Hiding backstage was easier said than done. It was teeming with people going back and forth carrying heaps of wigs, piles of clothes, rolled sheets of painted backdrop and bulky props. Men and women, both half-dressed, faces painted in thick make-up, paste jewels glittering at their ears and throats. A woman carried a wig the size of her torso with a white sailing ship nestled among the powdered curls. Curtains hung in regimented rows, filtering off sections of wing and stage, with ropes dangling from gantries above, and trapdoors open to the pit below.

The further back they went, the quieter and darker it became. Camille wasn’t sure if they were going in circles, or if it was just her anxiety making the minutes stretch unnaturally. She knew there was a door somewhere here, she’d gone through it only the day before. Olympe’s hand was hot in hers, the low hum of panic tight in the air between them. She could find it, she could get them a way out of this mess – she just needed time.

The one thing they didn’t have.

Time – and luck.

Camille never found the door.

Instead, she found the end of their luck.

Quietly, like an animal stalking its prey, Dorval stepped from behind a curtain as they passed. He had his arm around Olympe before Camille even noticed. She cried out as Olympe’s hand was wrenched from her grasp, and spun on her heel to face him in shock.

Dorval smiled wide and wicked. ‘Mademoiselle Laroche. Thank you for delivering the girl.’

Camille whipped her pistol out and pointed it at his head.

‘Let her go.’

‘Put that thing away. You know you’re just as likely to take her head off as mine.’

He had one arm around Olympe’s waist, the other held a knife to her throat. Camille hesitated, then lowered the gun.

He was right.

And she’d seen something he hadn’t. Olympe was snaking her bare fingers towards the hand at her waist.

‘I’m disappointed. You’re getting sloppy, Citoyen Dorval.’

‘Whatever clever game you think you’re playing, it won’t work.’

‘Oh, it’s not a game.’

‘What are you—?’

Olympe’s hand met his and a blinding blue pulse sent sparks racing up his arm. He seized up, shaking violently. Olympe tried to wriggle out of his grip but his arms had locked, hand clamped around the knife still too close to her throat. Together they toppled into a discarded backdrop of a country park. The crackle of sparks arced against the paint-soaked fabric and a flame caught in a neat blue line racing up through the backdrop like the fuse of a cannon.

Olympe scrambled away, sparks dying on her hands but it was too late.

Fire leaped in a yellow-orange-red wave, devouring the canvas.

14

The Théâtre Patriotique

‘I hope your girlfriend knows what she’s doing.’