A Town House on the Rue Barbette

Ada was back.

The boat had stopped at the Quai des Ormes by the Marais neighbourhood on the Right Bank. Long ago home to the aristocracy, then the bourgeoisie middle classes her father belonged to, the area had been mostly abandoned. Plaster flaked off the elegant frontages, windows were smashed, gardens overgrown. The journey had been short but miserable when she realised where he was taking her. His home. Just like he had wanted.

The house was tall and thin and squeezed in between two grander residences off the Rue du Temple. It was furnished with a careless mix of old baroque pieces and cheaply bought workman’s stools and tables. Ada knew how much thought had gone into appearing so artfully uninterested in fashion and fripperies. It still smelled the same: ink and binding glue and her father’s pipe.

Only her room was different. The window had bars over it, and when she looked outside the trellis she’d climbed down to escape had been removed. The door locked from outside now too. Half her books and papers were gone; only old copies of L’Ami d’Égalité were left. Her scientific texts, her collection of geological samples and chemical experiments had been stripped out. Anything that could be a weapon – even her needlepoint – had been taken away. Her bindings were cut, and then she was left alone.

Feeling overwhelmed by everything that had happened, she gave in to the plaintive child inside and flung herself on the bed. They’d been so close to pulling it off, and then her father had to step in and try to decide her future for her. Camille would have no idea what had happened to her. She would have just disappeared like Al. It was all so unfair she wanted to scream.

As the sun made its descent, casting puddles of buttery light across the floorboards, her father appeared with dinner. Ada sat on the edge of the bed filled with a warring mix of resentment and exhaustion. He put the tray on her desk and pulled out her chair to sit down.

‘How are you feeling? The sedative should have worn off by now, I’d have thought.’

‘What did you do to me?’

‘A chemical preparation. Something I learned from your fascination with the subject, I own. I thought you might appreciate the judicial use of a scientific discovery eradicating the need for force.’

‘You drugged me.’

‘For your own—’

‘Good. Yes, I thought so.’

He smiled and held out the tray to her.

‘I know you don’t understand why I had to take such extreme measures, but when you have children of your own you’ll realise that there’s nothing you won’t do to protect them.’

A hundred questions crashed through her head but in that moment she hated him more than any words could possibly convey. Slowly, she picked up the bowl of soup.