Midnight in the cellars of Saint-Cloud was colder than a tomb.
I knelt on the stone floor, a needle in one hand and my thick woolen traveling coat in the other.
"Hold the candle steady, Cléry," I whispered.
"My hands are shaking, sir," he replied. The flame danced, casting long, nervous shadows against the wine racks.
I didn't blame him. If we were caught, he would be shot as an accomplice. I would be... well, my son would probably find something more creative for me.
I pushed the needle through the heavy fabric of the coat's lining.
Inside the hem, I wasn't hiding gold coins. Gold was heavy. Gold clinked. Gold got you killed.
I was hiding a small, black ledger.
It contained the names of every corrupt official in the National Assembly. It listed every bribe Danton had ever taken. It detailed the offshore accounts of half the revolutionary leaders.
"Information is light," I muttered, pulling the thread tight. "And leverage is lighter."
"Sir?"
"Never mind."
I bit the thread and tied it off. I put on the coat. It felt lumpy against my ribs, a reassuring pressure.
"The jewels, sir?" Cléry asked, pointing to the velvet pouch on the table.
Inside sat the Regent Diamond. One hundred and forty carats of flawless, condensed starlight. It was worth more than the entire French navy.
"In the boot," I said. "Left heel. I hollowed it out yesterday."
Cléry looked horrified. "You're walking on the Crown Jewel of France?"
"I'm walking on my retirement fund, Cléry. Perspective."
The heavy oak door at the top of the stairs creaked open.
We both froze. Cléry blew out the candle instantly.
Darkness swallowed us. The smell of dust and old wine filled my nose.
Footsteps. Heavy boots on stone.
Click. The sound of a flintlock hammer being pulled back.
"Citizen Miller?"
It was Bessières. My guard. My jailer.
I didn't move. My heart did that familiar flutter—a bird trapped in a cage of ribs. Not now. Don't die now.
"I know you're down here," Bessières said. His voice echoed. "And I know the carriage is waiting by the old mill."
I squeezed Cléry's arm, signaling him to stay put. I stepped into the pale moonlight filtering through the high grating.
"Are you going to shoot me, Captain?"
Bessières stood at the bottom of the stairs. He held a lantern in one hand and a pistol in the other. The light illuminated his face. He looked tired.
"The penalty for aiding an escape is death," he said flatly.
"The penalty for starving is also death," I replied. "It just takes longer."
I reached into my pocket. I didn't pull out a weapon. I pulled out a small sack of coffee beans. Real coffee.
"There's ten pounds of this in the pantry," I said. "And three barrels of salted pork. And a case of cognac."
Bessières stared at the sack. His pistol lowered an inch.
"If I stay, the government confiscates it all tomorrow," I said. "If I leave... you found the cellar empty. You can trade this for enough silver to get your family to Switzerland."
It was the "Golden Parachute" applied to a prison guard. I was liquidating my assets to buy my freedom.
Bessières looked at the gun. Then at the coffee. Then at me.
He lowered the hammer.
"The patrol changes at two," he whispered. "Take the west road. The bridge at Sèvres is guarded by drunkards."
He reached into his belt and pulled out a second pistol. He held it out butt-first.
"Take it."
"I thought I was a prisoner."
"You were," he said. "Now you're a ghost. And ghosts need protection."
I took the gun. It was heavy, cold iron.
"Thank you, Captain."
"Go," he hissed. "Before I remember my oath."
The rain was a curtain of gray sleet.
Our carriage was a rotting farm cart disguised as a grain transport. The roof leaked. The wheels groaned. It smelled of wet hay and horse manure.
I sat in the back, hidden under a tarp. Cléry drove the horses.
We were miles from Saint-Cloud, but I still expected to hear the thunder of hooves behind us.
"Checkpoint!" Cléry hissed from the front.
My stomach dropped.
I peered through a gap in the wooden slats.
Lanterns swung in the dark. A barricade of overturned carts blocked the muddy road. Three men in the uniform of the National Guard stood in the rain, muskets slung lazily over their shoulders.
They looked miserable. Wet, cold, and bored.
That made them dangerous. Bored men like to exercise power.
"Halt!" one shouted. "Papers!"
Cléry pulled the horses to a stop. "Citizens," he said, his voice trembling. "We are transporting grain to Rouen."
"Grain?" The guard perk up. "Let's see it."
He walked to the back of the cart.
I gripped the pistol Bessières had given me. My thumb hovered over the hammer.
The tarp was ripped back.
A lantern was shoved in my face. I squinted, blinded by the sudden light.
"Who's this?" the guard demanded. "He doesn't look like a grain sack."
I didn't cringe. I didn't beg. I channeled the arrogance of a mid-level bureaucrat.
"Citizen Miller," I snapped, shielding my eyes. "Auditor for the Committee of Public Safety. And you are blinding me."
The title gave him pause. Everyone feared the Committee.
"Papers," he grunted.
I handed him the forged documents. He squinted at them in the rain. He probably couldn't read.
