The girl lay on her face like a drowned mermaid in the shallow water by the riverbank. Her naked skin was marble pale, and her soaked hair floated thickly. She had died with both hands tied behind her back.

 Grimacing, Nell hunkered down to study the limp body. Judging by the state of her, the girl had not been in the water long. No way of telling who she’d been – a princess or a peasant. Nell raised her eyes. The river Loire slid past them, broad and slow.

 The morning light was grey with mist, and the water looked like pewter. She laid her carbine to one side, and splashed the muzziness out of her face. An English redcoat hung around her shoulders, a trophy of her time as a camp whore. Beneath the coat, her breasts were bare. Unfazed by the drowned body, she splashed cold water over them and quivered with the pleasurable shock. It was a trick she’d learned from fellow harlots to keep her bosom firm and taut. But not for soldiers’ benefit. Not now.

 She gave the girl a final glance and straightened up again. The woods were still, and birds sang heedlessly. Although she’d only come to wash, she’d brought her carbine with her. The region had been ravaged, but the war was not yet done.

 Martine was sitting at the smoky campfire, by the blanket where they’d shared each other’s warmth. Her frock coat was unbuttoned over her slept-in chemise, and her chestnut mane hung tousled down her back. She gave her friend a lazy smile, and Nell’s pale cheeks grew pinker: she had been a parson’s daughter before following the drum. Adjusting her red coat so the lapels concealed her nipples, she went to greet her tethered horse. Martine poured coffee from a blackened pot.

 Nell stroked the pony’s nose. “You got the water from the river?”

 “Of course,” said Martine airily. She sipped from her tin cup. “The Loire is pure, like all French rivers – not like your filthy Tamise.”

“We call it the Thames,” said Nell. Her eyes had strayed towards the river. “But you’re right about the muck in it. I hear there’s always bodies floating past ...”

Smiling, Martine drank again, and then her shoulders stiffened, her dark eyes widening above the cup. A naked body drifted past the campsite, its skin bleached like a fish’s belly, dark hair like a mass of floating weed.

Martine lowered her cup and peered at it suspiciously. The corpse turned slowly in the stream. She poured the coffee out over the grass. “Another one was by the bank,” Nell murmured from behind her. “Her hands were tied – and this one’s been bound too.”

“One side taking revenge against the other,” said Martine. “No need to wager which of them it is.” Nell pulled a face. She was already dressing. The greatcoat she shrugged into had a tricolour cockade on the lapel.

* * *

As they rode towards the town of Nantes, they passed a sunken lighter in a stagnant backwater beside the road. The little boat was almost underwater, but a girl was belly-up in it and her face had broken surface like a mask. Her eyes were blank, her features almost dreamy. Her bloodless breasts had come up too. The nipples were erect and tinged with blue.

To Nell she looked like something from a medieval poem, while Martine was put in mind of water-sprites. She crossed herself uneasily, glimpsing pale shapes in the water. The figures stayed inert and limp, but her foreboding didn’t go away.

Close to the town, they met a troop of soldiers who demanded that they show their passes, glowering at them like hungry dogs. But both the girls could show them valid papers, having volunteered as couriers for the Blues. In truth, they had no loyalty to one side or the other, but an army pass could get them through the areas under military control.

“It’s good to have such strong support from female citizens,” the officer in charge said to Martine. “The Jacobins might disapprove, but they aren’t at the sharp end. There are women in the town I’d rather fight beside than face!”

Martine gave a modest shrug and glanced towards the river. “We saw some bodies in the Loire,” she said.

The captain smiled unpleasantly. “Just royalists being shipped out. We’ve commandeered so many leaky barges that a lot of them are having to swim home.”

“It’s harder when your hands are tied,” said Martine neutrally.

“But cleaner than the guillotine.” He jerked his head. “You’re free to carry on.”

“I knew we were risking our necks,” said Nell as the two of them rode onward, “but here they drown their prisoners like rats!” Inured to violence though she was, the realisation shocked her. It felt as if they’d strayed into some flooded part of Hell.

