“This feels so different from standing and looking at the same view,” Liam said.
A few puffs of white clouds edged by, making me feel as if the world beneath us moved, instead of the other way around.
We probably looked ridiculous, but I didn’t care.
For one brief moment, I did not feel the anger always bubbling at the surface, nor the mindless passion that tried to overwhelm me when I thought of Liam, but instead it was as though I floated here in a sea of metal and blue, caught between earth and sky, lost without touch or feeling, filling the whole world while still being insignificant.
How could we be so small, just two in this planet full of billions, and yet feel so big, as if what we did really made a difference, as if we mattered?
But this building showed that one person could change if not the world, perhaps a small piece of it.
The sun broke over the rooftops of Paris, and I shielded my eyes against the sharp light as it threw the crisscrossed shadows onto the ground. But instead of warming me, the light tore away the comfort of this place and reminded me I couldn’t sit here all day, relishing the tower or any of the other art bundled up in so many museums in this city, no matter how much I wanted to. Right now, I was ahead of Dune, but that could change at any moment.
I sighed. “We’d better go.” I pushed to my feet, and Liam did the same.
“This way,” Liam said.
We crossed the bridge in front of the Eiffel Tower to the other side of the Seine, the smell of the river mixed with the stone and cement. The blackish-green water churned inside the confines of the stone banks, placid at first glance, but the ripples and streams betrayed the thousands of gallons of power running through the city. Statues lined the walk, and not for the first time I envied the people who lived in this place, surrounded by so much beauty and art, and yet they seemed to take no notice of it. Maybe there was just too much to appreciate. I let my hand brush along the cement handrail, held up by tiny columns. The top was as rough as sandpaper where the limestone had melted away under years of weather, leaving only the tiny rocks and pebbles behind.
We crossed the street between the row of buildings and river to a café painted sky blue. Tiny tables lined the sidewalk and were covered by a black awning. To the right of the door was a hand-painted menu. The café bustled with customers rushing in and out, fresh loaves wrapped in paper bags or rolls in tiny, white boxes under their arms. We stepped inside and I was inundated with the warm smell of freshly baked bread. Braided loaves were displayed in huge baskets behind the cashier, and a glass counter protected the tiny chocolate-and fruit-covered pastries.
“I’m going to have dessert for breakfast,” I said with what was probably a dopey grin once the line moved up to where I had a clear view of the delicacies in the window. I selected a miniature torte with glazed raspberries in a perfect circle on top of cream filling, while Liam chose a croissant, and we stepped outside. This café looked like so many we had already passed that morning, but with one exception: the stunning view of the Eiffel Tower across the river.
We sat at one of the outdoor metal tables, and a couple next to us murmured to each other in French. The woman laughed and leaned across the table to kiss the lips of her partner. Her gaze was full of only him and left nothing for the world around them. I wondered what he said, and if she loved him, and what that would be like. What would it be like to love without worrying when the other person would get hurt, or if they would become bait for Dune or some other Aolian who could and would do terrible things?
I nibbled at my torte, the creamy sugar coating my tongue as I drank in the atmosphere that was Paris. How many brilliant artists, philosophers, and writers had roamed these streets for inspiration? How many people have lived and loved and died in this place? So many, unlike Van Gogh, had no one to remember them. Passing years had turned their bones to dust. What was it all for? Did any of it matter in the end? Did it matter that Van Gogh was remembered by the whole world when, from what I could see, he was never truly happy?
What would have made him happy? I wished he could have been happy.
“Earth to Aya,” Liam said.
I jumped at his words, and when I looked back at him, a half-smile played on his lips and the soft look in his eyes made the red spread warm across my skin.
“Sorry, I was just thinking about Van Gogh.” I finished the last few bites of my torte so I wouldn’t have to look at him. Van Gogh was never happy. Would I share his fate? Something nudged at me. With the presence of the color always tearing at my emotions, would it ever be possible?
“Well, let’s see what he had to say.” Liam pushed our dishes aside.
I shook my head to fling away the gloomy thoughts of the miserable life Van Gogh had chosen to end. I tried to smile but felt no happiness. “I should be wearing white gloves or something to protect the paper.” I wiped my hands on my jeans and shrugged. “But this will have to do.” I drew the still-rolled paper out of my bag.
Liam scooted his chair next to mine, so we could both see the words at the same time. He put his arm around the back of my chair as I leaned forward to get a better look.
“Okay, Mr. Linguist, what does it say?” I tried not to be distracted by how his fingers brushed my back, gently curling the ends of my hair around his fingers. It was nice, the touching without touching, even though I wanted more. It was such a relief for him to know, for him to understand.
He mouthed the words several times, before saying them out loud. “It says, ‘The greatest happiness of life is the conviction that we are loved— loved for ourselves, or rather, loved in spite of ourselves.’ But this line here at the bottom, separate from the other, says, ‘It is nothing to die. It is frightful not to live.’”
I grabbed my notebook and settled back with his arm around my shoulders. “Say it again?”
Liam read the words again, and I penciled them onto a blank page.
