He has to get to his mother. Arlette is not dead, so she could still incriminate their family and Maman’s resistance group if questioned.
Maman is sweeping the porch when he comes pelting up the front walk. “Honey, would you go get your sister? I need her to—”
“We have to get out of here, now. They got Arlette.”
Maman’s brow furrows. Then understanding dawns in her eyes. Her jaw goes slack, and her cheeks turn green. She steps back, clutching her chest. “My baby girl... Where? How?”
“There’s no time. They’ll come for you, too, Maman. They’ll kill you.” The words tumble out as he grips her arms. “We need to move now!”
She gasps out a choked sob, then nods and charges for the door. “You get us some food. I’ll gather clothes. Quickly, son.”
They dive inside the house. The door swings shut behind them with a bang so similar to a gunshot that it makes Emeric’s heart stop. Forcing himself to breathe, he sprints to the kitchen and jams anything he can find into a burlap sack.
He is just tying its top when someone raps on the front door. He freezes.
“Danielle Bernard!” a gruff voice shouts through the wood. “Open up!”
“Into the floor.” Maman comes around the corner.
“What? No, Maman—”
She doesn’t listen to his protests, only wraps her wiry fingers around his wrist and drags him into the living room. Shoving away the threadbare rug on the floor, she hoists up the trapdoor underneath and ushers Emeric into the darkness.
“Maman!”
“Stay silent. I cannot lose you, too.” She shuts and locks the door before Emeric can say another word.
He crouches in the dark, hugging the bag of food to his chest and praying harder than he’s ever prayed in his life. In the dim light slanting through the floorboards, Maman’s emergency supply of elixir glitters in stacks of tiny bottles lining the walls. Every time he looks at them, all he can see is Arlette sucking gold into her mouth like water.
The door creaks overhead.
“Madame Bernard?” the gruff voice asks.
“Oui, monsieur. What can I do for you this afternoon?”
“You are under arrest for harboring a gravoir, falsifying records, lying to authorities, and for the organization of an illicit, traitorous movement.” The man pauses, then says, “Our notes indicate you have a son. He’ll need to come with us, too.”
“Where is my daughter?” Maman’s voice is cold. “What have you done with her?”
“Where is your son?” There is a rustle of paper. “Alexandre Emeric Bernard?”
“He’s dead,” Maman says flatly, and the words send a chill down Emeric’s spine.
“When did he die?” the policeman asks. “We have no record of that.”
“Tell me where you’ve taken my daughter.”
“Do not make this any more difficult than it needs to be.”
“Where is she?” Maman’s coolness breaks into hysteria. “You tell me where she is right now!”
Emeric pushes against the trapdoor, but it doesn’t budge. He works his fingers around its edge, searching for something—anything—that could get it open.
Footsteps pound above. There is a scuffle. A shout. The sound of breaking bone. His mother’s scream.
Emeric bites down on his tongue to keep from crying out.
The second gunshot of the day blasts into Emeric’s eardrums.
Maman’s cry cuts off. Something heavy thuds on the floor overhead.
“Blast,” the gruff voice mutters. “I hate when they go for my gun.”
“She was going to die for her crimes anyway,” another man says.
“True, but I still don’t like when they force my hand like that.”
Emeric stuffs his fist against his mouth as tears stream down his cheeks.
Maman... Maman... Maman...
The policemen leave, and all is quiet.
Still, Emeric cannot get the trapdoor open, no matter how he bangs on it, no matter how he screams and wails. Finally, after what seems like hours of trying, he gives up, curls in on himself in the dark, and sobs.
Chapter Twenty-Four
When I pull out of the memory, tears are blurring across my vision again. “I’m so sorry,” I whisper.
He sniffs and attempts a smile, but it wavers, tight and forced, before he gives up and drops his head into his hands.
Gunshots ring in my mind—the ones from the masquerade ball alongside the ones from Emeric’s memory.
“How long ago was this?” I ask, reaching out to nudge his wrist with my knuckles in what I hope is a comforting gesture. He seizes my hand, weaves his fingers through mine, and holds tight.
“Nearly three years.” He doesn’t meet my gaze. Instead he stares at the dusty tops of his once-shiny new shoes.
“How long were you under the floor?”
His thumb strokes along the edge of mine as he considers. “Three days, I think. I sort of lost track. It was really dark down there. I was lucky I’d taken the sack of supplies with me, because that was my only source of food and drink. That trapdoor had to be the most poorly constructed piece of junk in the world. Built to only open from the outside—how ridiculous is that?” His chuckle is weak and humorless. “But it kept me hidden when the police searched the house. I spent that time drinking my mother’s stash of elixir to replace what Arlette had taken and trying to break out. Finally, my uncle Gérald came looking for me. He knew about the trapdoor, thank Memory, and he brought me back to Luscan with him.”
I consider that for a moment, then pause when I remember something the police had said. “Is your name really Alexandre?”
He gives a quiet laugh. “It was my father’s name, but I always went by Emeric. Once Maman died, the police were looking for the missing son on her record for a while, so I ditched my first name completely. My uncle had a friend in the Luscan records office who put together an account for me as my uncle’s son, so I took Uncle Gérald’s last name, Rodin. Once I came of age, I left Luscan and have been on the road ever since.”
