The closer she got to Paris, the more clogged the road became, mostly with people fleeing to the countryside. Only radicals and adventurers and madmen went toward the city these days. She pul ed her hood over her hair and lowered her eyes, keeping to the trees. Eventual y they thinned to ragged bushes and then to fields and then she was on the outskirts of the city and everything was cobblestones and gray roofs in the winter sunlight. She’d been walking for three days with very little sleep and only frozen creek water to melt and drink. Her head swam and she felt as if she had a fever: everything was too bright or too dul , too sharp or too soft.

She stopped long enough to buy a meal and a cup of strong coffee to fortify herself. She huddled in her cloak, trying not to stare at everyone and everything. Smal er houses crowded together gave way to buildings, towering high and made of stone the color of butter. The river Seine meandered through the city, past the Tuileries, where the king had once lived, before they’d cut off his head. Isabeau shivered. She couldn’t think of it right now. If she gave in to the grief and the fear she might never move again.

She forced herself to her feet and fol owed the river. The water churned under a thick, broken layer of ice. She rubbed her hands together to warm them, being careful not to catch anyone’s eye. Men swaggered in groups drinking coffee and distributing pamphlets while women with cockades pinned to their bonnets stood on the corners talking. Their faces were serious, fired with purpose. Isabeau could smel smoke lingering and saw piles of burned garbage from riots and the fighting that took over the streets at night. She’d heard her father speak of it more and more, especial y last autumn, when so many had been massacred.

She’d heard the guil otine had been set up in one of the city squares but she didn’t know where it was. Her parents hadn’t squares but she didn’t know where it was. Her parents hadn’t been to their Paris house since the Christmas she was eleven.

She remembered passing the opera house in the carriage and the snow fal ing in the streets. She could walk in circles and never find her way.

She final y noticed that the crowds seemed to be heading in the same direction. She paused behind a group of women with chapped hands, smoking under an unlit streetlight. Taking her courage in both hands she approached them slowly.

“Pardon, madame?”

One of the women whipped her head around to glare.

“Citoyenne,” she corrected darkly.

Isabeau swal owed. “Pardon, citoyenne. Could you tel me how to find La Place de la Concorde?”

The woman nodded. “Visiting la louisette, are you?” When Isabeau looked at her blankly she elaborated. “The guil otine.”

“Oh. Um, yes.”

“Not from here, are you?”

Isabeau backed away a step, wondering if she should dart into the safety of the maze of al eyways. “Yes, I am.” The woman shook her head, not unkindly. “Down this street and turn right.”

“Thank you.”

“If you hurry, you’l catch the last execution. Just fol ow the crowds and the noise. Robespierre got himself a fat duke and duchess.” Her companions nodded smugly. One of them spat in the gutter.

Isabeau’s stomach dropped like a stone. She broke into a run, dodging cafe tables and barking dogs and carts trundling slowly in the street. She could hear a loud cheer from several streets over, even with the pounding of her pulse in her ears.

The cobblestones were slicked with ice and she slipped, crashing into a pil ar of a large building. She pushed herself up, looking wildly about. Al the buildings looked the same, stone and tal windows, pil ars and pavement. She gagged on her frantic breath. Another cheer sounded, louder this time. She ran again, fol owing.

She made it into the cacophony of the square just as the guil otine fel , the blade gleaming in the sun. There was a pause of silence and then more shouts. The ground seemed to shake with al the noise and stamping feet. The pressure of the noise made her nauseous. She’d never seen so many people in her life. There were guards with bayonets, hundreds of citoyens and citoyennes, children, urchins and pickpockets, and rouge-cheeked prostitutes.

Isabeau pushed through the crowd, heedless of the feet she stepped on or the bored curses flung her way. She struggled against the wal of people toward the dais in the center of the square. It was warm with so many bodies and the fires lit in braziers. At the very front, sitting in a row by the tal strange machine that was the guil otine were the tricoteuses, the women who sat and knit as the heads fel in the basket in front of them.

If they sat too close, blood splattered them. They’d long ago figured out the exact perfect distance. Isabeau could hear their needles clicking as she pushed between them.

Just in time for the blade to drop a second time.

Her father’s head rol ed into a large basket, landing lip to lip with the decapitated head of her mother. Their long hair tangled together. Blood seeped through the wicker, stained the wood of the dais.

Isabeau’s shrieks were drowned out by the enthusiastic spectators. She screamed herself hoarse and then felt herself fal ing and didn’t even try to stop her head from cracking on the cold cobblestones.

CHAPTER 12

LOGAN

I wasn’t about to let Isabeau go off without me.

I didn’t care how long she’d known Magda, didn’t even care that she was going back home to the tribe she loved. Her shield had cracked and I couldn’t forget the glimpse I’d seen. And I hadn’t been feeding her a cheap line when I’d told her I felt as if we already knew each other. Something in me recognized something in her.