“Loved in spite of ourselves,” I murmured. “It’s a beautiful idea. Is that all it says?”
“That’s it,” Liam said.
“Well, what does it mean?”
“It means that true happiness is when someone loves us despite knowing our faults,” Liam said. He was so close; the heat of his cheek brushed my shoulder. He smelled of coffee and citrus, and the slightly bitter smell of raw metal.
“I understood that. Where are we supposed to go next? This seems like even less of a clue than last time, and it took me three weeks to figure that one out.”
“And what is with the drawing of the gargoyle?”
“Many Gothic cathedrals have gargoyles.” I traced the pen-and-ink drawing with my finger, admiring its quick, fluid strokes that still had the hard, solid edge that was so indicative of Vincent’s work.
“Yeah, but the most famous one is here in Paris,” he said.
“The Notre Dame? I thought that the first time I saw the drawing.” I turned toward him, but he was so close I almost couldn’t breathe.
“Yes.”
“You are way too distracting,” I said with fake annoyance. “How am I supposed to concentrate with you so close to me?”
“Would you prefer me to sit across the table, or perhaps over there?” He pointed to a table at a café five doors down.
“No, I like you here.” I snuggled into the crook of his arm. “I was just saying that you’re distracting, not that I wanted you to leave.”
“You’re not exactly easy to ignore, either.”
“I’m glad I’m not the only one.” Glancing up, I found his lips only inches from mine. At that moment I wanted to kiss him, even more than I wanted to find Prism.
His breathing was ragged as he turned away from me, back to the drawing.
“The Notre Dame . . .”
I let out the deep breath I was holding. “It makes sense. Van Gogh would’ve wanted a structure that would survive. I wonder . . . the message I found in New York was in red, but in the Dirus he placed all three primary colors. I wonde
r if he left clues in all the other colors as well, and if they all lead to the same place.” I closed my eyes briefly. “I’m just thinking out loud.” I pulled out my map of Paris. “Do we walk or take the train?”
“That all depends.”
“On?”
“How you think our friend might be looking for us.”
“Dune? I was trying not to think about her. Can’t we just get another torte and forget she exists?”
He laughed. “Well, do you think she can track us without using cell phones?”
That horrible, nauseating feeling clenched in the pit of my stomach when I thought of her. “If I am being honest? She’s always found me, no matter where I was. Yes, I always had my phone, but that doesn’t mean that was what she was using to find me.”
“You think she has other ways?”
I nodded slowly, not wanting to admit it. “I’m new to this world. Who knows what crazy powers other Talents might have? Like with those spiders.” I shuddered at the thought of all those legs creeping across my skin and the silky web on my face. Liam drew me closer, and I felt safer with him, even though he didn’t have a Talent. He was real in a world where I couldn’t distinguish reality from fantasy.
“That was the freakiest thing I’ve ever seen,” Liam said. “I couldn’t even see that it was you under all the spiders.”
“I never want to see another spider again. I don’t know if there is an Aolian who can track us, but . . . my Dad was a Speaker. He could convince anyone of anything. If there is an Aolian like him in law enforcement or the government, Dune could have access to any cameras or surveillance out there.”
“So the best option is to keep moving? Since we don’t know what she can do?”
I glanced down at my map. “It’s roughly four miles to the Notre Dame. If . . . if it were just you and me—if we were here together and I wasn’t an Aolian—I’d walk along the river, here, in the present, instead of worrying about when Dune was going to find us.”
I wanted to say so many other things, like how I wanted to be with him; it was easy. How when we were together, I was no longer afraid, and I would always want more. But I couldn’t say it, because it didn’t matter. I’d never be the girl I used to be. Every moment he was with me, his life was in danger. I wanted him, but he deserved to be with a girl who could actually be with him, not kept at arm’s length by someone eternally governed by things outside her control.
He stood up and slipped his backpack over one shoulder and mine over the other. “Metro it is then.”
“Liam?”
He turned back to me, his expression expectant.
“I want you to go back.” I tried to make my voice stronger than I felt.
“Back where?” He cocked one eyebrow in surprise.
“Back to New York.” The thought of him leaving turned my skin cold, and a shiver tingled down my back.
He didn’t think, but instead locked eyes with mine. “That’s not going to happen.” His tone was final, but not harsh.
“Please, I don’t want you to get hurt. This is my world, and my fight. I . . . would never forgive myself if something happened to you.” My eyes stung, and I was embarrassed when a tear slid down my cheek that I swiped away. “It was selfish of me to let you come at all, but I wanted to be with you. But now you’ve seen what they can do, what I can do. I’d understand . . . now you know. I don’t want you to feel obligated to stay with me.”
He rushed forward and engulfed me in his arms. A tiny sob escaped my lips.
“Aya, I chose to come, and I would never leave you, no matter the danger.”
“But—”
“I have made my choice, and my choice is you. Nothing else matters.” His voice was steady, so calm, and I knew I couldn’t change his mind, especially since most of me didn’t want him to.
We stood in silence for a few moments. His heart pounded against my cheek as he rested his chin on my hair.