"This says you're inspecting supply lines," he muttered. "What's in the box?"
He pointed to a small wooden crate next to me.
Inside was the cognac.
"Supplies," I said. "For General Jourdan."
The guard licked his lips. "The General is far away. We are thirsty here."
He reached for the crate.
This was the test. If I fought him, he'd search the cart. He'd find the Black Book. He'd find the diamond in my boot.
"Don't touch that," I said sharply.
He stopped, hand on his sword hilt. "Are you threatening me, Citizen?"
"I'm saving you," I said. "That is vintage brandy. If you take it, I have to report it stolen. An investigation is launched. Paperwork. Questions."
I leaned forward.
"However... if a bottle were to fall off the cart due to the terrible road conditions..."
I kicked the crate. The lid popped open. The glass glinted.
The guard stared at the bottle. He looked at his freezing comrades.
"Accidents happen," he grinned, revealing rotten teeth.
He snatched the bottle.
"Pass, Citizen. Long live the Republic."
"Long live the Republic," I echoed hollowly.
The cart lurched forward. As we rolled away, I heard the cork pop and the sound of laughter.
Corruption. It was the only thing keeping the country running.
We reached the coast two days later.
Calais was a hive of scum. Deserters, spies, and rats scurried through the fog-choked alleys.
The tavern was called The Drowned Rat. Apt.
It smelled of stale beer and fish guts. I sat in the darkest corner, my hat pulled low. Cléry stood guard at the door.
A man slid into the seat opposite me. He had a patch over one eye and a scar running from his ear to his chin.
"One-Eyed Jack," I said.
"That's what they call me," he grunted. He placed a dirty knife on the table. "You look soft for a grain merchant."
"I'm not a merchant. I'm a client."
"I don't take passengers. Only cargo."
"I am cargo," I said. "High-value cargo."
Jack laughed. It sounded like gravel in a grinder. "Everyone thinks they're high value. Until I dump them overboard."
"I need passage to Dover. Tonight."
"The Channel is a washing machine tonight. And the frigates are patrolling. Five hundred francs. Gold."
"I don't have gold."
Jack's eye narrowed. He picked up the knife. "Then you're wasting my time."
I leaned in. "I have something better."
I reached down to my boot. I twisted the heel. It clicked open.
I placed the stone on the table.
Even in the gloom of the tavern, the Regent Diamond blazed. It caught the flickering candlelight and fractured it into a prism of blue and white fire.
Jack stopped breathing.
The knife froze in his hand.
"Mother of God," he whispered. "Is that...?"
"Glass," I lied smoothly. "High-quality Venetian crystal. A masterwork."
Jack looked at me. He knew I was lying. He knew exactly what this was.
"If that's real," he hissed, "I could slit your throat and take it."
"You could," I agreed. "But try to sell the Regent Diamond in France. You'll be guillotine fodder in an hour. Try to sell it in England without papers, and they'll hang you as a thief."
I tapped my chest, where the ledger was sewn.
"I have the provenance. The papers. With me, it's a fortune. Without me, it's a death sentence."
It was a bluff. I didn't have papers for the diamond. But a smuggler respects a con.
Jack stared at the diamond. Greed warred with fear in his single eye.
Greed won. It always does.
"Tonight," he said, snatching the stone and shoving it into his pocket. "High tide. The cove at Black Point."
"If you cross me," I said, "my son will hunt you down."
"Who's your son? The Devil?"
"Something like that."
The beach was a nightmare of wind and spray.
The cutter was small—a nutshell tossing on black waves.
We waded into the surf. The water was liquid ice. It soaked my boots, my coat, my skin.
My chest tightened. The arrhythmia kicked like a mule. I gasped, stumbling in the sand.
"Sir!" Cléry grabbed my arm. "Keep moving!"
"Halt!"
A shout from the dunes.
A lantern flared. Then another.
"Dragoons!" Jack screamed from the boat. "Push off!"
"Wait!" Cléry yelled. He dragged me through the surf. The water rose to my waist.
Crack!
A musket shot. I heard the ball hiss past my ear.
"They're firing!" Jack yelled. "Get in or I leave you!"
I threw myself over the gunwale, landing hard on the wet wood. My ribs screamed. I wheezed, black spots dancing in my vision.
Cléry tumbled in after me.
"Row!" Jack roared at his crew.
The oars dug into the water. The boat surged forward, climbing a wall of black water.
Another shot. Splinters exploded from the railing inches from my face.
I looked back.
Figures on the beach. Soldiers. My son's soldiers.
They were firing at their King.
I lay in the bottom of the boat, gasping for air, clutching my chest. The rain washed the sweat from my face.
I wasn't Louis XVI anymore. I wasn't a King.
I was a refugee. A fugitive. A number on a list of enemies.
The boat crested a wave and plummeted down the other side. The lights of France vanished behind a wall of rain.
"Goodbye," I whispered into the dark.
I had saved my neck. But I had lost my country.