60. Charged
60
CHARGED
P risons were an environment Léon was intimately familiar with, only Henry’s existed on a larger, more organised scale.
At least administratively.
The processing of arrestees had become a top priority in the city, especially after the massacres.
With the thousands killed, the prison population had been lowered back to near zero, and authorities had wasted no time filling those cells again, for ever-more spurious reasons.
Léon hitched Destroyer to a post within sight of the entrance and brought émile inside with him.
It took some time for the man behind the counter to find Henry’s information, which felt ludicrous to Léon, as it had only been an hour or two since his arrest.
“For what?” asked Léon, words ready at his tongue to yell at the man about the ridiculous charge of witchcraft, something the revolution didn’t even believe in.
But the man placed his papers down, and with a stony look, revealed, “Sedition.”
A thick queasiness pulled at Léon’s insides.
The very thing his father had been executed for.
His lips trembled slightly, then broke into an incredulous smile.
“Sedition? Well, there’s clearly some mistake. You have the wrong man.”
The guard picked Henry’s file up and read a little further.
“For spreading seditious lies to the public in his newspaper articles.”
“No, there is a mistake!” Léon slammed a shaking hand down on Henry’s papers, his voice a mess, an overwhelm of emotion that made the guard pass a look to another in warning, but Léon was too beside himself to notice.
“Henri has called for the King’s head every day since I’ve known him. He is the greatest supporter of the revolution there is. He speaks more passionately, more vehemently, than any other man alive. This is a vicious lie. That’s not Henri. How has this happened?”
But the man only looked back at him coldly, and asked, “Did you just call him ‘the King’?”
A sluice of cool blood chilled Léon’s heart at the error.
“We don’t have a king, last I checked,” the man said.
“I mean Citizen Louis Capet,” Léon whispered, head sinking low, his grip tightening on émile’s hand, which sliced into his.
“Citizen De Villiers has been instrumental in moving public sentiment in favour of guillotining Citizen Capet. He is innocent of the crimes he’s charged with.”
“Your foreign friend will have his day in court. Tomorrow, at…” He pulled the papers from beneath Léon’s hand.
“Two o’clock.”
“Very well,” said Léon.
“And who is his representative?”
“He doesn't get one.”
“What?”
“He talks so fine in his papers, or so they say… It’s been decided he doesn’t need one. Now if I could just get your name?” The man reached for a quill, a cruel smirk sliding across his face. It was clear he enjoyed the flash of fear he’d provoked.
Pulling émile’s hand, Léon fled the building. They mounted Destroyer and galloped away from the prison, his mind a swirling mess. He took back streets—streets he’d had time to explore during his daily outings for the last three months. He took laneways, byways, any ways that wouldn’t lead anyone back to the house.
He threw a pebble through the mail slot, and the gate flung open immediately. Souveraine had been waiting on the front step. She locked the gate and began nailing the plank in before Léon had even dismounted. He lifted émile down, met Souveraine in the middle of the courtyard, took her hands and whispered, “I must ask you for the utmost secrecy on this matter. Henri has been arrested. He is due to face trial tomorrow. The charges are unfair and inhuman, and I do not like his chances in this political climate.”
Catherine, having heard their arrival, came out to meet them. She stood in the doorway, watching as Souveraine’s and Léon’s worried eyes fell on her.
Souveraine said, “Henri has been arrested. And it doesn’t look good.”
In complete shock, Léon wrapped protective arms around émile, and dropped to the ground, covering him, bracing.
And not a thing happened.
For a moment, he wondered if he was already dead, such was the stark silence of the courtyard, the blackness of his closed eyes.
He opened one, then the other. The snow fell softly. émile, intact and wary, looked up at him, and they turned as one to stare at Catherine.
Her eyes held Souveraine’s, a small zap of blue light dancing at her fingertips, and she said, “Well, I must admit, that is a little disappointing.”