Martine stared at the town walls. “We’ll drop off the despatches, and then I think we’d better move on, quick.” Like Nell, she had the feeling that they’d crossed some kind of frontier, to a land of the demonic and the damned.

The horses’ shoes rang loudly on the cobbles as they made their way along the narrow streets. “Let me deliver them,” said Nell. “You stuck your neck out last time.” She had the papers in her saddlebag. Martine looked at her and felt a twinge of apprehension, but masked it with a teasing smile. “Your accent might arouse suspicion, love.”

Nell grinned back. “I’ll tell them I’m a Yankee. That always seems to have the right effect.” She adjusted her long coat to leave a glimpse of scarlet showing. “And I got this off a redcoat’s back.”

“After he’d put you on yours,” muttered Martine.

A giant tricolour hung from the town hall’s balcony. It flapped over an empty square. A few indifferent people scuttled past. But both girls had a sense of watchful eyes behind cracked shutters. They dismounted on the far side of the square. “All right,” said Martine. “Go in and impress them.” She raised one of her horse’s hoofs. “I need to get a stone out of this shoe.”

Nell unsheathed the bayonet she carried. “Try this,” she said. “But don’t you bend it, mind.” The long blade had a makeshift wooden handle. Martine took it and grunted. “I could pick my teeth at arm’s length using this!”

The blonde girl grinned and led her horse across to the tall building. A sentry eyed her pass, although he clearly couldn’t read. Nell’s confidence carried more weight, and so did her full figure. By the time she’d finished charming him, the man thought he was guaranteed a screw.

She went down a side alley to the building’s rear courtyard. A girl dressed like a sans-culotte was slouching there on guard. She wore a shabby blue coat and striped trousers, with a crimson cap pushed back on her dark hair. She carried an old rifle with the butt against her hip. Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. Nell gave her a cool smile.

“I’m carrying despatches for the Representative.” She fished her pass out once again. “Perhaps you could announce me, Citizen?”

The guard looked at her moodily. Nell kept her smile in place. She knew that female militants were sometimes more ferocious than the men. The girl jerked her head towards the door behind her. “He’s still drunk in his bed,” she sneered. “You can give them to his agent if you want.”

Nell wasn’t fussy who she gave the papers to. She tied her reins around a post and took the packet from her saddlebag. “Up the staircase and turn right,” the guard said carelessly. Nell went inside and climbed the stairs. The building had a cold, abandoned feel. But a distant keening noise arose from somewhere, and it made the fine hairs tingle on her nape.

There were more girls wearing caps and trousers on the upper floor. Nell sensed their prickly restlessness, like sullen children waiting out a storm. All of them were armed with guns and daggers. “Are they ready yet?” demanded one. Nell couldn’t help but give a Gallic shrug.

“So what do you want?” another girl asked curtly.

Nell showed the sealed packet. “I’m just bringing papers from the General. The Representative’s agent …?”

“Let’s see your papers first,” the girl cut in. She was petite, fair-haired and looked pugnacious, as if to compensate for her small frame.

“I’ve showed my sodding papers,” Nell said calmly. The red-bonnet was unimpressed. “What kind of foreign accent’s that?” she asked.

“American,” said Nell. “I’ve come to fight for the Republic.” They’d met a real Yankee once. Martine had run her through.

“Is that an English soldier’s coat?” asked someone curiously. Nell held her greatcoat wider. “Yeah ...”

“He gave it to his whore to keep her warm.”

It was a new voice, clipped and cold, like that of Nell’s old governess. But the speaker in the doorway was a girl of her own age. She wore a plain grey travelling gown, and her face was pale and stony, contrasting with the clear blue eyes behind her spectacles.

Nell had a plunging feeling in her stomach. She made to draw her pistol, but the small blonde’s carbine was already cocked. The girl in grey eyed Nell with peevish triumph. She’d obviously recovered from the last time they had met.

“You’ve had a wash, I see,” Nell told her dryly. “A shame – that mud went so well with your dress.”

