A chandelier hung on a heavy chain from the ceiling to illuminate the auditorium, all tarnished gold and dripping wax. Al lobbed a curl of orange peel at the stage that only just missed one of the low-lying candles.

Guil nodded. ‘Bread and circuses. The Romans knew well that—’

‘Oh god, please, not one of your history lectures. We get it, revolution is the human condition, absolute power corrupts absolutely. I take it back, the dog is quite amusing. Can I just watch it in peace?’

Looking put out, Guil folded the playbill and put it back in his pocket, then reached over to pluck the orange from Al’s hand. ‘Only if you stop monopolising the snacks. I’ve not had an orange since leaving Marseille.’

‘You’re all too serious. Honestly, sometimes I think I’m the only one of us with a sense of humour. I’m not sure Cam even knows what fun is,’ said Al with a sideways glance.

Camille rolled her eyes. ‘Perhaps I don’t find the same things fun as you do.’

‘Stabbing things doesn’t count. That’s work.’

‘We have different priorities.’

‘Oh, come on, you were exactly like this before the battalion. Ada’s told me, the earnest little political obsessive. The three of you, all hanging round the political clubs like teacher’s pets. I mean, you’d fit right in. Doesn’t look like Robespierre has ever cracked a smile in his life.’

Ada’s cheeks heated as Camille shot her a look. ‘He’s paraphrasing. I didn’t mean it as a bad thing.’

‘I often have fun,’ added Guil. ‘Last week I translated Kant from the original German.’

Al buried his face in his hands. ‘Oh god. What have I been reduced to? Once I was the light of Paris. Now look at me.’

Olympe cleared her throat awkwardly. ‘May I please have a piece of orange?’

It was the first time she’d spoken since they got to the theatre. Dragging her through the crowds and bustle of the city had been like trying to shove a cat into a carrying case. Camille had lost the battle of wills and they’d had to take a quieter route through the backstreets that was twice as long. But now, secreted in the corner of the box, curiosity was slowly overtaking the wary, hunted look she’d worn since escaping the prison. She flitted between avidly watching the stage, peering at the standing audience in the pit below, and across at the rich men and women in the other boxes, stroking her hand along the velvet of her seat and the silk of her borrowed gloves.

Guil carved her a segment of orange with his pen knife.