

Making a stirrup from her laced fingers, she braced herself as he fitted his foot into her hands and launched himself up to the balcony. He shimmied over the edge, then hauled Ada after him.

A few other people in the pit had copied them and were climbing the tiered galleries. The whole stage was ablaze now, she could feel the heat from halfway down the auditorium. The smoke was worse here, filling her nostrils and mouth with a burning, bitter taste.

The doors to the stairwell were empty. The gallery crowds had flowed down the stairs into the same lobby that the pit emptied into. A heaving throng of frightened bodies pressed against the street doors. Ada could see chains and padlocks securing the doors. A low moan drifted from the stairs, but it was otherwise eerily quiet. Nobody had breath to scream any more.

‘Why the bloody hell are the doors locked?’ screeched Al. ‘Who had that smart idea?’

‘Rioters.’

A quiet voice came from their feet. Al looked down to see a balding man in a suit too garish for the rest of his appearance, squatting in a corner of the landing, clutching his head. It was Gerard, the director.

‘We wanted to stop the rioters. Keep the troublemakers out. It had to be a success, you see. Had to keep the riff-raff out.’

‘So you locked the doors?’

‘Couldn’t risk it.’ He kept mumbling into his hands.

‘Where the hell are the keys?’

‘Office … backstage…’ he mumbled.

They stared at each other in horror. Backstage, in the heart of the fire.

15

Backstage at the Théâtre Patriotique

‘Olympe! Run!’

Olympe darted away as Camille swung her pistol like a bat into the side of Dorval’s head. He fell back and Camille fled.