‘Yes. I’ll have to go in at the hinges. It might hurt.’

Olympe turned her featureless face between Camille and the blacksmith.

‘Will you let him try?’ Camille asked. ‘We won’t make it out of here with you in the mask.’

Camille could only imagine what the girl’s expression might be under it. How hot and grimy her skin must feel. How she couldn’t scratch an itch or wipe away her tears.

Olympe nodded, heavy and slow.

The blacksmith motioned for her to place her head on his anvil. She kneeled, her head lying on the block like a convict waiting for the guillotine blade to drop. He set to work.

They’d slid furtively through the prison until they’d stumbled across the forge. Camille knew they’d have a better chance of escaping if Olympe wasn’t wearing the mask, so she had stepped inside the forge, pistol raised and heart in her mouth. But the blacksmith had agreed easily enough. He worked gently, heating a section at a time and chipping away carefully at the hinges. Olympe whimpered, fingers tightly gripping the sides of the anvil.

A nauseating mix of anxiety and humiliation was making Camille restless. She paced in front of the forge doors as the smith worked. This was another unforeseen risk, dragging out how long she had to be in the prison, increasing the number of people who knew she’d been there. The duc had been stupid. How was she supposed to do a good job without all the information? Anger brought heat to her cheeks. The duc had thought she would be a good hireling and follow orders without questioning them. That was the problem with men like him. They had no idea that anyone not of their rank and class was a human being at all.

She paused to peek into the courtyard. A troop of soldiers was passing through. More feet on the ground than she’d expected – a consequence of the balloon crash. The crash, Ada, Al. All the problems she’d not let herself think about. She hoped Guil had found them. That she hadn’t made a mistake letting him go. That Ada would forgive her for the choices she had made.

The mask dropped to the floor with a leaden clunk, landing in the sawdust. Olympe made a hoarse keening sound, her body shuddering. Then she rose stiffly, dark braid tangled where it had been confined, and her shoulders dropped, muscles uncoiling in release from the weight of the mask. She scraped the hair from her face, torn nails catching in the matted strands.

The blacksmith had gone pale, taking one stumbling step back, then another. Olympe was facing him, so all Camille saw was the knotted nest of her hair. He was muttering under his breath. The Lord’s Prayer, Camille realised. He crossed himself – then fled from the forge.