Claire didn’t deign to rise to that. She sauntered primly forward. “I know this bitch, and she’s an English spy.” The other girls surrounded Nell, their weapons drawn and levelled. One padded up to her and pulled the pistol from her belt. Nell met her sneer and offered no resistance. The girl relieved her of the packet too. “If she’s read these, she knows too much,” she muttered.

“Don’t worry,” Claire replied. “She’ll only have the dead to tell.”

Nell swallowed, but her mouth stayed dry as ashes. The Representative was drunk, so Claire had taken charge. Nell guessed the sans-culottes were her pet army. As the bluecoat officer had said: There are women I’d rather fight beside than face.

The girl from the courtyard came upstairs to join them, her ill-used rifle in one hand and the carbine from Nell’s saddle in the other. The latter had come down to Nell from more than one dead hand, but the rosewood stock and inlaid barrels showed it had a noble pedigree. The girl raised it disdainfully and handed it to Claire. “No Citizen should own such things,” she said.

Claire turned the carbine in her hands. It had twin rotating barrels, the steel inlaid with golden fleurs-de-lys. She studied it, then looked at Nell. “This is a royalist’s weapon.”

“Is it?” Nell shrugged carelessly. “I liked the pretty flowers on it, that’s all.”

Claire drove the buttplate hard into her belly. Nell doubled forward with a groan and slumped onto her knees. Stepping back, Claire curled her lip. “Her friend will be round somewhere. A gypsy-looking peasant slut. I want her brought to me.”

Some of girls went down the stairs. The others kept Nell covered.  Claire stroked the carbine’s stock with one gloved hand. She jerked her head. “Undress her. Take her down to join the others.” She smiled at Nell. “You grubby cow. It’s time you took a bath.”

* * *

Martine had prised the stone out of the horseshoe and retreated to a wine shop on the square. Sitting in a corner with a view out of the window, she hid herself behind a newspaper. It didn’t matter that she couldn’t read it. It was the revolutionary Pere Duchesne. The other drinkers gave her a wide berth.

As she sipped her wine, a group of girls emerged from the town hall. They moved apart with weapons drawn, and Martine felt a prickle of unease. It looked like they were searching for somebody. Her gaze flicked to the alley down which Nell had disappeared.

One of the red-capped militants crossed over to the wine shop. She peered at Martine’s tethered horse, then came in through the door. Martine dipped her head behind her paper. The shadows clung like cobwebs, and the dirty window didn’t shed much light. The girl glanced round contemptuously, but no-one met her gaze. She had a rifle braced against her hip.

Like many of the bluecoats, she was barefoot. The floorboards hardly creaked as she advanced. Martine heard her approaching as she turned another page. The girl’s grim face came into view. “I haven’t seen you here before,” she said.

Martine looked piqued at being interrupted. “I can’t say you’re familiar, Citizen.” Her tone implied she moved in higher circles. The girl lowered her rifle, pushing down the newspaper.

“Your papers,” she demanded. Martine stared into the muzzle, then shrugged and fished her pass out of her coat. “Keep both your hands in sight,” the girl said flatly. She moved in close to take the document. Confident of Martine’s acquiescence, she rested her gun butt on the tabletop. As she tilted the pass towards the meagre daylight, Martine lashed out and knocked the gun aside. The girl slipped, lurching forward, and Martine’s hand seized her shirtfront while the bayonet slid from her other sleeve. The blade thrust forward, pierced the sheet of paper and pinned it to the girl’s breast as the point punctured her heart.

The sans-culotte gave a single, throttled grunt and shuddered briefly. Martine pulled her close and felt her die. She hoped it looked like they were arguing. Heads must have turned when the rifle hit the table, but this was revolutionary business: no-one else would want to get involved. She shook the drooping girl as if to underline a point, then glanced beyond her shoulder. Nobody was looking now. She eased the body down onto the chair across from her, and drew the bayonet back out. It dripped red blots onto the newspaper.

