For a while, when they brought him home, there were fears that nothing would ever happen in Camille’s head again. His father, still burning with shame and anger, pushed him into his mother’s waiting arms. Camille had walked to and from the carriage under his own power, but he still had not spoken.
“Take him,” Desmoulins said roughly. “Not that it’ll do much good. My son and heir, no better than an idiot now. Those bastards. Someone needs to teach them a lesson.”
He had underestimated the resilience of small children, or at least of this one. Late that morning, Camille came back downstairs, fed and washed and rested, and little the worse for his dark night. He spoke as brightly and intelligently as he ever had, a little too much so for some people’s liking. But he had changed. His voice had been clear as a bell; now it had an unmistakable stammer that never went away, no matter how his father frowned and encouraged in turn. At times his eyes would stare, disconcertingly, at things that weren’t there. He had been somewhere that nobody could quite understand. And every so often, at church, or in the street, the local Knight Templar would look up to see Camille watching him, and would know that he had not forgiven it.
With a different prize every month,
from advance copies of books by
your favourite authors to exclusive
merchandise packs,
we think you’ll find something
you love.
facebook.com/OrbitBooksUK
@orbitbooks_uk
@OrbitBooks