I stare down at our intertwined hands. “I wish things had turned out differently for you.”
He nods. “I’d do anything to go back to that day, to stop myself from taking Arlette to see the village.” He lifts his chin to meet my gaze. “But I suppose if I hadn’t done so, I wouldn’t be here with you, and I don’t like the idea of that very much, either.”
My heart flops, lurching into my throat. “Funny how things turn out, isn’t it?” My voice comes out slightly higher in pitch than normal.
“It is.” His eyes don’t leave mine.
I clear my throat and look back down at our hands, desperate for a change in subject to get my pulse back under control. “So, uh...what was the ‘illicit, traitorous movement’ your mother organized?”
“A group of other parents of gravoirs all over the country. I think, ultimately, they wanted to build up a resistance to the King’s Imperial Council. She believed that eventually, if they were able to gather enough support around Vaureille, they could march on the capital and demand that gravoirs be granted freedom and rights.”
I gnaw on my thumbnail. “How many families were part of the group?”
He shrugs. “She didn’t tell me much about it. In fact, I don’t think she would have told me anything at all if she didn’t have to leave me in charge of Arlette so frequently to meet with the others. She said the less I knew, the better.”
“There was something in your memory about your mother finding books and carving marks into Arlette’s hands. Do you know what those were?”
“She always came home from her trips with new information about gravoir power and history. I believe she spent some of her time digging through old libraries looking for ways to make Arlette and the other gravoir kids powerful enough t
o fight, if it came to that. She didn’t tell us anything she discovered—I think she was afraid of making Arlette dangerous—but there at the end she was really worried about Arlette running off and doing something stupid. I walked in on her carving these marks into Arlette’s hands a day or two before the incident in Marvault. She promised the marks would help Arlette ‘compound her power’ if Arlette ever came into trouble.”
“I’d say her power was certainly ‘compounded.’” Cyril’s red book mentioned palm markings when it talked about catalyseurs. Arlette had to have had one that day.
Emeric flinches but then nods. “I guess the marks worked.”
My thumbnail has begun to bleed with how much I’m chewing on it, so I force myself to stop. “Do you think those books and trinkets your mother brought back from her trips are still out in your old house?” If Arlette was in possession of a catalyseur, maybe there are more hidden somewhere in their cottage.
He shakes his head. “It’s gone. I read about the people of Marvault burning my house down in the paper a few days after my uncle found me. Some kind of protest for what my sister had done to them.”
I deflate. “Emeric, I—” I fumble for something to say, but nothing comes.
“Arlette’s not dead.”
I blink at him. “What?”
“The policemen said they were taking her to Bardin.” Emeric is talking too quickly, as though he’s afraid I might interrupt and tell him he’s wrong. “He was looking for her. Why would he be looking for her just so he could kill her?”
“Because... Emeric...someone probably found out about her and told the authorities. They give huge rewards for things like that. It could have been one of your mother’s allies, even. Whoever was looking for her likely wanted to get rid of the threat.”
He goes rigid. “My sister was not a threat.”
“Of course not,” I say, but his memory of her draining the elixir from an entire market full of people is too fresh in my mind for me to fill the words with enough confidence to sound like I mean it.
“They shot her in the shoulder. They missed her vital organs on purpose. He wanted her alive.”
“Right. They were probably hoping to find out about your mother’s resistance movement.” I try to keep my tone soft, aware of how raw the subject is for him. “I’m sure once they got the information they were looking for, they executed her. Like they always do.”
“No.” His face reddens. “Bardin wanted her for something else. She’s alive. I’m sure of it. I just have to find her.”
I stare at him, realization dawning on me. “You think the Bardin the police mentioned is my Bardin, don’t you? Cyril?” My mind whirs. “That’s why you came to our opera house? Why you agreed to work with me? Why you asked me to steal his key?”
“Cyril Bardin is known throughout Vaureille for his dislike for fendoirs and gravoirs alike. He has a reputation—”
“No. That’s not possible. Bardin is a really common name, and Cyril has always been kind to me. He wouldn’t...” I stop, the image of the disgusted indifference on his face when he called me a “vile creature” filling me with a soul-cleaving ache.
“I’ve been gathering information on him for weeks,” Emeric says. “He seems to have a personal vendetta against fendoirs and gravoirs. In addition to his clerk work for Channe’s Council, he’s been conducting investigations for other cities’ councils, as well.”
“Investigations?”
Emeric crouches and pulls a folder from underneath his bed. I recognize it as the one he hastily stowed away last time I came to his apartment. He opens it, flips through the thick stack of papers within, and hands me a fistful of newspaper articles. “I was able to nick this from him a few weeks ago.”
I think of Cyril tearing through his briefcase, searching for a missing file. The throb in my head intensifies. My hands quake as I flip through the pages, but my vision is too splotchy for me to be able to read.
“What are these stories about?”
