The lanterns glowing in the street could barely stain the stonework. The towers seemed to merge with the dark sky. Notre Dame de Paris loomed above her like a beast, encased in ribs and spines of blackened bone. She knew its heart had been ripped out: the troops had sacked the place. And yet the hulk was not quite dead. The great rose window gleamed like a dim eye.

Justine crossed herself and ventured in through the west door. The space beyond was dim and cavernous. Candles glimmered here and there, where vagabonds were lurking. Broken statues strewed the floor, like the frozen victims of a massacre.

She was a pious young lady, and the desecration shocked her. The godless mob had pillaged God’s great house. Notre Dame had been renamed the Temple of Reason – a monument to madness in a world turned upside down. And all the while, across the Seine, that dreadful blade kept falling. The time had come for her to flee, before her own turn came.

She moved along the side-aisle, past the wreckage of smashed paintings. Faces watched her from the shadows. Justine cringed inside her fur-trimmed cloak. But her determination didn’t waver. She needed absolution now, before she joined this perilous escape.

Most of the pews had been broken up for firewood, but a pair of dark confessionals still stood against the wall. Justine wavered, glancing round. There was no sign of the priest she had been promised. But she wasn’t the only person seeking solace in this place. A veiled woman dressed in black was kneeling quietly at the altar rail.

She was sunk too deep in prayer to sense the newcomer behind her, but Justine found her presence heartening. She slipped inside the narrow booth and drew the musty curtain. There was no hassock, just bare wood. She knelt on it and waited nervously.

After a lengthy pause, in which she felt her heartbeat thudding, somebody stepped into the other booth. The seat creaked as he settled down. She heard his raspy breathing. Justine moistened her dry lips and clasped her lace-gloved hands beneath her chin.

The connecting panel slid aside. She glimpsed his shadowed features through the grille. He had a ripe, unpleasant smell which Justine found offensive; but the man was living as a fugitive. She knew what he was risking to attend to her like this. "Will you bless me, Father?" she asked timidly.

"Have you sinned, my child?" the priest responded. He had an arid, husky voice and spoke with a distinct Italian accent.

Justine nodded, blushing now: she felt the colour seep into her cleavage. She’d lived in luxury before the Revolution came, and slept with fops and stable-lads alike.

"I have been wilful and unchaste," she mumbled. "But now I can begin again, and live more virtuously."

"You leave tonight," the hoarse voice said. "Will you take your wealth, or give it to the poor?"

Justine frowned. "I’ll need the means to make a life in England. And my family paid handsomely to have me taken there."

"You travel with the Midnight Rose," the priest said dryly, "and her price is high."

He shifted, and a rapier point came thrusting through the grille. It pierced the upper curve of Justine’s breast. The rich girl gave a startled squeal, then groaned in agony as the slender blade transfixed her pounding heart. Her body bucked inside the box as she felt its slick, sharp passage. Her wide eyes filled with horror as she glimpsed the hideous face behind the grille. Then the blade was dragged back out, and her blood spewed after it. Justine whimpered miserably and sagged into a corner of the booth.

The lady at the altar rail stood up and turned around. The confessional was quiet again. The church had swallowed up the muffled squeals. She raised her veil, revealing the dark beauty underneath. A thin scar marred the smoothness of her cheek.

As she came along the aisle, a black-clad man emerged from the priest’s booth. He was as gaunt and lanky as a scarecrow. The woman’s brown eyes watched approvingly. The man pulled back the curtain to reveal Justine’s slumped body. The girl’s pale bosom was soaked red with blood. The killer used her skirts to wipe his rapier, then stooped to strip her body of its jewels.

Finished, he put the sword away beneath his long black coat and drew the curtain on the lifeless girl. Then he took the sawn-off gun he’d left inside the booth, and followed the woman back towards the door. Vagabonds and prostitutes eased back into the shadows. The Widow’s presence chilled the air, and her henchman filled the boldest hearts with dread.