The girl sagged and her head tipped sideways, blank eyes staring out over the square. Martine’s heart was hammering. She fought the urge to make a run for it. Sitting back, she finished off her cup of rough red wine. The murky room stayed unperturbed, men murmuring around their candle flames.

Her pass lay on the table with a bloody hole in it – which might take some explaining, but she put it in her pocket and stood up. Picking up the rifle, she walked over to the door. None of the drinkers turned their heads. The Terror made a wise man deaf and blind.

Outside, she made her way around the fringes of the square, resting the rifle on her shoulder, flaunting the cockade on her lapel. Approaching the town hall, she heard the sound of wheels and hoofbeats, and a farm wagon rolled out onto the square. It was full of women wearing just chemises. Their hands were tied behind their backs. Nell’s hair hung loose and golden in their midst.

A pair of female red-bonnets were on the driving seat. One had the reins, the other held a propped-up musketoon. Several more walked out behind the wagon. They were sniggering among themselves and throwing crude taunts at the prisoners. Martine watched, dry-mouthed. She’d seen such cavalcades before, and they had always ended at the guillotine.

In Paris, there’d be jeering crowds, but here the square stayed empty. The wagon and its escort was a sight that people shunned. But somebody was watching from the town hall balcony. A tall girl wearing glasses and a sanctimonious look.

Martine pressed back against the wall and tugged her tricorne lower. The wagon creaked across the square and down a street towards the riverside. Claire watched its departure like a strait-laced Liberty, Nell’s carbine braced against her side and the tricolour cascading at her feet.

Martine withdrew into an alley and began to run, heading for the river through a labyrinth of back streets. The cobbled warren was disorientating. She swung around a corner and ran straight into one of the sans-culottes. The girl was searching for her, but had no time to react before the rifle butt was rammed into her jaw. She went down like a pole-axed cow, and Martine paused beside her, the rifle poised to bludgeon her again. But the girl had been knocked cold; there was no need to beat her brains out. Martine’s hot rage receded. She crouched down and took the girl’s red cap instead. Her musket too, slinging it over her shoulder. Then she hurried on towards the waterside.

The wagon had reached the gate beside the river and was trundling out onto the open road. Nell lurched with every jolt, pressed close against her fellow captives. She felt their shapely curves as they felt hers.

She wasn’t wearing a chemise. Claire’s girls had stripped her naked, then made her put her red coat on again. “You can rot in it, you English whore,” the little blonde had told her. The girl was smirking at her now from where she sat, up front.

Nell looked away, across the wide grey river. She knew where they were headed, and her belly cramped with fear. The sans-culottes would do the deed outside the city limits, but it would be in broad daylight, with a reckless lack of shame.

“Are you really English, Miss?” one of the girls whispered beside her, her well-schooled voice polite despite her fear. She was sandy-haired and ashen-faced, too comely this cargo. But the world was cruel, and kittens could be drowned as well as cats.

“Yeah,” said Nell. “Don’t worry, I’ll try not to lower the tone ...” She made an effort to sound wry, and the girl smiled tremulously, then reddened as another jolt swung Nell’s breasts into view.

Behind them, Martine jogged out through the gateway, the red cap on her head now and the heavy musket bumping on her back. “Late for bath-time, Citizen?” one of the sentries called. She gave the man a twisted grin. He didn’t bother asking for her pass.

The wagon was some way ahead when it pulled up at a jetty. A track veered down towards it, and Nell guessed it was a ferry’s landing stage. A lighter and a pair of rowing boats were moored against it. The wagon’s tailgate swung down. “All right,” the blonde snapped, “everybody out.”

The prisoners got down awkwardly, their hands still tied behind them, cajoled by swords and musket-butts. A couple slipped and fell. “We’re taking you across the Loire,” the blonde girl told them brusquely. “Get down into the lighter. You should fit if you breathe in.”

Nell scanned the faces of the other captives, wondering if they knew what kind of fate awaited them. The girls were pale and trembling in the cold breeze off the river, but she glimpsed no fundamental dread. They wanted to believe what they’d been told.

