Crouching by the foot of the bridge, Ada pinched her cheeks, scraping her nails into her skin until it smarted and tears prickled her eyes. Then she rumpled her dress, draped her shawl unevenly around her shoulders and pushed her broad-brimmed hat back so it hung from its ribbon against her shoulders. Finally she shook out her mass of natural curls that other women would spend hours burning into their hair with fire irons, pulling it from its pins until she looked the picture of distraught femininity.

‘My baby! My baby!’

She flung herself into the crowd jostling around the guillotine, clutching at sleeves and skirts.

‘Have you seen my boy? René! René! They took him!’

A stir rippled around her. Cutting a chaotic dash around the square, she circled closer and closer to the line of tumbrils.

‘Please!’ She grabbed at the sleeve of a well-dressed woman. ‘Have you seen a little boy? Dark hair, only three – please, someone took him!’

The woman shook her off with a look of disgust. Some people were sympathetic, others shocked, most casting around them searching for the phantom child. All causing enough commotion so that when she reached the guards, they were already watching her with interest. As was Al. At the last moment she shifted her weight, catching the toe of one foot on the ankle of the other, and sent herself tipping – forcing a guard to dive forwards to catch her.

Sagging in his arms, she looked up at him, blinking her wide eyes, tears running down her cheeks.

‘Citoyenne, what seems to be the matter?’ he asked.

He had a kind face, with a broken nose and patchy stubble. Ada almost felt bad for the trouble she was going to get him in. Almost.

She clutched at his jacket.

‘Oh, please, help me! I was here with my son, but someone snatched him, I’m sure of it and – oh!’

She burst into another flood of tears. The guard lifted her up and patted her shoulder. She could feel Al staring and was careful to studiously ignore him.

‘Where did you see him last?’

She sniffed, drawing her shawl around her throat.

‘Oh, monsieur – citoyen – I don’t rightly know. I think we might have been by the river … or perhaps it was in the Jardin…’

He glanced at the other guard, and the line of tumbrils. ‘You look awfully young to have a child…’

She blushed. ‘Oh – he’s barely more than a baby…’

The guard from the guillotine interrupted, gesturing for Al to be delivered to the platform. He shot her a frantic look as he was unchained and manhandled out of the tumbril. Allowing herself to catch his eye for a moment, she gave an imperceptible wink.

‘My boy – I have to find him!’

‘If you’ll just wait, citoyenne,’ said the kind-faced guard, ‘I can send someone to help.’

‘No – I can’t leave him out there.’