The square outside the west door was deserted, but a curtained coach was waiting nearby. A pair of shuttered lanterns marked its shape beside the Seine. Two girls in black were standing guard with hats pulled low and musketoons half-cocked. They wore red scarves, like members of the citizens’ militia. No passer-by would risk a closer look.

There were four more ladies in the coach, all nervous and impatient to be gone. Like Justine, they were the daughters of rich families, escaping from the bloody Paris purge. The powder on their faces hid the pallor of their skin. The carriage reeked of perfume and pomade.

"Where the Devil is she?" muttered Sophie fretfully. She cursed Justine for being a pious brat. The risk of being discovered grew with every passing minute. She fluttered her fan, although the coach was cold. Sophie was a prim brunette with eyes as soft as truffles, though her hair was hidden by her powdered wig. She was wearing all the wealth that she could carry – a diamond necklace and gold earrings.

Her three companions sat in anxious silence, their gowns half-hidden under velvet cloaks. The rise and fall of each girl’s breasts betrayed her nervousness. Their rouged cheeks seemed to mock their ashen looks.

Then they heard the crunch of footfalls on the cobblestones. It sounded like the coachman coming back. Sophie bit her lip and twitched the curtain to one side. And stared into the face of Death himself.

She hadn’t seen the coachman till this moment, just glimpsed his slouching shadow on the box. Now the lantern showed a man as gaunt as a cadaver, in a long black coat a scarecrow might have worn. Beneath a battered stovepipe hat, his face was almost fleshless, with hooded eyes and hollow cheeks, his teeth bared like the rictus of a corpse.

As Sophie gaped at him, the driver raised his stumpy shotgun. It was an English volleygun by Nock. The cluster of seven barrels had been cut down to eighteen inches, and each was loaded with a charge of grape. He levelled the weapon at the coach and squeezed the trigger calmly. The central barrel went off first, and then the others in a solid roar.

The grapeshot splintered through the carriage like a leaden squall. The girls squealed as it ripped into their flesh. They reared and shuddered in their seats as jerkily as puppets, and Sophie’s firm breasts ruptured like squeezed grapes. Another lady was thrown back against the further door. It opened and she slithered out to hang head-down, blood dripping to the road.

A pall of smoke engulfed the coach, then rose over the river. The horses whinnied nervously, but a slim hand on the harness quietened them. A dark-complexioned Gypsy girl crooned softly in their ears, her thin white gown contrasting with the black clothes of the coachman and the guards.

The riddled carriage smouldered like a worm-eaten old hulk. A whimper of pain came from inside, and one of the guards climbed up onto the step. She poked her carbine through the window, fired and silenced it. More smoke rose on the night wind like a ghost.

The girl opened the door and ducked inside the bloody coach. The white-faced ladies drooped like broken dolls. Impassively she searched their lifeless bodies, rummaging for jewellery in bodices and skirts. The skull-faced man reached in to fondle Sophie. He cupped and squeezed her punctured breasts, then took the diamond necklace from her throat.

The other guard remained on watch. She heard the rustling of the Widow’s weeds. The black-veiled woman touched her arm and glided round the carriage. "Dump them in the Seine," she purred. "It’ll take them out of Paris after all."

The coachman lugged the bodies over to the parapet. He gave the girl in white a lustful glance. The cold night breeze had moulded the thin gown to her plump breasts, and her nipples stood out clearly through the cloth.

The Widow saw his hunger, and the girl’s flirtatious look. A pleasurable chill went down her spine. The thought of them as lovers was grotesquely titillating.

Especially since she’d fucked them both herself.

* * *

It was a busy afternoon on Revolution Square, but the crowd were not yet sated by the sight. As the sunlight spilled through fluffy clouds, the great blade fell again and splashed the wicker basket with bright red. A ragged cheer resounded as the corpse was rolled aside and someone else was brought to take its place.

It seemed to be a day to clear the cells of female prisoners. From seamstresses to aristos, they waited in a miserable line. The gallows-gaunt contraption took them one after another. Their dresses were torn from off their shoulders, cleavages revealed as they went down. Some girls sobbed and others screamed, and then the blade descended. A pretty head rolled in the basket, and a limp young body joined the pile.

