gazing after her in silence.
“Maman?” Klervie tugged at her sleeve. “Maman, what’s wrong?”
But all Maman said, her voice choked, was, “Thank you, Lavéna.”
Day after day, Maman left Klervie in the care of the sour-faced concierge of their rented room. Klervie hated the old woman, who made her scour the battered, greasy pots and pans until the skin on her fingers was shriveled and sore. In return, she fed Klervie a bowl of watery soup for lunch with a few shreds of leek or mushy carrot tops floating in it, and a hunk of dry bread. The concierge’s apartment was dark and smelled of stale soup and mothballs. Klervie bore all this without complaining because Maman had told her she must be a good girl. Yet all the time she was aware of a nagging ache inside her that was not hunger.
She missed playing with Mewen. She missed stroking his soft fur and hearing him purr. But most of all she missed Papa.
Every day Maman returned looking more pale and exhausted than the day before. Klervie came to dread Maman’s going.
“Please don’t leave me.” She clung on to Maman’s dress, winding her fingers into the soft cloth.
“Klervie, I must go. It’s for your papa. You can’t come with me.”
“Why can’t I come with you? I want to see Papa.” The indefinable ache inside her found words. “More than
anything.
”
“He’s…” Maman hesitated. “He’s in prison, Klervie. He and the other magisters are all in prison.”
“But Papa is not a bad man!” Klervie burst out. “He’s not a thief.”
A sad smile briefly lit Maman’s dulled eyes. She smoothed Klervie’s hair with one gentle hand. “
Chérie,
your papa is a brilliant man. But he has made enemies. Powerful enemies. And I fear—” She broke off, biting her lip. “Well, we must stay strong. For Papa’s sake.”
“Wake up, Klervie.”
“Not yet,” murmured Klervie, burrowing under the blanket. But Maman gently pulled the blanket away, leaving Klervie blinking sleepily in the milky light of dawn.
“My darling child…this may be the last time you see your dearest papa. The last chance you have to say farewell to him.”
Klervie gazed into Maman’s tear-filled eyes, uncomprehending. “Farewell?” she echoed. “Are they sending him away again? To another prison?”
“No.” Maela drew Klervie tight, almost crushing her, so that Klervie could feel her mother’s whole body trembling with suppressed sobs. “To a place where he will finally be free.”
“Why are all these people here?” Klervie asked, clinging to Maman’s hand in the press as they were swept along in the cresting tide. But Maman did not answer, forcing her way grimly on.
Soldiers lined the street. All were garbed in the same plain black uniforms as those worn by the men who had raided the cottage and dragged Papa away. Pikes in hand, they formed a barrier between the surging crowd and the center of the street.
And then Klervie thought she could make out the distant thud of drums—a slow, solemn beat, coming steadily nearer.
The crowd suddenly began to shout and jeer. The roar of their voices terrified Klervie; she felt as if she were surrounded by wild beasts. “Why are they all so angry?”
“Pay them no heed.” Maela tugged at Klervie’s hand, pulling her onward through the press of people, toward the soldiers.
A wooden cart, drawn by four strong dray horses, was lumbering toward them, its wheels rattling over the cobbles. Soldiers armed with muskets marched in front, matching their slow pace to the ominous beat of the drummers.
Now Klervie could see that there were men on the cart, caged like animals behind metal bars. She heard Maela give a soft gasp.
“Hervé,” she whispered. “Oh Hervé, what have they done to you?”
Klervie screwed her eyes to a squint against the watery morning light. She could count five men on the cart and each one was slumped against
“Maman?” Klervie tugged at her sleeve. “Maman, what’s wrong?”
But all Maman said, her voice choked, was, “Thank you, Lavéna.”
Day after day, Maman left Klervie in the care of the sour-faced concierge of their rented room. Klervie hated the old woman, who made her scour the battered, greasy pots and pans until the skin on her fingers was shriveled and sore. In return, she fed Klervie a bowl of watery soup for lunch with a few shreds of leek or mushy carrot tops floating in it, and a hunk of dry bread. The concierge’s apartment was dark and smelled of stale soup and mothballs. Klervie bore all this without complaining because Maman had told her she must be a good girl. Yet all the time she was aware of a nagging ache inside her that was not hunger.
She missed playing with Mewen. She missed stroking his soft fur and hearing him purr. But most of all she missed Papa.
Every day Maman returned looking more pale and exhausted than the day before. Klervie came to dread Maman’s going.
“Please don’t leave me.” She clung on to Maman’s dress, winding her fingers into the soft cloth.
“Klervie, I must go. It’s for your papa. You can’t come with me.”
“Why can’t I come with you? I want to see Papa.” The indefinable ache inside her found words. “More than
anything.
”
“He’s…” Maman hesitated. “He’s in prison, Klervie. He and the other magisters are all in prison.”
“But Papa is not a bad man!” Klervie burst out. “He’s not a thief.”
A sad smile briefly lit Maman’s dulled eyes. She smoothed Klervie’s hair with one gentle hand. “
Chérie,
your papa is a brilliant man. But he has made enemies. Powerful enemies. And I fear—” She broke off, biting her lip. “Well, we must stay strong. For Papa’s sake.”
“Wake up, Klervie.”
“Not yet,” murmured Klervie, burrowing under the blanket. But Maman gently pulled the blanket away, leaving Klervie blinking sleepily in the milky light of dawn.
“My darling child…this may be the last time you see your dearest papa. The last chance you have to say farewell to him.”
Klervie gazed into Maman’s tear-filled eyes, uncomprehending. “Farewell?” she echoed. “Are they sending him away again? To another prison?”
“No.” Maela drew Klervie tight, almost crushing her, so that Klervie could feel her mother’s whole body trembling with suppressed sobs. “To a place where he will finally be free.”
“Why are all these people here?” Klervie asked, clinging to Maman’s hand in the press as they were swept along in the cresting tide. But Maman did not answer, forcing her way grimly on.
Soldiers lined the street. All were garbed in the same plain black uniforms as those worn by the men who had raided the cottage and dragged Papa away. Pikes in hand, they formed a barrier between the surging crowd and the center of the street.
And then Klervie thought she could make out the distant thud of drums—a slow, solemn beat, coming steadily nearer.
The crowd suddenly began to shout and jeer. The roar of their voices terrified Klervie; she felt as if she were surrounded by wild beasts. “Why are they all so angry?”
“Pay them no heed.” Maela tugged at Klervie’s hand, pulling her onward through the press of people, toward the soldiers.
A wooden cart, drawn by four strong dray horses, was lumbering toward them, its wheels rattling over the cobbles. Soldiers armed with muskets marched in front, matching their slow pace to the ominous beat of the drummers.
Now Klervie could see that there were men on the cart, caged like animals behind metal bars. She heard Maela give a soft gasp.
“Hervé,” she whispered. “Oh Hervé, what have they done to you?”
Klervie screwed her eyes to a squint against the watery morning light. She could count five men on the cart and each one was slumped against
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