The ladies around her joined in a contagious upheaval of brooding energy.

The executioner, all in black, arrived on the platform of the guillotine, and the crowd screamed in a rallying cry. He raised his hands to the air and took his place at the back, near the knife. All eyes watched his hands as he grasped the rope and began to pull it downward; one thin coil formed at his feet. The blade inched toward the sky, a flash of light glinted off steel, momentarily blinding. The attention of the crowd rose upward, anticipating its summit. When it reached the top, they let out an exultant shout Paris felt in its very soul.

Several streets over, prisoners in moving carts heard the cheers. They toppled against each other, when a wheel dipped into a rut while creaking through the streets to Place de Grève, where La Guillotine awaited their necks. A young boy, crouched in his small corner of the cart, reached for his mother’s hand. She held it in her own, reflexively, too terrified to offer more. Yet he, seeking only to comfort, squeezed with his dimpled fingers in reassurance. As their eyes met, her shoulders relaxed, and the lines on her face smoothed. And then she leaned to cup his face and kiss his head. “Peace, my child.”

He nodded, eyes shining.

Nearby, Andrew heard the echoing shout as the members of the league waited in position. Lord Courtenay, tasked with the toughest aspect of the day’s rescue, leaned forward on the balls of his feet, his face smudged and clothes tattered, smelling of whiskey. Not a drop had passed his lips, of course; he shook his arms and opened and closed his fingers.

The old hag began a slow chant, her intended distraction. No one would die today. “Descendre. Descendre.” Come down. Her low, monotone sound continued. “Descendre. Descendre.” Come down. Come down. She pounded her hands into her thighs as she repeated her incantation.

The women around her took it up immediately, feeling the hypnotic rhythm as they swayed to their own drums. “Down, down, down.”

Soon the rest of the crowd joined and a feverish expectation rallied the people. Louder their call, “Vas-y! Vas-y!” Pounding on thighs led to stomping of feet and shouting of voices. “Go on. Bring it down, down, down.”

The carts outside the prison walls continued to creep forward. A young girl with blonde curls sat silently inside the lead cart, eyes squeezed tight, hands over her ears. Her brother reached a hand across her shoulder and pulled her closer to him, tapping to get her attention. When she looked, he produced a wooden horse from his pocket and began to make it trot and dance in front of her. The chanting seemed to shake the very walls of Paris and shudder in hearts already pounding within barred carts. But the girl smiled and reached for the horse.