As he finished speaking, a new group of guards entered the courtyard in uniform, led by two of the prison staff. Matteo diverted his eyes before he showed any recognition of Abella. He let out a slow breath of relief. Wherever she had been, he was happy to know she lived. Walking beside her, a younger boy, maybe ten years old—her brother judging by the facial similarities—hid slightly behind her, but his eyes sought out Scarlet.

Most people would not have even noticed a response in her, but Matteo watched for it. Her shoulders relaxed, and the tightness with which she had been carrying herself seemed to loosen.

Robespierre turned to the carts. “Guards, continue as you were. I wish to witness the loading of carts myself. And never fear, unworthy traitors. I will view each slicing end to your pathetic and unremarkable lives.” Robespierre gestured for them all to exit the outer doors of the prison. As some were still loading, others began the trek under a short, arched tunnel and out onto the street.

Matteo’s hope to be the only death of the group crumbled around him. Desperately, he searched for an answer, some small solution, anything to prevent more from loading into those carts. The guards shoved him forward, Scarlet at his side, toward the last barred, moving prison, opening the door with a bow as if a footman on their estate.

A voice called out, carrying across the courtyard, “Wait.”

Robespierre.

Everyone turned to him.

“Stop. You, miss. Come here.” He studied Scarlet.

Éléonore simpered, cowering behind Robespierre. “You see, citizen, I have brought many into your hands. Even the Seamstress.” She leaned into him. “She is in fact the English noble Lady Cavendish, now Comtesse Durand.”

Prisoners stepped forward, watching; guards as well, curious. The carts paused in their departures.

With head high and shoulders back, she walked across the courtyard to him, passing their fellow prisoners who eyed her in sympathy, passing the guards paused in ushering prisoners toward carts, and walking right in front of Abella and her brother until she stood not two feet from Robespierre and his personal guards. She stared, unflinching, into his face.

Those first green eyes came into Matteo’s mind again, courageous, shimmering. He inched closer, hoping to stand at her side in protection. A crackle fizzled in the air, tense, as if everyone stood on the balls of their feet, waiting.

“You’re the Seamstress.”

Scarlet pulled on her hair as if she had a braid. “I am.”

“Are you also Lady Scarlet Cavendish of England?”

She smiled and curtsied. “I am.”

“What can you mean, coming here, aiding the women of the Revolution and myself?” He leaned closer to her, breathing in her face. “Falsifying names, allowing hundreds to go free?” Hands clenched at his sides, he grit his teeth.

“Two hundred and sixty-two to be precise, if you are counting.” She brushed the front of her prison dress, straightening it.