They had been following the line of the shore, winding along, when the man suddenly directed her up a small trail that led inland, over some bluffs. Olivia’s skirts caught on a sturdy bramble, and she stopped, thinking the man behind her would untangle her. Instead the hard object jabbed her in the back again and she stumbled forward, her skirt letting go of the bramble with a long ripping sound. Now her back felt as if it were on fire.
Her eyes were pricked with tears, but if she hadn’t wept over Rupert’s death—or not much—the last thing she would cry over was this farcical situation. Not dangerous, she told herself; rather it was farcical. Quin would save her. The moment he knew she was missing.
The important thing was that Quin was with Rupert.
Furthermore, Rupert wasn’t in that smelly hut, but in a proper bed, on the Day Dream, with Quin. If there was one person she would want to sit next to her deathbed, it would be Quin, with his honest eyes and the reassuring low bell-sound of his voice.
After what felt like hours, they stumbled out of the scrub and into a gravel yard, on the far side of which lay a two-story brick building surrounded by a wall. A sentry stood at the gate in the wall.
“Who goes there?” he said, without much interest.
All of a sudden Olivia felt utterly calm. At least now she would know what was happening. They had arrived somewhere.
“A putain using Père Blanchard’s hut.” Her captor’s voice was toneless, and accompanied by a hard prod in the direction of the gate.
Olivia almost fell at the feet of the sentry. He was slim and weary, with a mustache so luxuriant that it looked as if his face had sprouted wings.
“I am not a putain,” she cried, her voice strangled by the scarf. She was fairly sure that a putain was the French word for a strumpet, a night-walker. Whatever it was, she was certain that it wasn’t nice.
The sentry narrowed his eyes at her and then glanced at the man behind her. “What’s the use of bringing her here?” he wanted to know. “Send her back to the village.”
“She isn’t from hereabouts, so that won’t work. I don’t recognize her.” Olivia lifted her chin and gave the sentry a fierce stare, willing him to order the scarf removed so that she could speak.
“Pretty,” he said, not noticing her glower—likely because he was too busy staring at her chest. “Take that cloak off, Bessette.”
With a jerk the cloak disappeared from around Olivia’s shoulders.
“Plump as a partridge,” the sentry said, with a toothy smile. “Are you vending your wares, Madame?”
Furious, she shook her head.
“Just another wayward wife.” He pulled on his mustache until his face looked lopsided. “What’s the world coming to? Le Capitaine or Madame Fantomas?”
“Madame. No need to bother Le Capitaine with this one. Think we can get twenty francs off her husband for retrieving her? See this cloak? Nice made, and it’s lined.”
“Might be petit bourgeoisie. Madame will decide. Take that scarf off her mouth, Bessette. I have to make sure she’s not a spy. Le Capitaine would want to know.”
There was a disgusted snort from Bessette. “Le Capitaine is too pickled in brandy to know what to do with a spy even if we did find one. This is no spy. She was leaning outside Père Blanchard’s hut, easy as can be, waiting for someone. You know there’s only one reason a woman goes there.”
“We should burn that hut down,” the sentry said, pulling at his mustache again.
Bessette started fumbling with the knotted scarf and Olivia prepared a stream of vitriolic French, but the guard waved his hand. “Just take her in to Madame Fantomas. We got some excellent hams when we found the butcher’s wife bent over the apothecary’s counter, remember. Tell Madame we want our normal cut.”
Olivia felt as if she would burst with rage.
“This little Madame is a fierce one,” the sentry added, finally meeting her eyes. He actually fell back a step. “Take her away, Bessette. I can’t be seen dallying with a trollop. My wife will hear of it.”
“Your missus is not one to cross,” Bessette said with a rough chuckle. “Especially if she heard what this one is like. Hips and breasts, just as a man likes them.”
“True enough,” the sentry said, his eyes lingering on Olivia’s breasts. “Best not hit her like that, Bessette. She’ll have her husband on you if she gets a bruise.”
Bessette snorted. “Not after he learns where I found her.”
Once past the gate, rather than walk up to the building’s entrance steps, they veered off to the right. Olivia was forced to duck her head as they descended a deep, damp flight of stone steps that opened straight into a large kitchen.
To label the kitchen antiquated would be to pay it a compliment. It was primitive. The chamber appeared to have been carved from stone, with little attempt to smooth the walls. Two pits had been hollowed from the rock and were in use as fireplaces, with holes apparently venting to the outdoors.
But it smelled like a kitchen: chickens were going on spits, and an aroma of yeast and flour was in the air. Four or five very young men, wearing uniforms in various states of disrepair, were turning spits, sharpening knives, or washing potatoes. In the very center of the room was a long table, at which a woman was kneading a lump of dough with ferocious energy.
For the first time since she’d been abducted, Olivia stopped twisting her wrists in a vain attempt to loosen the twine holding them together, and just took in the sight. Madame Fantomas—for it must be she—was like a circus embodied in one person: a big, bold pirate of a woman. Her black hair was tied up so that it rose above her head in a towering fountain, above arched eyebrows and a mouth painted crimson. She wore a low-cut gown, and over that a gore-splattered apron, the entirety lightly dusted with flour. And dangling over the gown and apron, almost to her waist, were ropes of beads: great chunks of turquoise, gold chains, even a cross. They weren’t necklaces of a sort Olivia had seen before.
Madame was kneading a huge glop of dough, powerful muscles flexing as she shoved forward, wrapped, and turned. After a moment she pushed it away and reached for a glass of red wine beside her, clinking her thumb rings against it. Rings adorned all her fingers, enough rings to hang a full set of bed curtains. She had the eyes of a goose Olivia had once seen run wild and peck a baker. Mad eyes.
“I brought you a putain,” Monsieur Bessette offered, from behind Olivia’s shoulder. “Found her in Père Blanchard’s hut, waiting for her man.”
“Putain, my ass,” Madame said with a snort. “Take that thing off her mouth, you fool. You’ve got yourself a high-flier there . . . nationality to be determined. Could be for sale, but chances are she’s a très-coquette, having a bit on the side.”
Without taking her eyes off Olivia, she pinched off some raw dough and ate it.
Bessette didn’t bother trying to untie the scarf; he just pulled it straight off Olivia’s head.
There was a second of silence, then two things happened at once: Olivia burst into a violent stream of French—a commentary on Bessette, together with the illegality of kidnapping in general—while Madame Fantomas swiveled and bawled, “This tastes about as good as pig’s slop.” With that, she picked up the huge, squashy pile of kneaded dough and threw it squarely across the kitchen.