He gave a derisive snort. ‘It is a scientific creation, a manipulation of muscle and bone and the natural forces of our world.’

‘But she feels pain—’

‘So does a dog. Doesn’t make it human. Doesn’t give it a soul.’

Ada felt ill. She remembered the accounts of the experiments done on a conscious, pain-feeling Olympe. Vivisection.

‘I … suppose.’

This time he pressed the tip of the knife against her thigh. It was so sharp it sliced through her skirts until she felt the cold metal on her skin. She was pressing the nib so hard it snapped.

‘So ill at ease, mademoiselle. Is there something on your mind?’

‘Camille won’t pick me, you know. That’s not how we work.’ She scratched a few more numbers, totting up goods in and money out for laundry, coal and soap. ‘My father said me you’re using me to coerce her into doing what you say. It won’t work.’

The knife traced a line up her thigh, sneaking through layers of fabric. ‘Oh, I’ve been watching the two of you. She won’t give you up easily, or she wouldn’t be living in squalour, playing at being a criminal. She chose a life with you in it.’

For a moment, Ada felt herself being drawn into the story he was telling. She and Camille had already picked each other once. Maybe he wasn’t so far off.

‘Your Camille is in over her head. The duc is a man of his word. If Camille hands over the creature, he’ll let you go. And if she doesn’t, I’ll have to do my best to persuade her.’

‘No,’ she protested, but her voice was barely above a whisper.

The fabric of her skirt gaped along the knife slash, letting the frigid air raise goosebumps on her skin. Dorval pressed the tip of the blade, drawing a bead of blood. Ada gasped at the pain. He shifted closer.

Then she felt the heat of his breath against her thigh. The moist rasp of his tongue licking up the drop of blood.

‘You taste sweet.’

The door to the salon opened, and, as fast, Dorval was sitting in his chair, idly running the whetstone over the knife.

‘Ah! Dorval.’ Her father strode into the room. ‘Your duc has sent word for you. Says it’s “time”, whatever that means – no, don’t tell me. I want as little to do with all this as possible.’

Dorval set down the knife so the blade crossed the ledger. Ada pulled her hand back just in time to avoid getting cut.

‘Until next time, mademoiselle.’

Ada forced herself to politely incline her head.

He exchanged a word with her father, and with their backs turned, she slipped a freshly cut quill into the folds of her skirt. In a pinch, she could pick a lock with it.

Then he left, slamming the front door after him.