Page 13 of Souvenir Heart

“Won’t taking those be cumbersome?” David asked, watching as Marcus began securing the portmanteau behind the horse’s saddle.

“Can’t be helped.”

“I understand the writing desk,” he said, scratching his chin, and Marcus knew he was thinking of the secret panels he’d built into the desk to hold forged identity cards and passes.

Marcus secured the writing box with a leather strap and tied it to the right of the portmanteau, snugging it against the horse’s flank.

“But that?” David nodded at the art box, which also had its share of hidden compartments, as Marcus took it from Andre’s extended hand. “We shouldn’t be too far behind you with the carriage…”

“What traveling painter would leave the tools of his trade behind? Particularly when there’s a growing market for miniatures in the city.” Aware the comte was straining to hear their conversation, Marcus didn’t add that the miniatures, called ‘portraits de consolation,’ were particularly popular as mementos for loved ones among the condemned awaiting death in Paris’s prisons. He hoped this particular disguise wouldn’t be necessary, but knew from experience to have ready a Plan B, C and possibly D.

“Miniatures?” The comte began scrambling down from the box.

Marcus cursed inwardly. How much had the man overheard?

Joley landed beside David, his breath coming in rapid gasps. He patted his chest.

Was he having heart palpitations? That was all they needed.

The comte opened his coat, clawing at the stitches of the lining just below the left sleeve. He pulled a small, cloth-wrapped bundle from the hole he’d made and held it out to Marcus with shaking hands. “Take this.”

When Marcus hesitated, Joley grabbed his hand, pressing the bundle into his palm. “It will help you find her.”

Unfolding what had once been a fine lace handkerchief, but was now just a grimy rag, Marcus found himself holding a miniature, no bigger than a walnut, in a gilt frame set with diamonds. Watercolor and gouache on ivory, his artist’s brain registered.

“My Marguerite,” the comte said.

Marcus stared at the delicate face, the enormous dark eyes, nearly translucent skin, the tumble of silken curls falling past her shoulders. “But this is the portrait of a child.” A child. Of ten? Eleven? The age of his son. Pain seared through him; he shoved it back into the apothecary’s cabinet of forbidden emotions locked in his chest.

“Marguerite is twenty-eight.” The comte gestured at the miniature in Marcus’s hand, then his fingers tightened into a fist as if he were resisting the temptation to snatch the piece back. “This is the only likeness I was able to carry with me. I think it captures her spirit.”

Marcus studied the portrait again. There was something about the eyes, something at odds with the sweetness of the child’s face. He felt a prickling unease, as if ants were crawling up his spine.

Joley closed Marcus’s fingers around the miniature, clasping his hand in both of his, and whispered, “Her name is Marguerite de Joley de la Rouvroy. Marguerite Rouvroy since the uprising. Citizeness Rouvroy. She lives at number 17, Rue de Renard, in the Marais district. Do you know it?”

He’d memorized the streets of Paris by sketching portions of Turgot’s famous map of the city. He could draw them in his sleep.

“Your sketchbook.” Joley’s grip tightened as if he might imprint the address into Marcus’s flesh. “I know you are never without it. Give it to me.”

Marcus pulled his hand free and reached for the leather-bound book in his pocket, then hesitated. “Why?”

“I will write it down for you.”

“That will not be necessary.” The last thing he needed was to be stopped with the name and address of the former finance minister’s daughter (and a Girondin sympathizer) in his pocket.

But the comte had seen Marcus’s movement towards his pocket and, with a speed that would have made a London pickpocket—or Andre—proud, he snatched the sketch book free. A piece of graphite encased in strips of wood that had been stuck between the pages tumbled out and Marcus caught it before it hit the ground. Pocketing the miniature, he held out his hand. “If you’ll allow me, I’ll ease your mind.”

De Joley loosened his grip. Marcus eased the book from his fingers. Flipping to the first unused page, he did a quick line drawing of a fox. Tucking the pencil snugly between the pages of the book, he handed it back to Joley.

“See?” he said, pointing to the fox. “It’s a mnemonicum. Renard Street.” Then he pointed at a slightly darker line at the side of the fox’s right ear. “There’s a one, and if you’ll look at the set of darker lines forming the tip of the fox’s left ear, you’ll see a seven. 17 Rue de Renard.” He resisted the urge to snap, “Satisfied?”

The comte, plainly not satisfied, remained standing between Marcus and his mount.

“I’ll do my best, M’sieur.” Marcus said, in a tone that he hoped would encourage the man to move out of his way. He held out his hand for his sketchbook and pencil.

But instead of returning it, de Joley flipped the page, seized the pencil, and dramatically scrawled something on the back of it.

When he handed it back, Marcus saw what he’d written there. Twenty thousand pounds for her safe return to me, and the bold flourish of his initials. Marcus fought the urge to tear the note to pieces and throw them in the man’s face. There were a myriad of reasons he chose to live the life he did. Money was not one of them.