Secret Police? Justine’s face, by its blankness, said Guillaume was right.

Guillaume said softly, “Maggie, when she gives the child to me, it means no one will ever use Séverine against her. No one on either side will ever touch her. That’s what we’re doing for her.”

Justine nodded. Her face did not look young at all.

There is unending cruelty in the world. I will not let it destroy this little one. “Séverine is my daughter, flesh of my flesh. As if I had carried her within my own body. I swear it.”

She felt the words resonate inside the child she held. Séverine would remember this someday.

Quickly, Justine turned away to add a valise to the others on the donkey’s back. “I have packed clothing for her. Things she will need.” She studied valises and bags resolutely. “Her . . . doll.”

“Some people,” Hawker said, “wouldn’t leave this to the last minute.” He rearranged this and that on Dulce and rolled a blanket to make a riding nest to fit a small child. “She’s going to make them conspicuous.”

“What is more inconspicuous than a child? Would anyone suspect a family traveling across the countryside with a small child? No and no. Everyone should take an infant or two with them upon their missions. She is a better companion than you, in fact, because she has been trained to keep her mouth closed and follow orders, which you have not.”

“I follow orders. It’s that hair of hers. Might as well attach a red flag. That has to . . . Here.” Hawker unwound a leather thong from one of the bags and held it in his teeth and went to Séverine. Skillfully, he plaited a thick braid and tied it with leather. “That’s better.” He frowned at the effect. “She’s dressed too well. You should dirty her up. Put some mud on her.”

“I am pleased to know she will not be in your hands, Citoyen Hawker.” Justine’s touch was light on the child’s back. One touch, very quick. “I have already said my good-bye to her. She will be a good child. She cannot—” The pause came while she was turned away from them. “She cannot eat strawberries. They make her turn red with blotches.”

“I will not feed her strawberries.” She tried to fit all the other things that needed to be said inside the words.

Justine had already taken the first steps away when Guillaume said, “One last thing.”

She turned back. “What?”

“What is her true name? All her name. The name of your parents?” When there was no immediate answer, he said, “Don’t plan to tell her later. You know what’s coming in France. You may not live.”

No answer.

“It’ll stay with the five of us. You. Me. Hawker. Maggie. The child herself, if she remembers.” He waited. “Don’t leave her wondering for her whole life.”

Justine’s voice was hollow as an echo. “Her parents were the Comte and Comtesse de Cabrillac. They died in the courtyard of the Abbaye Prison two years ago. She doesn’t remember seeing it. So far as I know, no one of our family on either side remains.”

“Only you.”

“Only me. Tell her, someday, that I did not abandon her. When she’s old enough, tell her I will wade the rivers of hell to come to her if she should ever have need.” That quickly, she was gone, walking down the street with the careful, unobtrusive stride of the experienced agent, her head high.

“Well, damn,” Hawker said.

Guillaume took his hat off to watch her go. “I made the promise for you, Hawk. That information doesn’t go beyond your lips. Not to anyone.”

“Not to Cachard?”

“Not even there. That’s an order. Congratulations. You have your first secret.”

Hawker said, “I have lots of secrets. Why don’t we go before all Paris wakes up? The idea was to get you out the gates at first light.” He looked toward Maggie. “She’s heavy. You want to set the girl here on Dulce?”

“No need.” Guillaume reached out. “I’ll carry her.”

A small hesitation. Then Séverine’s arms wrapped around him.

She walked beside Guillaume. Séverine, pressed against his chest, stared out at her gravely. This was the foundation of the home she would build. Guillaume’s strength. His kindness. Even a young child knew, without doubt.

Very low, she began, “Do you know . . . in the city of Paris there are magic birds? You can see them in the trees sometimes, just for a moment, if you look quickly.” She looked up as she spoke, at the trees. “They are red as rubies and green as emeralds. Some are golden. The golden ones are the smallest. They are the bravest and most wise.”

There was a little stir. Séverine said, “Golden?”

“They are the gold that is found in streams in the far country of Armenia where water has washed over the river gold for years upon years. A gold as soft as the warmth of a fire. That is the gold of those birds’ feathers.”

She took up the thick, gold-brown braid that curled down Séverine’s back and tucked it in front of her, against Guillaume’s waistcoat. “Now, it happened that one of these magic birds, a young girl bird, was chosen to make a long journey. It was an important journey, and she was a little worried . . .”