𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐄𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐇𝐄𝐈𝐑

ℭ𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯 1 | 𝑴𝑰𝑫𝑵𝑰𝑮𝑯𝑻 𝑨𝑻𝑻𝑨𝑪𝑲

The opera lets out after midnight. You lean back against the comfortable seat of Alexandre's carriage, watching the gaslit streets roll by. The puttering of the steam-powered carriage makes a rhythmic counterpoint to the clatter of its wheels on the cobblestones. It's been an entertaining evening, but the warm glow of champagne is fading, and you'll be glad to get home to your bed.

Alexandre is still going strong, his feet up on the shuddering engine box, waving his hands enthusiastically as he critiques the opera.

"I'm sure you're right," you murmur.

"You haven't been listening to a word I've said, have you? Philistine." He grins, shaking his head at you affectionately, his brown hair and neatly trimmed sideburns catching the lamplight.

"I appreciate the opera," you say, although the interplay of theatergoers fascinates me more than the performance.

There are a million subtler stories unfolding in the audience. Lovers make clandestine rendezvous, and businessmen make deals; husbands and wives play out the domestic dramas of their marriages, and courtesans hang on the arms of their protectors; conspirators talk politics in hushed tones. There's nothing like it.

"Wait until the aeropilé race. They say the new British airships can make 75 kilometers per hour, but I'll bet that's with a tailwind."

Perhaps for the aeropilé race you'll have finer weather. It's chilly for March, and the top of the carriage is up against the drizzling rain.

You pull my cloak more closely around me and smooth my trousers.

Your hair is clinging damp to the back of your neck, and your starched collar is wilting.

There's a thump a little louder than the knocking of the engine, and the carriage weaves a little to the left. It could mean anything. A gear slipping. A wheel running over manure or some rubbish left lying in the street.

Or someone hauling himself up onto the box next to the driver.

All you can see through the windshield of the carriage is the dark back of the driver, black and stiff against the glass. Then you're sure you see movement beside him.

"Shut up," you say abruptly. Your tone makes it clear that you're speaking not as Alexandre's friend but as his bodyguard. He stops talking instantly and twists around to follow your gaze.

You reach under your cloak for your pistol. It's a tiny civilian weapon, made for a gentleman's pocket, not for the battlefield. It'll give you one shot. You hope you won't need it.

You've pulled up to a busy cross street, and the carriage sputters to a stop. The driver sways, and you can see the dark form beside him, and a glint of metal in the streetlamp's amber glow. There's a man in dark clothes on the box with the driver, holding a pistol to the driver's head.

You need to get Alexandre out of here. That's your first responsibility as his bodyguard.

You thrust Alexandre out the door of the carriage and scramble out after him. As your feet touch the ground, the traffic begins to move, and for a moment, as you dodge the wheels of a fiacre, you think you may have gotten clean away.

You glance back at Alexandre's carriage to see that it isn't moving. The traffic swerves around the unmoving carriage. The driver slumps on the seat. A dark form climbs down from the carriage and begins moving in your direction.

You grasp Alexandre's arm and run.

You scramble up onto the pavement and into a crush of men in brightly colored tailcoats and women in swirling dresses. The street is full of theaters letting out and restaurants where late diners are just finishing their meals. Parties of young bloods are stopping to plan the next stage in their night's festivities, and slightly older men are strolling with their mistresses, while respectable families make beelines for their waiting carriages.