“Mysterious disappearances,” Emeric says. “Sometimes one person, sometimes a whole family. They all have one thing in common—they involve a pregnant woman who vanishes once her baby is born. I’m assuming a lot of them were involved in the resistance group.” He pulls one out of the stack. “This one is about my mother.”
“So all of these articles are about different women who gave birth to gravoirs and went into hiding? Like your family?”
“Seems likely. And it appears Cyril was looking for them.” He pulls the papers out of my hands and shoves them back into his file.
I stare blankly at the wall across the room. It warps and churns to the beat in my head.
Cyril is hunting gravoirs down, but for what purpose? It can’t be to kill them all, can it? The only other logical explanation is that he would want them for their magic. Then again, if gravoir power is all he’s been looking for, he’s had me for seventeen years and never asked me to do more than a few small tasks. What would he want from the others?
“Isda...” Emeric’s voice is suddenly quiet. Uneasy. He shuffles the file from hand to hand. “I’ve been meaning to ask... That is...uh...do you know if...are there any other gravoirs? Down in the catacombs or somewhere else?”
“What?” I shake my head. “No, it’s always been only me.”
He nods. “I assumed as much.” But the hope in his expression fades a bit as he slides the file back under his bed.
All this time I thought I knew Cyril. Now I’m beginning to realize how little he’s let me see.
I think of how careful he’s always been around me, how he’s made sure never to sing in my presence, even when giving me vocal instruction. Not once have I been able to step into the tide of his memories. Not once have I been allowed into his head.
He’s been keeping things from me.
I think of his words weeks ago in the cab. Fendoirs can be an unruly bunch. When they are given too much liberty, they begin to get ideas about what the world owes them.
Could that be the answer? Is he looking for gravoirs as part of some plot to control the fendoirs? Or is it to use gravoir power to get himself crowned King of Vaureille? He always has been ambitious...
I close my eyes. Inhale. Exhale. Find my center. Settle into the silence.
But, as always, nothing is silent. My blood rushes too loud. Bells ring in my ears. As does Arlette’s giggle. Emeric’s song. Gunshots. Vile creature. Spittle smacking into my cheekbone. All of it roars too loud for me to settle. Too loud for me to be calm the way Cyril always taught me to be.
“I have to save Arlette,” Emeric says softly. “I know she’s out there somewhere. Tonight, we’ll get you someplace safe. Then, once I find her, we can leave for good and go where you can both be free.”
I shake my head. “There’s nowhere like that, Emeric. I’m a gravoir, hated by everyone in the world. There is no place we could go where that won’t be true. I’d be trading my crypt for something prettier, maybe, but it’d still be just as much of a prison.”
He is quiet for a long time. When he finally speaks again, his tone is somber. “So, what? We give up? Let them capture you?” His voice grows stronger. “Right now, finding a new place to hide is your only option.” He strokes a thumb against my cheek, soft and tender. “Please let me try.”
My eyes fly open, and I lurch away from him, flinging an arm up to shield my face from view.
My mask. It’s still gone.
“Isda—” The bed creaks, and the mattress shifts as Emeric leans toward me.
“Don’t!” I cry, keeping my hands in front of my face so he cannot see what my mask usually keeps hidden.
Emeric’s palm settles on my shoulder. His touch is warm. Calming. Right.
“You may have to hide from everyone else,” he says softly, “but you don’t have to hide from me.”
He wraps his fi
ngers around mine and pulls them slowly, ever so slowly, away from my face.
I shrink back, letting my damp, blood-soaked hair droop to cover my features.
Moving to kneel next to the bed in front of me, he reaches out to touch my chin.
I don’t want to face him without my mask, but his hand is so sure in mine, his fingertips on my chin so light, so careful. I let him turn my head.
When I meet his gaze, all of the fright and panic fades. Because his eyes are open and warm and dark and endless. They don’t shrink away from me. They don’t even flinch. They trail over every feature of my face as though drinking me in. As though they want more.
He leans in. His forehead brushes against mine as the hand that was on my chin slides up to cup my cheek.
I tremble, my body suddenly acutely aware of every part of him that’s touching me. His hips digging into my knees as he leans over them, his other hand entwined with mine, his callused palm against my face.
His thumb grazes along my mouth.
I breathe him in. Caramel and the faint scent of marble from the dust on his jacket.
Every bit of me wants to sink into the lips that are centimeters from my own. To finally kiss him the way I’ve craved for so long. To knot my fingers in that thick, dark hair and lose myself in his touch the way I’ve already lost myself in his song.
But.
“We can’t do this,” I say, putting my hand to his chest and pushing him back. My body aches with the movement, begging me to wrap my fist in the lapel under my palm and yank him close instead.
His breathing is ragged. “Why not?”
“Because.” The words hurt as they come out, as though I’m digging them from my soul with a dull spoon. “It can’t work between us. If we tried, it would be the death of your singing career, the death of your freedom.” I take a deep breath. “Life with me is a life of hiding in the dark. I won’t take you away from that stage or that spotlight. I won’t be the reason you don’t get to live your dreams. You were right about everything—it’s too dangerous for me to be a part of the same world as you.”
“That’s not what I meant—”
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