She’d lost track of how far they’d travelled, jolting into each other in the back of the carriage, but she knew it was long enough that they were far out of the city. The blanket of darkness outside the mullioned windows confirmed her suspicions. Ada had tried to talk to her, to their captors, but Camille had heard the blow landing on her cheek so they’d spent the rest of the ride in silence. She’d felt velvet under her fingers and smelled fresh polish – whoever had taken them had money, or power.

It was an old house, judging from the slant of the window frames, and a rich one. The room was stuffed with Rococo cabinets, armchairs and console tables long out of fashion, but plush and comfortable nonetheless. A de la Tour hung over the fireplace and several tall bookcases had been fitted on either side, heaped with books. In front of the window was a roll-top desk with marquetry inlays, the lid propped up by a stack of ledgers.

But the oddest thing lay right before her. A complete human skeleton had been hung from the ceiling, all the connecting bones wired together so precisely that it felt as if the skeleton might sit beside her and start discussing crop prices.

Camille’s brows furrowed. What was this place?

Behind her the door creaked open, and a sandy-haired man took the seat opposite. He had his head bowed to flick through a sheaf of notes, but she recognised him at once. It was Docteur Comtois from the Conciergerie.

There was an empty chair beside him.

The door clicked again, and another man joined them. Camille drew in a breath.

She would have known her father’s oldest friend anywhere. Her chest hitched in a painful buried sob. For a moment she forgot that she was tied up, that Ada was missing, so strong was the wave of grief and loss and longing for the past.

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake.’

Georges Molyneux tutted and went to untie her bindings. He moved gently with light steps and careful fingers. When her father had gone to Oxford, Molyneux had been the only other Frenchman in his college. With an English friend in tow, they’d taken their grand tour around Europe together, fallen in love with revolution and worked side by side to create a new nation. Camille had grown up among it all, trusting her father’s friends as if they were her own family. Until the day Molyneux did nothing to stand against the false charge of treason that sent her father to the guillotine.

Camille was still shaking as she rubbed her freed wrists. Molyneux took the empty chair and leaned forwards, propping his elbows on his knees.