Nell turned from the window with a wry look on her face. The coffee shop was full of ardent talk. People argued over pamphlets while the blade kept slicing. She headed for the table at the back. Her mannish clothes and scarlet coat attracted curious glances; but hadn’t all conventions been upturned? Her fair hair and firm breasts drew more attention. Whatever the upheaval, some things always stayed the same.

Martine was sitting at the table, shuffling a dog-eared pack of cards. Her hat was tipped back carelessly, but her dark eyes were as watchful as a cat’s. She wore mascara like an eastern houri and her shirt was knotted underneath her breasts. But her close-fitting blue coat was patched and shabby, and she had the tanned skin of a country girl.

The girl who shared her table was as pale as alabaster. She’d clearly never laboured in her life. Yet she wore the threadbare dress of a poor servant, and a mob-cap almost hid her golden curls. Her big blue eyes watched anxiously as Nell came back to join them. The English girl pulled up a chair and sat.

Martine led the cards slide-slip from one hand to the other. "So why choose us, Miss Amélie?" she asked.

"I have to leave the city," said the pale girl wretchedly, "before I join those poor things out there. I’ll pay the pair of you to be my escort. I don’t care if you’re footpads, just so long as you can fight."

Martine caught Nell’s eye and started laying out the cards. "I thought that there was help enough for aristos like you."

"I’ve heard of someone called the Scarlet Pimpernel," said Nell. "An English lord who helps the rich escape. But some believe the Pimpernel’s a beautiful young lady …" She sat back with a faint smile on her lips.

Amélie shifted nervously. "I haven’t heard of her. But I have heard of the Midnight Rose," she said.

Martine turned a card between her fingers; set it down. "I thought the Midnight Rose was just a myth."

Amélie shook her head. "She’s real. She promised safety to a friend of mine. But then they found poor Sophie’s body floating in the Seine …" She sniffed. "And all her jewellery was gone."

"Footpads, maybe?" said Martine. She placed another card. The girl gave her a wounded look and dabbed at her moist eyes.

"Sicilian banditry, more like. The woman’s from that region, Sophie said. So as you see, we aristos can trust in no-one now. If a widow can rob and murder me, I’ll take my chances with a pair of tramps."

"That’s the spirit," murmured Nell, but her eyes were on Martine. Her friend gave a sardonic little smile. She tapped a card against her teeth, then laid it on the table. It was the sombre-looking queen of spades.

"I was wondering when she’d turn up," said Martine carelessly. She took a sip of coffee. "Did your friend say where this widow could be found?"

"She uses the cathedral as her base," said Amélie. "A horde of robbers could hide out in there. They say her coachman haunts the place and keeps the saints at bay. A killer with the face of Death. They call him the Spectre of Notre Dame."

* * *

Out in the street, they heard the blade descending. Another squealing lady lost her head. Amélie flinched and clasped her throat. Nell put an arm around her. "Come on then, Miss. Let’s get you somewhere safe."

"We’ve got a garret," said Martine. "Where people don’t ask questions." She touched her girlfriend’s arm. "I’ll meet you there." Leaning close, she kissed Nell’s cheek. "And try not to seduce her. Remember that she’s our employer now."

Nell beamed like a cream-fed cat and Amélie blushed scarlet. The two of them moved off into the crowd. Martine straightened her cocked hat and headed down a side-street. She needed powder and tobacco, and she knew a shop which dealt in both.

As she walked, she heard a carriage coming up behind her. "Make way, make way!" the driver called and Martine stepped aside. The cobbled street was narrow, but the vehicle scraped past her. She glimpsed the cockade on the coachman’s hat. A pale-faced girl with glasses was the only passenger. She glanced at Martine fleetingly, like a schoolmistress distracted from a book.

There was something in her short-sighted blue eyes that struck a chord; but the coach was past before Martine could place it. She didn’t waste time pondering. It was best to stay a stranger in this town. Besides, she was distracted by what Amélie had said. It seemed the Widow was abroad again.

