Carriage in Paris, 17 May 1868
Marie struggled in the carriage against the hands that held her across her chest and over her mouth.
“I’m not going to hurt you, Mademoiselle,” a male voice said in her ear. “But I have a favor to ask you.”
Marie stopped struggling. A favor? Who did this person think he was, that he could trap her and ask her a favor? She found some strength and wrenched her head to the side.
“You can unhand me. Coachman!” she yelled.
The coach pulled to the side, but instead of releasing her, the hand across her chest moved lower so it was beneath her cloak, and the hand that had covered her face disappeared, but she felt cold metal against the back of her neck.
“If the coachman finds me, you’ll be paralyzed or dead before you can say anything. I recommend you make up