The lighter was a small, flat-bottomed vessel. The deck planks had been ripped away, and the girls were crammed into the open hold. Three of the red bonnets took up perches on the gunnel, and the blonde sat by the tiller, smiling down unpleasantly. The overloaded little boat was pushed off from the jetty. The other sans-culottes used boathooks, then tossed them to the departing crew.

Nell felt as if she was already sinking. The gunnel framed the sky above her like an open grave. Then, as the boat got under way, her feet were splashed with water. It was cold, but not as icy as the chill that climbed her spine. The captives had been packed too tight to see below their bosoms, but a shudder spread among them as the wetness registered. “Please,” another girl piped up, “I think it’s started leaking.”

“Horrors!” said a red-bonnet. “Do you think we’ll make it to the other side?”

Nell knew there was no chance of that. The lighter was a death trap. She guessed there had been several holes above the waterline. As the boat had been weighed down, the holes had dipped below the surface and the river Loire had started pouring in.

The boat turned aimlessly into the current. The water had begun to slosh around their ankles now. Some of the girls were whimpering, and Nell could feel their panic. The crush of bodies tightened, almost robbing her of breath. The girl with sandy hair was squashed against her. Although her face was very pale, she seemed unwilling to believe the worst.

“They won’t let us sink, will they?” she whispered faintly.

“Shh,” said Nell. “You’re safe with me. We English make good sailors!” She forced a grin. “And my name’s Nell. You haven’t told me yours …?”

“I’m Sarah,” sniffed the girl. Her wide eyes shifted fearfully. Her breasts were rubbing against Nell’s, the nipples stiffening through her chemise. Nell wished that she could get aroused, but her plight was too unnerving. The thrust of Sarah’s bosom made her yearn to feel Martine’s.

Martine herself was panting up towards the landing stage. She could see the lighter foundering, just thirty yards offshore. The sans-culottes were perched on it like crows on a drowned carcase. Two rowing boats were standing off, another red bonnet in each of them.

Two more girls were watching from the jetty, so taken with the spectacle that they didn’t see Martine till she arrived. “Citizens,” she gasped, “I’m glad I haven’t missed the ending.” She jabbed the rifle butt into the first girl’s abdomen. Her victim folded with a squawk, and Martine twisted sharply to crack the other’s jawbone with the stock. The girl collapsed like a dropped coat, but the first one was still wheezing. Martine crouched down and drove Nell’s bayonet clean through her neck. The girl clutching vainly at her punctured windpipe, and choked on the blade as if it was a bone stuck in her throat.

Martine glanced towards the sinking boat, but the other sans-culottes were still absorbed. She laid the rifle on the jetty and unslung the musket. There were two more lying on the planking, waiting for their owners to return. But there were six red-bonnets on the river – and Nell had always been the better shot.

The boat was filling quickly now. The prisoners started wailing as the murky water swirled above their waists. The boat lurched as they struggled, but their captors kept their balance. The two with boathooks plunged them down into the squirming throng. Two squealing girls were forced beneath the surface. The small blonde sans-culotte unsheathed a cutlass from her hip.

Sarah whimpered with dismay. “Don’t look,” Nell told her firmly, like a parent trying to shield a wide-eyed child. Impulsively she kissed the girl, who stiffened, then responded as if Nell could keep her breathing when they sank.

The sans-culottes kept thrusting with their boathooks, and the other two joined in with cutlasses. The girls they drowned stayed tangled in the crush of pleading captives, their bodies slumped beneath their floating hair. Engulfed in screams, Nell closed her eyes, her mouth still clamped to Sarah’s – imagining this was Martine and she was saying goodbye.

Martine lifted the rifle to her shoulder. She wished it was her shotgun, which could wreak a bloody havoc at close range. A longer shot like this was much more daunting. She rested her left elbow on her knee. Lining up the sights, she started pulling the stiff trigger. The cock sprang forward suddenly and hot smoke scorched her cheek.

The bullet hit one of the cutlass-wielders and spun her off the gunnel with a grunt. She splashed into the water and sank quickly, while the gunshot echoed back from the far bank.

