The incessant rain had come and gone again by the time Camille left for the arranged drop with their Royalist employers that evening. A hazy pink sunset was unspooling over the river as she crossed the Pont National. The dirt and cobbled roads were lit by oil lamps strung between buildings. Restaurants and taverns emptied out factory workers, merchants and shop girls, squeezed between the ornate-fronted hôtels of the aristocracy and the high walls of their city gardens. Posters covered any exposed space, advertising the upcoming Festival of the Supreme Being and arrests or rulings for each section of the Paris Commune. Ada walked with her for a while, drawing closer as they passed the shadow of the guillotine in the Place de la Révolution. It was probably her imagination, but Camille thought the ground seemed almost sticky with years of spilled blood.

Ada peeled off, ready to meet her later or report her absence if things with the Royalists went wrong, and Camille continued down the Boulevard de la Madeleine, coming up short in front of the grand portico of the church of Sainte-Marie-Madeleine. Only the looming columns and pediment had been built; behind them the excavations for the foundations lay untouched. Revolutionary Paris had no use for a church, so building had stopped. The void was like a dark bruise between the glowing windows and lamps lighting the street. Camille waited until an idling group of students had passed before slinking down the side of the abandoned church.

At the far end of the foundations, a wall from the choir of the older church still stood. A storm lamp threw lurching shadows onto its cracked plaster. Two people were waiting for her.

Camille readied herself and pulled her mask out of her pocket. It was a simple black riding vizard, used by ladies to protect their faces from the sun. Made out of black velvet on pasteboard, it formed a rough oval with holes for her eyes. It was supposed to be held in place by a button clamped between the teeth, but Ada had helped her modify it to be secured with string instead. She positioned the mask, then shoved her hands into her pockets and joined them.

‘Bonsoir, mademoiselle.’

The duc stood nearest the lamp. He looked just as he had when he’d recruited Camille, a tall, middle-aged man with a shock of white hair and piercing blue eyes, wearing expensively tailored silk breeches and tailcoat, silk stockings and shoes with immaculately polished buckles. Beside him was a younger man with a ruddy complexion, thick with muscle but impeccably dressed. Something about him didn’t feel right. An air of latent aggression seemed to come with him, making it seem as though his suit was a poor disguise for his true nature, like old wallpaper showing through thin paint. Camille kept her distance from him, hand resting on the handle of her pistol.