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they weren’t getting actively rained on, which was all to the good.
    Maggie was edged close to the wall, rolled in her blanket, curled up tight. She’d lived through men burning the chateau and four days of lurking in the woods. He’d wrung the last strength out of her, scaring her. With food in her stomach and being warm, maybe she’d sleep the whole night.
    “Now what?” Hawker spat, accurately, hitting an inch to the side of Doyle’s boot. “You bring her in and dry her off and feed her and tuck her in like a lost kitten. She’s de Fleurignac’s daughter. Right?” He waited for confirmation. “Does she know where her father is?”
    “Most likely.”
    “Fine. Do we ask nicely where the old man is, or do we haul her out and torture her in the small, cool hours before dawn?”
    “We let her sleep.”
    No way to tell whether the boy was disappointed not to have a chance to apply his skill with sharp implements. “And tomorrow?”
    “We see if she’ll lead us to him. He’s probably not in these parts, or he’d have showed up by now.”
    “So he’s in Paris.”
    “If he is, we’ll take her to Paris. We have to go there anyway to drop off the money.” The donkey baskets were half full of counterfeit assignats, headed for British Service headquarters in Paris. One more yapping pack of nuisance to deal with.
    He’d brought a bundle back, under his arm. He tossed it to the boy. “I found this. What do you read in it?”
    Slowly, suspiciously, Hawker unrolled the length of white cloth and turned it over, frowning. “A woman’s shift. Blood on the front.” It was marked with big, rusty-brown patches. “Some on the back of the shoulder. On the sleeve.”
    “We have ourselves a goodly selection of blood.” It had been a jolt when he caught sight of it, tucked under the bridge, and climbed in to dig it out.
    “A night shift. It’s hers. Right length. Right shape to cover those apples.”
    “Is it, now?”
    An instant of grin from the boy. “I’ve got eyes.” He sobered, fingering the white-on-white embroidery around the neck. “Besides. This . . .”
    He supplied the words. “ Piquer. Broderie .” Stitching. Embroidery.
    “This embroidery. You don’t see it. You feel it. And these little pearl buttons. Not fancy. It’s . . . quality. It matches her.” The boy shook his head impatiently. “The blood’s not hers. She’s not hurt. Not this much.”
    “What else? What does your nose tell you? Go ahead.”
    Hawker held it up and sniffed gingerly. “Blood. Dirt. Some kind of . . . perfume?”
    “That blood’s a couple days old. Two or three weeks and you wouldn’t smell it the same way. The dirt’s because I found it rolled up small and hid under a bridge in the garden. That’s where she’s been sleeping. She left a trail back and forth.”
    “Under a bridge. Sounds damp.” Hawker started to say more. And didn’t. He fingered the cloth and sniffed again. “Plants. Dirt. I’d know it’s been left outside. That’s soap, not perfume.”
    “Lavender soap.”
    The boy pulled the cloth flat between his fists, stretched out. “A handprint on the back. Somebody grabbed her when he was bloody.”
    “And?”
    “She got away. Citoyen Bloody Hand got the worst of that meeting, didn’t he?” Hawker looked off in the direction of the orangerie. “In the village they say one of the men from Paris got hurt during the fire. A knife slash. She doesn’t look the type to knife a man, somehow.”
    “The best ones don’t.”
    “You think she’s in it with her father? Part of the killings?”
    “Well, somebody’s hunting down young officers and murdering them. It’s his list. She could be helping in a loyal, daughterly way. She’s got the brains for it.” Maggie was quiet in a corner, either sleeping or pretending to. “I wonder if she’s got the ruthlessness. I’ll go run a few errands. Always something to do when you have a woman to take care of.” He tapped the nightdress.