The red-bonnets swung round in consternation. Nell freed her lips from Sarah’s and they stared into each other’s startled eyes. Then they heard the short-arsed blonde. “There’s only one of her! Go on and use your pistols while we finish this lot off!”

The girls in the rowboats shipped their oars while Martine raised a musket. It was a ponderous weapon for a girl of her physique. She aimed towards the left-hand boat. The musket kicked her shoulder, but the shot went wide and raised a spout of water further off.

The drowning detail went back to their work with renewed vigour. The boathooks drove down brutally, and screams turned into stifled bubbling sounds. Sarah wriggled clear of Nell and squeezed herself behind her. Nell took the role of shield without demur.

The girl in the left-hand boat levelled her gun across her forearm. The pistol belched and Martine flinched. The shot hacked splinters from a nearby plank. Gouts of smoke were mingling in between the boats and jetty, like a sea battle in miniature. Martine glanced back towards the distant town. With luck the soldiers would assume the girls were shooting prisoners. She picked another musket up and levered back the cock.

The lighter rocked with the struggles its cargo, but half the girls were dead weight now, just shifting bodily with every lurch. A boathook struck Nell’s shoulder, but it failed to gain a purchase as the wielder fought to get her balance back. The point sank down among the dying bodies, and the sans-culotte used it to brace herself. She glared at Nell, who stared back with defiance – and felt a sudden tugging at her bonds.

Sarah wasn’t cowering behind her; she was on her knees and gnawing at the knot. The water slopped around her face, but she hung on like a terrier. Nell felt a surge of hope and shame. She forced her wrists towards her shoulder blades.

The movement thrust her bosom out, as if to taunt her captors. The boat was filling quickly now. The water splashed her breasts. It tautened them the way her early morning wash had done. She’d thought she was resigned to death, but now she felt the undertow of life.

Martine fired into the stinking fogbank. Again the bullet missed its mark, but it put the girls with boathooks off their stroke. There was one more musket left and then she’d have to start reloading. She glanced towards the girls she’d felled. The stunned one had a pistol in her belt. The hefty walnut grip was quite distinctive. She realised it was Nell’s own Twigg, but knew the lighter was beyond its range.

Sarah’s teeth tugged fiercely at the rope around Nell’s wrists. Her head kept going under and she coughed as she came up, then carried on. The task was a distraction from her terror, and she focused on it single-mindedly. Nell pulled against her bonds and felt them loosen. The girl with the boathook straightened up again.

“You roast-beef-eating bitch,” she sneered. “We’re saving you till last.” She rode another lurch and raised her pole. Nell jerked her wrists. The rough knot came unravelled. The sans-culotte swayed drunkenly and plunged the iron head towards Nell’s chest. It struck her sternum, sliding off to dig into her breast, and Nell hollered theatrically – then seized the pole and jerked it with both hands.

The startled girl cried out and lost her balance, her bare feet slipping off the lighter’s side. She disappeared with a splash, but Nell still had the boathook. She lifted it above her head as the lighter foundered underneath her feet. The small blonde hissed at her, but she was clinging to the tiller. She looked around for her companions. “Come and take us off!” she snapped at them.

But the girl in the nearest rowing boat was focused on Martine. She triggered her long pistol, and Martine fired her last musket in response. The bullet was discharged before she’d sighted, but it clipped the girl’s head, spinning it so hard it snapped her neck. Her body teetered stiffly for a moment, then crumpled like a puppet with cut strings. She flopped head-down across the side and pulled the rowboat over, but Martine had no time to feel relieved.

The boatload of drowned girls was going under. The other boathook-wielder jumped, and the small blonde cursed and scrambled after her. The lighter sank beneath the weight of bodies. The three red-bonnets in the water flailed towards the other rowing boat.

Spluttering, the blonde girl reached it first and grasped the rowlock. She began to haul herself aboard. The boat dipped and its occupant leaned back. But then Nell rose out of the depths beneath them to seize the smaller girl and drag her down.