Martine turned a corner down a poky alleyway. An impish smile was playing at her mouth. She’d last met Monica while in the Vendee, where the Widow had been feeding off both sides. Martine and Nell had bested her, but now she’d found new victims.

And somewhere, she’d be hoarding what she stole.

She came into a squalid yard, hemmed in by tenements. There was ragged washing strung above her head. It seemed a well of quiet after the bustle of the street. She heard the faintest footfall from behind her.

Martine hauled a pistol out from underneath her coat, her thumb dragging the cock as she swung round. She aimed it at the face of her pursuer – and the girl with glasses pointed hers right back.

The two of them stood glaring at each other. "Remember me, you little bitch?" said Claire. Martine recognised her now: a ruthless police agent. Her gun was a St Etienne, the brass frame glinting in the muted light.

Martine looked into the gaping muzzle, then switched her mocking gaze to Claire’s blue eyes. "New glasses," she observed. The prim girl bristled. Martine’s own pistol was unwavering.

"Before you lose your head," said Claire, "you’re going to pay me for the pair you broke."

"Leastways you weren’t wearing them," Martine responded calmly. "But if I pull the trigger now, it won’t be me going round without a head."

There was a flicker in Claire’s gaze. "You won’t cheat Madame Guillotine," she said.

"Maybe," said Martine, "but she’s got better necks to cut. I’m just a country girl: an honest thief. Perhaps you should be looking for the Midnight Rose instead. And I could point you in the right direction."

Claire nibbled at her lip. "There’s no such person."

"A Sicilian widow," said Martine. "A beauty with a scar across one cheek. I know about the scar because I put it there myself. Does your revolution want my head, or hers?"

Claire chewed the question over for a moment. Then, with baleful wariness, she eased her flint back down against the steel. Martine backed away towards the far side of the courtyard. "You can look for her in Notre Dame," she said.

The agent watched her slip into the gloomy alleyway, like a rabbit disappearing down its hole. She lowered her gun and felt her heartbeat pounding. Reaction, and excitement too. She turned and hurried back towards her coach.

* * *

The Gypsy girl, Estella, didn’t like the old cathedral. It had an atmosphere of haunted gloom. She preferred to have sunlight on her face and the breeze in her black tresses. To sleep in open fields under the stars.

The candles of the vagrants formed a scattered constellation, but they couldn’t light the void within the church. Estella padded down the nave, her white gown almost ghostlike. She sensed the wary eyes that followed her. The building had been colonised by vagabonds and whores, but they stayed clear of the Widow and her band. And most of all they shunned her corpse-faced coachman, who was known as Quasi Morto. As If Dead.

Estella’s breasts grew tender at the prospect of his touch. No matter that his ugliness repelled her. She’d always been excited by the medieval image of a Maiden being seduced by Death himself. She knew all flesh must perish – even flesh as ripe as hers. The prospect whetted her desire. She sought out his cadaverous embrace.

As she passed a pillar, someone whispered from the dark: "They tell me that you serve the Midnight Rose." It was a woman’s voice. She didn’t speak French like a native. An outsider, like Estella was herself.

The Gypsy paused. "Who’s there?" she said. A figure sidled into the dim light. She had long pale hair beneath her hat, and her vest was half unbuttoned, revealing the deep cleavage of a whore.

"A friend," Nell murmured calmly, "with a warning from the streets. The Rose has been betrayed, Miss, and the soldiers are already on their way."

Estella cursed under her breath. She turned and flitted back along the nave. Nell stared after her and smiled, still sheltered by the pillar. She brushed her coattail off her pistol butt. Martine leaned into view around the pillar facing her, a Thonon shotgun held across her thighs. The white cravat she wore looked like a priest’s stock in the dimness, but there was no piety in her sly grin.

They had left Amélie in the garret, mumbling her prayers, and crossed the bridge that led to Notre Dame. A raid by the authorities would smoke the Widow out – along with all the money she had made. The two girls listened to the hush. The sound of urgent whispers carried clearly. And then a ghostly pre-dawn light began to glimmer through the west rose window.

