Belle Morte Bites (Belle Morte 4.3)

Vive la Révolution: Part Three

Isabeau stood on a small hill, gazing out at Paris. The city lay almost a mile away, but that didn't feel like nearly far enough.

She and Jeanne had not made it out the night that Celeste and Renee died. It had been too close to dawn, and they'd been forced to return to the attic where they'd been hiding out when they smelled the Faubourg burning. There was no furniture in the attic, and they had curled up on the floor, holding each other, relying on each other to keep the barrage of grief at bay.

As soon as night had fallen, they had fled again, and this time they'd escaped the city. Isabeau had wanted to keep going, but once they'd put some distance between them and Paris, Jeanne had sunk to the ground and buried her face in her hands.

Neither of them had been able to wash, and their skin and clothes were caked with a grey sludge of soot and ash. Their hands were still blistered, slower to heal since neither of them had had anything to drink, and Isabeau couldn't get the taste of smoke out of her mouth.

She wanted to rip off her clothes and run from this place, run from what had happened.

She settled for tearing away her Revolutionary cockade and throwing it as far as she could, watching it spin through the air before landing in a dark clump of grass some way away.

Bastard thing.

She would be happy if she never saw those colours again.

Jeanne pulled off her own cockade and stared down at it, sitting limply in her hands.

"What did they even die for?" she asked.

Isabeau knew why the Revolution had been sparked. She'd travelled enough to understand the poverty that so many people lived in, but Jeanne didn't want to hear that, and Isabeau didn't want to say it.

Maybe she understood why the Revolution had started, but she would never forgive the people who had burned Celeste and Renee alive.

Paris had been her home once.

Now she had no intention of ever coming back.

"We should leave France altogether. A lot of people are fleeing to England; maybe we should too," she said.

Jeanne crushed the cockade in her hands. "No."

"I don't think it's a good idea to stay in France," Isabeau cautioned.

"I'm not. I'm going to leave this country and I'm never coming back. But I'm not doing it with you," Jeanne said.

"I . . . I don't understand. Are you angry with me?"

Jeanne didn't answer, and anger sparked in Isabeau's chest.

"Are you blaming me for Renee dying? Because that's not fair. She was too badly injured to save – you know that," she said.

Jeanne shook her head. "It's not about that."

"Then what?"

Silence.

"Jeanne, please." Isabeau's voice hitched on the last word. Darkness had rushed into her life so quickly, and Jeanne was the only thing standing between her and the shadows.

"Go to England if you must," Jeanne said.

"Without you?"

"Yes."

"But why?"

Isabeau dropped to a crouch in front of Jeanne, forcing the other woman to look at her. Jeanne hadn't cried since Renee's death, but the hollow, empty look that had replaced the tears was somehow worse. She looked like someone had ripped out her heart.