He sighed, and a small smile played on his lips before succumbing to a deeper rest, his breathing shallow but steady. Grateful she could provide some small comfort to Antoine, Scarlet leaned her head back against the door again, watching the others.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Matteo’s pen hastily scratched along the small slip of paper he had found hidden underneath his bowl of porridge. Comforted in knowing that some in the prison befriended him and were loyal to the Pimpernel, he wrote all that he knew to Simon, answering his questions and hoping for an easy escape solution.

He stared again at Simon’s letter. Evidence of Potier’s safety and that of his former neighbors and friends shamed him for his lack of trust. Everyone around him behaved with much better bravery and decorum than he, it seemed. He must improve, better himself, prove to Scarlet his worthiness.

The next lines intrigued him. The queen was expected in the prison today? She had previously been imprisoned at La Conciergerie. If they moved her, something had changed, and it did not bode well for her safety.

His mind scrolled through all the information he had learned about the Bastille’s day-to-day management. A new idea began to form, simple, obvious even. He scratched a few more lines to Simon. He wouldn’t be able to do much himself, and they had little time, but the league should be able to get everything in place. His plan was a bit gruesome, but if they carried it out just as he described, they would free the queen in the next few days, if possible.

A rap sounded at the door; four brisk taps—Abella, the food wench. He could only guess the horrors she witnessed every day, poor soul. He vowed to rescue her when he left.

He gently greeted, “Hello. I am almost finished.”

She nodded, scared eyes searching the room, darting from corner to corner, though surely she knew he was alone in the cell.

He folded the paper, mimicking the missive he had received, and hid it carefully again beneath the porridge. “Thank you. You are an angel of mercy.”

Her large soft eyes turned to him and glistened. A small smile played on her lips, and then she studied the floor.

He tipped his head, trying to once again cross her line of sight. “Might I ask you a few questions?”

She nodded and dared another glance up into his face.

“How many servers like you are staffed in the kitchen?”

She thought about it and shrugged.

“How many work with you in these hallways?”

Her small voice almost faded into the stone. “Two, sometimes three here on the north side.”

He reached forward to finger the fabric on her dress at her shoulder. She flinched and stepped back at his touch.

He pulled back is hand slowly. “I’m sorry. I am curious about your clothing. Do you all wear the same uniform?”