It was the glow of torch flames in the square outside the church. Martine and Nell moved stealthily apart. The lurking congregation eyed them both suspiciously. They recognised a challenge when they saw it. Then one of the west doors was thrown open and smoky torchlight spilled into the nave. A squad of bluecoat troops came in and started to fan out, their footsteps echoing in empty space.

Those with torches held them up to light the darkened corners. The whores and beggars shrank away like rats. "We’re searching for the Midnight Rose," an officer called harshly. "A purse of silver for her whereabouts!" His men began to root through the side chapels, the torchlight glinting off their bayonets. Others started down the nave towards the distant altar. The silent building magnified their steps.

Martine had taken refuge with some hostile-looking harlots. She watched the soldiers coming down the aisle. Then she glimpsed a movement in the organ loft above them. The torches lit a grisly face, as sallow as a newly-risen moon.

The coachman fired his volleygun from the shoulder, and seven loads of grapeshot raked the nave. The blast scythed troopers off their feet and snuffed their torches out like candle flames. The thunder of the multi-barrelled weapon filled the church. A gloomy pall of smoke spread out, as if a storm was brewing overhead.

The remaining soldiers scattered, looking wildly for a target. The vagrants blew their candles out, and the darkness thickened like a veil of soot. Some men fired their muskets blind, which added to the smoke. A few with torches tried to pierce the murk.

A woman fired her carbine from the gallery above, and one of the soldiers spun round with a cry. Martine was well-placed, and swung her Thonon up to bear. The cut-down gun blazed fiercely through the gloom. Monica’s guard was close enough to catch most of the slugs. She clutched her bosom with a squeal, then toppled from her perch like a shot bird.

Another burst of shots came from the transept. The doors to north and south were covered too. "We’ve trapped the bitch!" a soldier said to the figure next to him. The flash of a pan lit up Nell’s face, and her pistol blazed before he could react. The point-blank impact knocked him over backwards. Nell ducked into a side chapel and watched the other troopers blunder round.

Then she glimpsed a shadow flitting past her. A woman, veiled and faceless, like a phantom in the smoke. She was spotted by a soldier who began to turn his musket, but a second black-cloaked guard was with her, shooting down the bluecoat where he stood. Nell triggered her Twigg pistol and the girl threw back her head, a blot of darkness on her pale brow. She crumpled up together with her victim. But the Widow had disappeared into the murk.

There were more Sicilians over by the altar, drawing fire to let their mistress get away. The cathedral was thick with reeking smoke, lit up by flashes, echoing with noise. Nell slipped out into the aisle and went the other way. The pillars were like tree trunks in a forest full of fog.

There was no way the Widow could get out through the west door. The troopers standing guard saw her approach. She felled one with a pistol shot in answer to his challenge and fled towards the entrance to the towers. As she bolted through it and the soldiers gave pursuit, the coachman filled the doorway in her place. His death’s head features grinned at them, and then his gun erupted. It was charged with musket balls this time, and four of the men were blasted off their feet.

The survivors fired back into the bank of dirty fog, but the Spectre had withdrawn into the tower. "Behind you, boys," came Martine’s voice before they could reload. She fired her shotgun with one hand and triggered a horse-pistol with the other. Blazing powder lit the murk as the soldiers jerked and toppled. Nell shot from a different angle, killing the last man.

Beating a passage through the smoke, she moved up to the doorway and cocked the lower barrels of her gun. Martine slung her Thonon and picked up an unfired musket. The two girls ventured through the door and began to climb the steps.

The spiral was as black as an old chimney. They couldn’t hear a sound from up above. Just the muffled sounds of fighting from the body of the church, where the Widow’s cornered guards were being killed. One girl bucked and gasped as she was hit by several bullets. Another squealed with pain as she was skewered. But the steps of the north tower were dark and silent. Nell heard the stealthy scraping of a boot.

"Look out!" she called and cringed against the stonework. The volleygun exploded down the steps. The lead balls ricocheted and smoke came churning in their wake. But the man had only half reloaded it.

