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tankard. “There’s plenty more where they came from, right, mes amis ?”
    â€œAye, and we’ll send them all to the guillotine soon enough,” the landlord declared.
    Guillaume nodded and adjusted his red cap. “ À bientôt, citoyens .”
    He scooped Hero ahead of him, followed by a chorus of farewells. “Just what in the devil’s name is a young English girl doing roaming these streets?” he demanded abruptly as they entered a wider street.
    Hero looked up at him, surprised by the note of irritation in his voice. It seemed to have come from nowhere. “I might ask you what an English gentleman, and you are most clearly both of those things, is doing here,” she retorted.
    â€œYou might ask,” he agreed, “but you would not necessarily get an answer.”
    â€œAnd I might say the same to you,” she retorted, half running to keep up with him as he lengthened his stride.
    He frowned down at her. “I’d venture to suggest that I am more able to look after myself in this murderous city than a young, untried girl.” As she opened her mouth to respond, he shrugged and said curtly, “Well, it’s no safe topic for the open street, so we’ll have it out when we get somewhere private.”
    They had reached Place de la Révolution, where the guillotine stood in the center. The vast square was packed with spectators as the tumbrels rolled across the cobbles. Across the river, on Île de la Cité, the great, grim bulk of the prison of the Conciergerie dominated the skyline. Hero forgot her annoyance with her companion’s high-handed tone and averted her gaze from the spectacle in the midst of the square, clinging closer to Guillaume’s shadow as they threaded their way to the first narrow bridge across the Seine. The thud of the guillotine’s bloody blade and the roar of the crowd were repeated endlessly and could still be heard even when they had crossed the second bridge from the island to reach the left bank of the river. Only when they had turned into one of the lanes leading away from the river did the sound fade.
    Rue St. André des Arts climbed steeply from a square just out of sight of the river. Number 7 was tall and narrow like its neighbors. Hero’s companion knocked in a swift rhythm against the wooden shutters beside the front door. He repeated the sequence after a moment, and the door opened just wide enough to admit a man. Guillaume propelled Hero ahead of him through the gap and stepped in smartly behind her. The door closed, and she heard the heavy bar drop into place.
    She found herself in a dark, narrow hallway. The only light flickered from a tallow candle held by the man who had opened the door for them. He was dressed like her companion in the rough clothes of a sansculottes and stared at her in unabashed curiosity.
    â€œWho’s this, then, William?” he asked in English.
    â€œA question I’m hoping to have answered myself, Marcus,” William replied in the same language. He hung his cap on a hook by the door and with a neat flick removed Hero’s and hung it beside his own. Her hair, drawn into a tight knot on top of her head, was the color of burnt caramel, rich, dark, and honey-streaked. He had a sudden urge to see it loose. An urge he instantly quelled.
    â€œWe got the Latours out, then, I gather.”
    â€œAye,” Marcus replied, still regarding Hero with interest. “They got ’em out before the city gates closed last night. Our folk should be back before curfew tonight . . . if the gods smile,” he added.
    â€œIf the gods smile,” William agreed somberly. He nudged Hero forward towards an open door at the rear of the hallway. “In here, Hero.”
    She stepped into a small empty room, where a single lamp burned on a table and a small fire flickered in the grate.
    William filled two pewter cups from a flagon on the table and offered