Page 102 of The Spy’s Song

He would see her now. A girl who had crossed a country for a glance.

A tear rolled down her cheek. "If only we had more time. Then I would prove to you that—"

"Nonsense. You are going to Paris with me. Your aunts will be jealous. Paulette fancies herself the family's beauty. No. You will reside with Hortense until I can find a suitable situation for you. I will demand that she teach you our rules. Everything a Bonaparte daughter requires."

He was building a future with the same certainty he used to locate troops on a field—Paris, family, a place at his side. What would Rodrick think of that? Would he like to live in Paris with her?

A distant drumming scattered the castles she was building in the clouds. Hooves. They came through the open window, cutting across his voice.

Louise leaned out into the light. The horizon wavered in the heat. For a moment she saw only a shift in the line where road met sky. Then the dust rose, a long plume dragged across the distance, thickening as it came.

The squadron.

Her fingers tightened on the window's edge. "Coachman, we must go faster."

She drew back inside. The carriage lurched and stopped, throwing her forward. Her hand shot out to catch the frame, the impact jarring through her arm, up into her shoulder.

"Why are we stopping?"

The coachman's voice came back, strained, breathless. "The horses are done for."

Their flanks were dark with sweat, foam clinging to the harness, heads hanging low, legs trembling where they stood.

The dust on the horizon thickened.

Louise pushed the carriage door open and jumped down, the ground striking up through her boots. Napoleon's white horse was tied behind the carriage. The animal lifted its head as she approached, ears flicking toward the sound of the distant riders. The muscles beneath its white coat shifted. He seemed strong and healthy, not driven to the edge like the others.

It could run.

She went back inside, the door striking the frame behind her. "Sire, listen to me. You need to mount your horse and leave. They are coming."

Napoleon looked past her through the open carriage door. The dust had thickened on the road. Then his gaze moved to the spent carriage horses, to the white stallion tied behind them, and finally to Louise.

She could see the odds being calculated in the furrow of his brow. Then his face settled.

She turned to the old sergeant. The man drew his saber, his whole body angled toward the road, toward the sound that grew closer.

Foolish, brave man.

Napoleon stared at the lithograph, ran his thumb over the child, then gazed at her. The old paper crackled as he turned it, then he began to write. The quill's scratch filled the carriage. Louise stood where she was, her hands at her sides, panting. What could he be writing now?

Thirty seconds passed.

When he held the paper out, her hands felt damp. She took it.

A declaration of paternity.

The words blurred, the letters running together as her vision filled. Air rushed from her chest. The paper trembled between her fingers, the edges soft from years of being carried, now marked with something that changed it entirely.

Louise Bonaparte.

The space behind her ribs opened and filled at once, too much, too fast. She wanted to press the paper against her chest, hold it close so it could never be taken.

"Take my horse, Louise. Ride to Paris. Show this to Joseph Bonaparte, your uncle. He will know what to do."

"What about you?" she whispered.

"They have ridden this far for me. If I run, they follow. If I remain, their pursuit ends here." His gaze cut toward the road again. "You ride south. Do not look back."