Nell went haring up the steps before the smoke had cleared. The stink of sulphur almost made her choke. She came into a shadowed room, where the man crouched like a spider. A ray of moonlight fell on his gaunt face. The Spectre was still fumbling with the priming, but he hauled a pistol out with frightening speed. The English girl just beat him to the trigger, and the man went down with an inhuman grunt.

The moonlight tinged the burst of smoke, then the air grew dark as coal-dust. A pistol flamed at her across the room. Nell dived beneath the bullet and the Widow kept on climbing. A wooden staircase led towards the bells.

She had a saddlebag over her shoulder. Nell guessed it held her victims’ jewellery. She clambered to her feet as Martine came into the room. The Widow had nowhere left to go. They heard the creak of floorboards overhead.

Martine raised the musket to her shoulder. "My turn," she said, and moved towards the stairs. Nell made to follow her and felt a chill against her neck. She glanced round and her heartbeat leaped: the grinning Spectre had sat up again. Again he swung his gun to bear - again she scarcely beat him. But this time she aimed higher and her bullet blew the brains out of his skull.

Martine started up the steps, her gun aimed at the hatchway in the platform. She sensed hasty movement overhead as the Widow rammed fresh loads into her guns. Halfway up, all movement stopped. Martine paused warily. The bitch could blow her head off as she came up through the hatch.

"Throw the money down," she called, "and we’ll walk away from this." The Widow poked her pistol through the hatch. It was a snub-nosed travelling gun, but the calibre was large. Martine flinched as the ball sped past her cheek. She fired the musket up into the opening and heard the bullet clang against a bell. It ricocheted and thumped into the Widow, with a force that knocked her through the belfry’s louvres.

The woman in black was tipped into the gulf above the square. A dreadful vertigo sucked at her gut. With a curse against the sky she toppled headlong, her body tumbling loosely in the air. She struck one of the gargoyles and spun off it with a grunt, then plunged towards the cobblestones below. The brutal thud of impact could be heard from high above. Her body bounced and flopped like a rag doll.

The saddlebag burst open, spilling coins and jewellery. The torchlight made them gleam like fallen stars. The people waiting on the square backed off instinctively. Then, as a dark rivulet meandered from the body, a woman dressed in grey walked up to it.

"Oh shit," said Nell, in English and with feeling.

Claire crouched down to scoop the loot into the saddlebag, then raised her pale blue eyes towards the tower. A thin smile played at her tight lips as she straightened up again. As if she sensed the watching girls – and savoured the frustration that they felt.

A whisper of night breeze drew back the veil that masked the Widow. The face of Estella the Gypsy girl stared blankly at the sky. But as far as Claire could tell, it was the Midnight Rose herself. She peered down at the body, satisfied.

The troops were already clearing out the Temple. A shabby beggar woman passed them by. She had lustrous Italian skin beneath her borrowed garments, and amusement glittered in her lowered eyes.

* * *

The crash of the great blade raised cheers in Revolution Square. Blood spurted from another swan-like neck. The girl’s voluptuous corpse was rolled into the body cart, and another wide-eyed victim took her place.

From the window of the coach, the guillotine looked like a toy. Martine regarded it impassively. She sat back in her seat and drew the curtain on the crowd. Nell shifted as the carriage swayed. Amélie dropped her gaze and bit her lip.

As the carriage left the square, another tearful head was severed, the victim bouncing on her swollen breasts. The dripping blade was winched back up and the next girl was brought forward. This one was dead already and as limp as a smashed doll. The fine black gown she wore was torn and bloody. But the Midnight Rose would not escape the justice of the crowd.

They laid Estella face down on the platform. The blade descended on her broken neck. The Gypsy’s dark head tumbled to the basket, her eyes half closed and almost secretive. "You are commended, Citizen," a voice said nearby. Claire simpered modestly and preened herself.

Monica surveyed the scene from a window on the square. She would have to flee the city now, but there would be opportunities elsewhere. As the body in black was pitched aside, she glanced over her shoulder. A beautiful young lady waited calmly in the room.

"Are we ready to go?" the Widow said, like a timid aristocrat. "I don’t know how to thank you, Miss."

"My pleasure," said the Scarlet Pimpernel.