Page 20

20

TO THE PRISON

I t was dawn, and Souveraine was waiting on the street by the corner of the prison, clutching the best dress she owned.

Thanks to Léon. She’d spent the previous evening calling in favours, while working, and had amassed an impressive array of costume jewellery.

For Léon. She had no wig or powder, but she had hair pins and flour, and she’d decided that would do just as well.

Léon would be impressed.

And there he was, handsome, sweet, harried.

Sad and exhausted. And all Souveraine wanted was to throw her arms around him and make everything better.

But as always, Léon pulled up just that little bit too short, saying breathlessly, “I can’t thank you enough for this. Is Mollard here yet?”

“I haven’t looked.” She’d hoped for more from him, but his eyes were already on the dress, holding it up, assessing the size, then he was rifling through her bag.

“No wig?”

“I couldn’t get one.” His face dropped, just a little.

“But I’ll help you do the hair.”

“Thank you.” He took her arm.

He offered up the smile she’d adored almost all her life and leant in.

The kiss landed on her cheek.

She had begun to despair of him ever placing one on her lips.

“Let’s go,” he said.

And all the warmth, his scent, the safe feeling of being with Léon, slipped away, and he returned to his usual too-respectful distance that he’d taken to keeping whenever they were in public.

Léon never meant to treat Souveraine that way.

He didn’t know how to treat her most of the time.

His natural instinct was to be close—he was naturally affectionate, and he loved her better than almost anyone else in the world.

But he knew what the touch meant to her.

He knew what it meant to everyone around them, who were always watching.

And he knew, now, what a touch could be.

His hand seemed to vibrate from the press of Henry’s fingers.

Even after his flight from the cabin, even here in town with Souveraine, it felt alive.

Christ, how he hated his attraction to that man.

How he hated to think of his poetic turn of phrase, the fire of justice and revolution in his eyes, his…

That way he slightly quirked his lips when he knew he was being ridiculously hypocritical, but when he said it, anyway.

Yes, Léon hated him.

Thoroughly. Through to the marrow.

The pompous imposter.

But, to his credit, Léon did believe that émile would be both safe and happy with him that day.

So Léon would discharge his duties in return, in full.

And to do that, he needed to be as cool and professional as possible.

The outer gate to the prison was open, and Léon led the way in, striding confidently into the office, where Mollard had just sat down to eat his breakfast. Léon went straight for his desk drawer, pulling the jangle of keys loose.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Mollard protested, dropping a shower of breadcrumbs from his mouth and across the desk.

“What’s she doing here?”

“Shut up!” Léon spat.

He slapped some paper and the corked inkwell down on the table.

“Make a list. I’ll take the political prisoners first. Writers, journalists. Then give me any priests, then traitors, followed by rapists and murderers. I want the women last. Very last of the day. Do you understand? Don’t fuck it up.”

“Fuck you, Léon,” he snarled.

“Fuck you, Mollard! Make the list.” He pulled at Souveraine’s hand and they made for the interior prison gates.

“Hey, she’s not allowed in there!” Mollard yelled after them.

Léon called back, as obnoxiously as possible, “I’ve got DuPont’s approval, so unless you want me to tell him you’re obstructing justice again?”

Mollard squinted his whole face at Léon, and Léon threw it off with the satisfaction that he’d managed to annoy him, and so early in the day, too.

Souveraine had never once been beyond those doors, and very rarely into the prison complex at all.

She crept close against Léon’s back as they slipped into the dark and damp atrium.

Léon put the two guards at ease with a few words, and kept Souveraine between himself and the wall as they mounted the spiral staircase, up and around, saying nothing beyond reassuring murmurings that the cell was nearby.

Without a thought for protocol or punishment, Léon opened the cell door and slipped inside with Souveraine, to a cry of surprise from Sophie and, as usual, not a sound from Catherine.

Shrunk into a corner, her eyes ran nervously over the two of them, resting with marked interest on Souveraine.

Souveraine met her look with a reserved but sympathetic regard, assessing the dirty skin and oily hair that sat above a very pretty face.

Her gaze moved to Léon, but his hands were already in Sophie’s.

“You’ve come for us, then?” she asked.

“It’s today,” Léon replied softly.

He looked over at Catherine.

Sophie followed his gaze, and when their eyes met again, Léon said, “Sophie, I have a very, very, very big favour to ask of you.”