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bequests are somewhat limited,” Jacqueline stated sarcastically. “I wish to send a letter to my maid, Henriette Mandrou, and with it I shall include my hair. She will know what to do with it.”
    “Henriette,” repeated the old man as he began to write. With a shaking hand he slowly scratched the letters onto the paper, using long, embellished strokes. When he had finished he paused and stared at the name, as if trying to remember why he had written it. After a moment he smiled and looked up. “I knew an Henriette once,” he told her conversationally. “A dairymaid. Wanted me to marry her. Only difference between her and her cow was the cow smelled better.” He chuckled and looked back at his work.
    “I would also like you to cut my hair, if you think you can hold your scissors steady enough to do it without slashing my throat,” continued Jacqueline, irritated by his cheerful attitude. She pulled the pins from her hair and shook it loose, running her fingers through the blond cape to feel its silky texture one last time before it was removed.
    Citizen Julien stared at her as she did this, holding his quill in midair, the smile on his face quite gone. It appeared to Jacqueline that the sight of her hair had startled him, and his reaction made the impending loss even more painful.
    “It is only hair,” she told him bitterly. “Tomorrow it will be my head.”
    His response to that statement was to burst into an other terrible fit of coughing, so deep and choking he dropped his pen and began to gasp for air. Concerned, Jacqueline rushed over and began to pat him lightly on the back. The boy leapt to his feet, pushed Jacqueline aside, and proceeded to give his employer a solid thumping.
    “He’s having one of his fits,” Dénis explained.
    “Medicine—” wheezed the old man in between wallops. “Need—medicine.”
    “Where is it?” demanded Jacqueline.
    “It’s in his bag, downstairs,” Dénis told her. “We carry a lot of people’s stuff with us, and the wardens don’t usually let us take it up to the cells. Afraid we’ll smuggle in poison, or a gun maybe,” he explained.
    “Gagnon!” shouted Jacqueline through the grille on the door. The old man’s coughing and wheezing was becoming more severe. “Citizen Gagnon!”
    “What is it?” snapped the jailer as he unlocked the door and stepped inside. He looked at Citizen Julien, who was huddled over gasping for air while the boy continued to bang on his back. “Here now, what’s his problem?”
    “He needs his medicine, which is in a bag downstairs,” explained Jacqueline urgently. “The boy must go and fetch it.”
    “Go on then,” said the jailer, motioning to Dénis. “And be quick about it.”
    The boy raced out of the cell, leaving the old man to the care of Jacqueline.
    “A drink—” he managed weakly before heaving into another fit of choking.
    “Perhaps you should fetch some water, or wine maybe,” she suggested to Gagnon as she helplessly watched the old man hacking and spewing phlegm into his handkerchief.
    “No wine!” wheezed Citizen Julien in between coughs.
    “Water then,” said Jacqueline with a nod to the jailer.
    “Do I look like your servant, Citizeness?” he demanded.
    The old man let out a horrible, agonizing moan and clutched his chest, gasping for air.
    “Please!” begged Jacqueline. “It won’t look very good if an agent of the court dies in your wing while you are on duty,” she added desperately.
    Gagnon scowled. “I’ll be back in a minute. I’ll leave the door open for the boy, but don’t you be thinking about wandering off anywhere, Citizeness,” he warned. “If I have to go searching for you, I will demand payment for my trouble, and I might not be satisfied with just your hair. Maybe I’ll try some of what Inspector Bourdon came for.” He grinned at her, exposing his jagged, rotting teeth before leaving the cell.
    He went to his table at the far end of the hall and was irritated to