Suddenly released, the rowboat rocked the other way and tipped its startled occupant into the Loire. Her floundering was lost on Nell, who was sinking to the bottom with the detail’s leader locked in her embrace. Her scarlet coat was twice its weight with water, like a phantom presence clinging to her back. But the other girl was wearing more, encumbering her struggles as they twisted in the murky undertow.

One of the small blonde’s arms was pinned; she groped back with the other, trying to claw Nell’s face and grasp her floating hair.  Nell jerked her head away, but kept the girl pressed to her body. She squeezed her midriff sharply, and the girl’s lungs emptied with a bubbling yelp. Water filled her open mouth, and her wriggles grew more frantic, but Nell closed her eyes and hung on like grim death.

Two of the other sans-culottes were making for the jetty. It was the third’s misfortune that she’d never learned to swim. She’d thought to watch girls drowning from the safety of a rowboat. Now she was in the river too, and sobbing as it closed over her head.

The others weren’t much better in the water, and threshed their way towards the landing stage. Martine stood watching them without expression. She had Nell’s pistol ready in her hand. The nearest girl still wore her soaked red bonnet. Martine took aim and shot her in the head. A spout of crimson came up through the bonnet, and the girl flopped round and rolled onto her face. The other one was snapped out of her single-minded splashing, but she had nowhere to go. Another head-shot finished her.

Martine dropped the gun and started pulling off her greatcoat. She didn’t know where Nell was, but her instinct was to plunge in anyway. Then she saw her friend’s head break the surface – but even as relief welled up,  Nell whooped for breath and dived from view again. Not looking for the short-arsed blonde, who had settled on the bottom, but trying to rescue Sarah from the lighter’s murky wreck.

Down she swam to grope amid the bodies, but the faces were just shadows and the girls’ hair swirled like underwater weeds. Her lungs demanded air and she clawed upward, still hampered by her sodden coat and crippled by the cold. She surfaced, shook her wet hair back and gulped to get her breath, preparing for another plunge.

“Come on,” Martine called out, “we have to go!”

Nell glanced at her, still gasping. She could feel the gulf beneath her, as if hovering above an open grave. Sarah was still down there with her hands tied. But Martine beckoned frantically. “There’s no-one left to save, love,” she implored.

With a little moan, Nell struck out for the jetty. Martine looked back towards the town. She could see no bluecoats on the road; not yet. But someone would have realised this was no botched execution, nor a case of girls just messing round in boats. Then Nell came swimming up, and Martine reached out with both hands. Nell clutched and squeezed them fiercely. The river water blended with her tears.

* * *

The town hall sentry stood beneath a lantern, but the square beyond its glow was almost dark. The tricolour above him rustled like a ship’s grey sail. The shuttered windows gave no hint of candlelight.

The sentry heard a movement in the shadows. He gripped his musket tighter as a muffled figure came towards the light. “Easy, Citizen,” a female voice said, with a teasing undertone that made the young man’s mouth turn dry.

“The curfew starts at twilight,” he said hoarsely. “You’d best be on your way, Miss. I mean Citizen.” He flushed.

“My business starts at nightfall too,” said Martine, simpering. “To keep our heroes happy … but I don’t suppose Miss Claire in there approves ...”

The man wet his lips. “The Citizen you speak of has been called elsewhere. She left this afternoon.”

 “Did she?” purred Martine. “A busy servant of the people. A bit like me, in my own way.” She winked. “Perhaps I’ll see you later, then.”

 Leaving him aglow with lust, she moved on through the dusk and turned a corner. Nell was waiting moodily. Relaxing her grip on the pistol in her waistband, Martine gave her a mirthless smile. “The bitch has left, apparently,” she said.

 Nell nodded sombrely. Her hair was dry but still bedraggled. “My father once told me that you should never seek revenge.” After a pause, she added: “But she went off with my carbine. I really like that carbine, and I’m going to get it back.”

 Martine nodded once. Her smile became a crooked grin. She kissed Nell softly on the cheek, and the two of them withdrew into the dark.