Page 117 of Love Beneath the Guillotine
“But he was fine,” Léon cried, six tonnes of steel on his chest. “He was perfectly fine last night.”
“He’s not fine now,” he said simply. “This arm has not been fine for a while.”
“But… It’s the arm. It’s just— You can take it if you have to. I will care for him—I will pay for it.”
Pausing his busy movements, taken with sympathy, Guillotin said softly, “It’s in his blood now. He’s strong, and he’s young, and we’ll do everything we can for him. But it doesn’t look good.” He came over to Léon and squeezed his arm. “If there’s a will, or a next of kin, it’s time to get those things in order. I don’t recommend any of the city cemeteries. They’re overflowing, foul, disease-ridden places. With his money, you might get a nice plot in?—”
“We have no money,” Léon muttered.
“Oh. Well.” Guillotin stood tall with a slight shrug. “The city ones aren’t so very bad. I’m sure there’s… space… somewhere…” He reached for a little glass jar he’d just taken out, placing it back in his bag.
Léon, in a panic, clamped down on his wrist. “No.” He glanced at the medical bag. “No, I mean, we do have money. I just have to organise some bonds to be sold. That will take me, maybe, a few hours. We-we have plenty of money. More than enough. And I will give you some. I will pay you today. To-tonight. For the best treatment you have. The very best of everything. But please start now.”
A short sigh escaped Guillotin’s nostrils. He was a good man at heart, and not immune to the scene before him, even if he doubted Léon’s claims of wealth. “Very well. I’ll start treatment.”
The jar came back out, and Léon watched the preparations, bereft. It was one thing to sit by his dying partner’s bedside, to hold his hand and watch him fade away. It was quite another to leave him there, to go out into the strange streets of Paris,and to sink himself into the very horrors he thought he’d finally left behind. Because there was only one way Léon knew he was guaranteed to get that money.
And lucky for him, there was no other time in all of French history that his specific skill set would be in such high demand.
Leaving Guillotin with Henry, Léon went searching for Souveraine. He was surprised to find her in the library with Émile and Catherine. Catherine had, it seemed, decided to give the boy some schooling while he was isolated there in the house. Émile was deeply engaged, scrawling away, and even Souveraine held a quill. She glanced up at Léon, but didn’t halt her movement over the paper, turning her concentration back as quickly as it had left, finishing copying the shape Catherine had laid before her. A letter.
“Souveraine, can I talk to you?” Léon called.
Her tone was clipped. “I’m busy.”
Catherine smiled across at her. “It’s okay. We have plenty of time to continue later.”
These words clearly held more sway with Souveraine than Léon’s had. She huffed as she dropped her quill back into the ink pot, but she came into the living room with him all the same.
He didn’t help her mood by starting with, “I have an enormous favour to ask you.”
Slamming two hands into his shoulders, she shoved him a foot backwards. “Not again!”
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry!” He followed her to one of the boarded-up windows that she scowled through the cracks of. “I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t very important.”
“Well, it must be important for you to come and talk to me.” She turned to him, eyes flashing. “Why have you been avoiding me like this? And Émile’s miserable. He says you won’t let him in the room with Henri, and I can’t see why?—”
“Souveraine.” He took her hand and whispered, “Henri’s sick. He’s really sick. I’m not sure he’s going to be okay.”
Her worried eyes ran up the stairs, then back to Léon’s miserable face. As ever, she pulled him a little closer, a hand on his cheek. “What’s happened?”
“Guillotin says it’s blood poisoning.”
She gave a soft breath, ending on a melancholy note. She knew as well as Léon did, that sounded exactly like a death sentence. But her sadness twisted into shock when Léon then asked his favour. “I need you to keep Catherine away from him. She can’t find out.”
On a furious whisper, “Why on earth would I do that?”
Léon couldn’t possibly tell her the truth, that Catherine was a magical witch with out-of-control powers, so he tried his usual strategy of avoidance. “I have to go out. To get some money. To pay for Henri’s medicine. I can’t be here, and I am totally reliant on you to help with this.”
Her brow lowered over sharp eyes. “By lying to her about her brother’s illness?”
“And for checking on him for me,” he quickly listed. “If he needs anything?—”
“You know, I can’t tell sometimes if you’re completely mad or just completely selfish.”
“I’m neither,” he protested, not at all sure about the former, wavering on the latter.
“You can’t simply keep women in a state of perpetual infantilisation as it suits your needs.”
