Before Matteo opened his eyes, his nose recognized he awoke in prison, or some other place where people slept in their own vomit. His head pounded from the impact that had rendered him unconscious. He winced, thinking of the obvious trap at Potier’s residence. A trap he could have easily avoided had he placed even a modicum of trust in his friends, in the Pimpernel. Potier, obviously not in the home, could be anywhere. Matteo hoped he had escaped on his own and was safely concealed from the committee.

Matteo tried to clench his fists but felt the pressure of sharp iron bands too tightly clasped around his wrists. Yanking on the chains, his movement jerked to a stop when the hooks on the walls behind him held. The thick darkness allowed for no sight. Either the deepest part of night was upon him, or his cell had no windows.

Moisture from the damp floor seeped through his breeches to his skin. His head tipped backward in frustration, connecting with an overly soft wall, spongy. Matteo leaned forward instead, resting his head on folded arms across his knees.

What felt like hours later, a guard opened the hatch of a door, allowing some filtered light inside Matteo’s cell. Four moss-covered walls surrounded him. Puddles and damp areas stained the dark and crusty floor. Mounds, piles of filth, marked the corners and explained the stench. The guard called to someone at his left and then swung the door open. Coming forward, one of the men unattached Matteo’s chains from the wall, but left them tightly bound to his wrists.

Yanking him along, the guard said, “Come with me, ye scum.”

Jerked to his feet, Matteo stumbled forward and then found his footing. “Where am I?”

“Shut up. Lucky you are—movin’ up, swell. Were it up to me, you’d rot in here like the rest of the aristo scum.”

Unsure if that was good news or bad, Matteo chose to be happy about any positive change in his accommodations.

“Seems you’ll be getting a visitor this week—have to be presentable when that happens.”

Matteo remained silent and followed the guard who jerked his chains forward unnecessarily every now and then. A visitor! Hope filled him and dulled the strain and worry about his present circumstance. He told himself a visitor could be someone dreadful from the Committee of Public Safety, even Éléonore herself. But it didn’t dull the glow of fire that lit at the thought. Far worse than any visitor would be no visitor at all, no contact, to be forgotten in the depths of prison.