“Jealous, are you? Worried it would matter to him? Your imprisonment brings me more satisfaction than even I predicted.” She leaned over him exultantly, pointing to his paper. “Write. Convince him he needs to give up his life for you, for her.” She stood back a few paces, watching. “If he doesn’t come, she will die. First her, then you.”

Considering her, his eyes narrowed. “You have changed so much that I do not know you.”

She waved her hand impatiently. “Write. I care not for you or your thoughts about my person.” A nervous agitation defined her movements. As she lowered her hands again, they trembled.

“What will happen to you if this plan fails?”

Her eyes opened wide and she swallowed, staring at him for a moment before relaxing again. “It won’t.”

***

Hours later, Abella opened the door, carrying dinner, fresh water, and a sachet of herbs. “Maman says to try to get her to drink these herbs. I found you a bit of hot water.”

Holding out a separate tankard, she indicated he should put the herbs inside to steep.

Overcome with gratitude for any small thing that could help Scarlet, he rested a hand on Abella’s shoulder. “Thank you.”

She did not flinch at his touch. “Here is a satchel with your clothes. Another note sits at the bottom. Tonight—during the dinner hour—we will leave then.”

“Why then? She is still too ill. How will that appear if I am carrying her out?”

“It cannot be helped. An execution is planned—someone close to the committee—and the prison will be light on staff and guards. They’ve been given permission to watch. It will be our best chance.”

“Finally, a viable plan.”

Watching Scarlet carefully, he said, “And perhaps she will be well enough.” Abella closed the door behind her, the silence of no accompanying clang of the lock not registering in Matteo’s mind.

Chapter Thirty-One

Scarlet’s breaths measured the passage of time for Matteo. Two hundred later, he felt as though he would melt into the floor, his mind as soggy as the mossy concrete.

Continuing to mumble incoherently, she showed no signs of improvement even though he was able to get her to swallow a good amount of the tea from Abella.

“No click. No click in the lock.”

“Hmm?” She had mumbled all sorts of things since the start of her fever, most sounding as though she were in the gravest danger or deathly worried for someone.

“No click. No click.”

“Thank you, my dear. Try to rest.”