“But later, when we’re alone, I need to tell you something.” He drew in a deep breath, and his heart beat a little faster. “I’ve wanted to tell you for so long, I just didn’t know how.”
“Okay.”
And we set off to the metro stop.
The energy around the Notre Dame buzzed in a flurry of worshippers, tourists, and school groups. Crowds waited in line to enter the large Gothic archway of the ancient cathedral that loomed, a solitary gem with the river on one side and buildings across a boulevard on the other.
The façade grew high into the air, glistening grayish white against the pale blue of the sky, with three distinct layers of architecture and the bell towers on top, like they were hands reaching toward heaven. Limestone statues covered the surface, greeting the visitors with busts and full-bodied carvings of saints. The rose window in the center bloomed out from the stone, but its full effect would not be realized until we saw it illuminated from behind.
“In this world where everything is so fast, it is crazy to think that something would take hundreds of years to finish building.” Liam ran his fingers through his hair. His words were light, but his gazed kept darting to the faces around us, like he was looking for someone.
We purchased tickets to climb to the top and got in the back of the line. The pace crawled torturously along, and I hated being out in the open so long. We saw nothing of Dune or her—what were they? Friends? Minions? Soldiers? Paid subordinates? I preferred the word minions.
Finally it was our turn. A sign at the entrance warned four hundred steps to the top. The air inside was cool and smelled faintly of decay. We climbed the winding staircase where millions had gone before us, and the ancient stone dipped in the center of each step from so much wear. I trailed my fingertips along the limestone brick walls, up higher and higher, just placing one foot in front of the other in mind-numbing circles.
“I didn’t realize I needed to do marathon training to climb up here,” I said between gasps.
“That’s how they get you to buy the overpriced knick-knacks at the gift shop,” Liam said, taking a breath on his inhaler. “By the time you climb all the stairs, you are delusional and confused.”
We emerged onto the parapets of the cathedral, and I was dizzy from turning in so many winding circles.
I gasped at the stunning view of Paris as the sun glanced off the rooftops below, turning the city toy-like with its tiny cars and miniature people. We turned a corner, and the Eiffel Tower rose out of the maze of streets and buildings.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Liam stood beside me, his hand resting lightly around my waist.
“Breathtaking.” But I couldn’t fully enjoy the scene or Liam’s closeness with the clue from the Dirus practically screaming out of my backpack, and I snatched Van Gogh’s drawing out of my bag. “Here’s the gargoyle we are looking for.”
Gargoyles stood as sentinels along the walk emerging from one tower and crossing to the next, watching over the city with its brutal history. I wondered at all the things these stone beings had witnessed, and how they managed to survive when so many living humans had lived and died as they’d stood guard.
We paced back and forth, but none of the gargoyles matched the one in the picture.
“Maybe it’s on top of a different cathedral,” Liam said.
“I knew Van Gogh wouldn’t make it that simple, the jerk.” I took a deep breath. “Let’s do one more check, just in case.”
But none of the gargoyles looked like Van Gogh’s.
“Aya, over here,” Liam called from around a corner.
To my surprise, he didn’t gesture to one of the gargoyles hovering around the walkway, with tongues curling so close I could reach out and touch them.
My heart almost burst before it sank when I saw where Liam pointed.
30
They say—and I am very willing to believe it—that it is difficult to know oneself—but it isn’t easy to paint oneself either.
—Vincent van Gogh
There it was, the unmistakable replica from
the one in the drawing, but the gargoyle balanced precariously on a corner of a roof seventy-five feet up, on top of the bell tower. Van Gogh’s drawing was eye level with the thing, where here we could only see the underneath, feathers ruffled under vicious claws, but still matching the form.
A fence wrapped from the top of the chest-high stone wall to several feet above our heads, blocking the way entirely.
“How are we supposed to get to it?” I asked.
The walkways that surrounded the bell towers and would have gotten us closer were closed off, a metal cage preventing entrance.
“Do you see anything up there that could be what Van Gogh wanted us to find?” I asked, but I already knew the answer. It was too far away for us to see anything.
Liam and I squinted at the statue.
“I’m not sure. Can you sense any red?”
“Ha, for a second I forgot I could do anything like that.” I closed my eyes and reached forward, through the air that smelled of stone and metal and ancient wood to that single statue. It was so far away, and my Talent stretched further than I thought was possible. There it was, a pinpoint of red in a sea of nothing.
“It’s too far away,” I said.
A security guard sauntered past us, looking bored. No doubt little happened in this place so enclosed by wire nets stitched together with metal. He turned a corner as two tourists snapping pictures stopped; obviously trying to figure out what was so interesting to us before disappearing into the tiny, black door of the bell tower.
But the walkway wasn’t always so closed-off and protected as it was now. For a split second I thought of Quasimodo from The Hunchback of Notre Dame, one of those heart-wrenching books we’d read for school. I imagined him as he moved around this place that was his life and ultimately his death. The walkway surrounded the square towers, just as it had so many years ago when Victor Hugo wrote his epic novel.
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