The Revolution had lost its way, the Terror ensnaring too many innocents. The battalion saved people because it was the right thing to do. And it didn’t hurt that they were damn good at it.

Camille and Guil crossed the ancient bridge over the broad, dark water. On the far side, the Conciergerie soared like a cliff from the edge of the Île de la Cité, all looming gothic arches and spindly towers. At the other end of the island was its echo in the Notre Dame cathedral and its countless gargoyles and spires.

The Conciergerie: the fortress prison, seat of the Revolutionary Tribunal itself and last staging post for those condemned to die. The last time Camille had been there was to rescue her father on her own, before she’d had the battalion to back her up. She’d failed. Now she had a second chance. An innocent girl needed her help. If she managed this, her demanding father might have even been proud.

The last scraps of balloon fabric were slipping over the roof when they reached the iron gate set into the stone wall. They mounted the steps and Guil rapped the handle of his pistol against the bars to get the attention of the single guard on duty. That was two less than had been there when she’d made a sweep that morning. The guard tore his eyes away from the commotion in the courtyard behind him. Camille’s muscles were so tense she felt as if her bones might snap. That must be where the balloon had crashed.

Guil knocked on the bars again and the guard finally gave them an assessing look.

‘What?’

‘Found a stray one hiding in a flop house down the Rue Avoye, dressed as a boy.’ He hefted Camille by the armpit, showing her to the guard.

The guard sniffed. ‘One what?’

‘A stray from the Vendée sympathisers. My god, man, do you not listen to a thing in morning docket? General Dumas would have your hide for such lax behaviour.’

The guard eyed Camille.

‘Rationalist scum!’ She spat at him through the bars. ‘Your so-called Revolution rejects God, so we reject you.’

Sneering, the guard opened the gate.

‘Throw her somewhere dank,’ he said to Guil.

Guil strode past, hauling Camille fast enough that she lost her footing on the cobbles. She was going to end up with bruises. Good. It had to look real.

‘My pleasure. Back to your post, soldier.’

Snapping a salute, he led her away and the guard shut the gate behind them.

They were in. Now for the hard part.

The smooth stone towers and walls of the prison rose before her. Home of the Revolutionary Court, the Palais de Justice, and if their information was correct, holding place of fifteen-year-old Olympe Marie de l’Aubespine on her way to the guillotine. Their mission.