And thank God. I mean, it needs to be smoothed out, but that can be another day.
…
The first sound he heard was the rattling of iron links, endlessly repeating, as the waterwheel outside turned an improvised gear train.The links were heavy, but rusted. Indeed, the smell of rust was heavy in the air, here. As were the smells of pain, fear, and despair. Joseph Fouché was not proud of the circumstances of his life and actions that had left him with such an intimate knowledge of those scents, but the Revolution sometimes required a stern hand from its servants.
As if to mock him, the second sound he heard was keening. The kind of keening that did not come from human throats.
There was enough moonlight from the holes in the roof (and enough dull red glow from the braziers, and their banked coals) to reveal three small figures, each hooded, and bound to a table at wrists, ankles, and waist. And they were small: so slight, you might at first mistake them for human children. But the arms and legs were subtly wrong, and Joseph was instantly certain that if he took off their hoods the heads would be even more inhuman. “What is this?” he hissed, in lieu of invoking a deity he thought wholly imaginary.
“They are fee, Citizen Représentant. Surely you recognize them?”
