‘I love oranges. Docteur Comtois would bring me these, usually before they tried something particularly unpleasant.’ She hesitated, looking at where the orange juice had stained the tips of her gloved fingers. ‘I suppose that’s not a good memory, is it? He spoke of it as if he was doing me a kindness, but maybe saying something is kind does not make it so.’

‘Memories can be complicated. The same one can bring us both joy and pain. Here.’ Guil cut another segment and offered it along with a gentle smile. ‘My father imported oranges among other things. The best way to eat them is messily, with little care for public opinion.’

Olympe hesitantly smiled back and took the segment. ‘Maybe this can be a new memory of oranges.’

The oranges had been an expense they could barely afford, but they had worked well as a bribe to get them into the theatre. Their box wasn’t officially in use: a leak had ruined the fine silk wall hangings and left splotches of mould growing like weeds along the seams. It couldn’t be rented to the fashionable elite of Paris, so it was being used partly as a storeroom, partly as an anchor point for some of the elaborate rigging that hung above the stage. Al had kept one orange back as an indulgence.

Ada checked her watch. She could get them more money, but only if she found a chance to slip away and pick up what her father had left for her. She had taken charge of the battalion’s finances from their first paid job and had used her power to fudge their accounts to sneak her father’s money in here and there. Between the bribe and two more mouths to feed they would need it. Her gaze flicked to Camille, who was cleaning her nails with a knife. If Ada was still willing to lie.

A soft tap at the box door interrupted her thoughts.

‘Ah. That’s our cue,’ said Al. He swung his legs down from the crate they’d been propped on and beckoned to Camille. ‘Léon is ready for us.’

They left. Onstage, the dog had been taken off, and Olympe, having gained a little more confidence, started asking questions about the theatre – the first one she’d ever been to – and Paris and what other things people did to amuse themselves.

‘My mother tried to bring me up as properly as she could. I learned needlepoint and the piano and drawing and everything a young lady should. Sometimes Docteur Comtois would let me copy his anatomical drawings when I was in his lab all day. I liked drawing veins, how they look like trees.’ Olympe leaned over the edge of the box. ‘Oh, look! That woman has a birdcage in her hair. How did she do it? Why did she do it?’