“Do you hurt her? What do you do?”
“Enough.” Stiffly, Father said, “I’ve said my sorries.”
“To Mother or Clair, or only to God when you’re by yourself?”
“We will act as if this conversation never occurred because it is utterly pointless.”
“For all your talk of demons and behaving . . .” Jehanne sneered. “It’s no wonder demons would live here after how you’ve acted, and yet I’m the one who’s supposed to be quiet and kind.”
His lips thinned. “Don’t.”
“You don’t think your actions are a threat, that you could make evil return? Do you think force makes you strong, when it’s just that that’s made you weak in my eyes?”
Father reached to touch Jehanne, maybe on the cheek, maybe on the shoulder. Any other time, she’d accept, but her world was scarlet with a white, blinding core. Before her mind could meet her body, she stormed forth and shoved him so hard he stumbled back, knocking against the bed.
15
Rosalie
Jolie growled under her breath, but when Rosalie gave her a pointed look, the old girl, bless her soul, had the politeness to bow her head.
The two officers were aged, perhaps closer to Anatole’s age than Rosalie’s. They each removed their hats, the tops of their heads an unimpressive silver. With a brief glance, the only discernible difference between them was that one was taller. Anatole shook the men’s hands.
The taller one faced her. “Rosalie, I am—”
Rattled, Rosalie said brusquely, “Madame Deibler, and I couldn’t care less who you are. Why are you here?”
The shorter one said, an edge in his voice, “Why was there a severed tongue in the woods by here?”
Anatole started, “I—”
The taller one added, “Our companions didn’t find it when we first looked through the woods after your night call.”
Anatole’s visage knitted. “I haven’t the slightest, gentlemen.”
Rosalie raked her hands through her hair. “How should we know? This is ridiculous.”
Anatole only killed those who deserved to die, and yet the townspeople who shunned him whispered around and followed him around too—she shouldn’t hate people she’d never met, but really, they made it difficult.
“May we search the house?” the taller one asked.
Anatole said, “If you must.” He and Rosalie followed because it was better than waiting. The stains on the porch were gone. The four of them went into the barn with the Widow, the blade clean and sleepy. The search was uneventful, all except for the guillotine, and Anatole’s desk when the shorter officer jiggled the handle of the top drawer.
He said, “It’s locked.”
Anatole replied, “There’s nothing inside.”
“Are you certain of that?”
Rosalie choked. “Please, I can’t. My . . .” The taller officer looked to her, and without him saying anything, she answered, “No.”
Anatole started, “Monsieurs, please.”
The shorter one said, voice surprisingly softer, “Get the key for this, please.”
Swallowing and forcing her face into cold resignation, Rosalie replied, “Oh, indeed, monsieur, since you ordered it so kindly.” Anatole offered her the ghostliest of smiles, and she didn’t know if it was pride, or consolation as she slipped her hand under the mattress and retrieved a small key.
With a blank visage, she handed it to the shorter officer, and she thought for a second she could keep her peace, but when he bent down, opened the drawer, and held what was in the desk, she averted her gaze and worked to control her breathing. Anatole was by her side, and she leaned into his shoulder while neither of the officers inspected them.
Apparently satisfied, the officers returned the mementos to their rightful place and locked the drawer. The shorter officer returned the key to her with an ashen look, and Rosalie shook and placed it back under the mattress, a little haphazardly.
After a stifling minute of silence, the taller officer motioned for everyone to leave the room.
Because of that distraction, neither of the officers bothered to look in the bedroom chest where she and Anatole kept the guns, nor did they find anything of interest in the other rooms.
Back in the living room, the squat officer said, “Isn’t it odd that all the disappearances occur in this part of town, and what sort of man would be so dead to killing that he’d go after children? Why, one who kills for a living.”
Anatole replied, focusing on nothing in particular, “Monsieur, with all due respect, who orders the deaths?”
Pointedly, Rosalie added, “What of the judges and lawyers you dine with, the ones who condemn and sentence the men?”
“I would never hurt a child,” her husband offered, “and there is no indication the missing children have been killed.”
The shorter officer stroked his pathetic beard. “And why not?”
“Why not hurt children?” Rosalie said. “Are you mad?”
He replied, “I’ve always wondered if a man like you broke, who’d execute the executioner?”
Grimly, the taller officer said, “M. Deibler, I assure you. I don’t want to do this.”
Anatole broke a little with that. “I—I didn’t do anything to a child. I wouldn’t.”
The taller officer said, “I don’t disbelieve either of you, but we need to explore all our options.”
Rosalie crossed her arms. “I can’t believe you lot.” This sort of thing shouldn’t reach the home, shouldn’t reach them or Marcy or André.
Her husband, her dear husband, conceded, “I understand, and it’s terrible, what’s happened. But I can’t abandon my home for long. Surely you can understand that.” Anatole was Anatole, open to appease and compromise, calm and not eager to raise his voice, and while Rosalie was the same, she found the strength to steel herself when she had to defend him.
“Isn’t this what you people have always wanted?” Rosalie spat. The threat eclipsed her discomfort. These men wouldn’t, couldn’t steal him from her. Anatole endured not only his work, but nearly four centuries of unappreciated family service, yet he maintained kindness.
“Have courage,” he’d say to the condemned, a friend to all manner of traitors, rapists, and murderers.
He was too good for this town, for this world, and this was his thanks.
The taller officer, with the audacity to look affronted, said, “You don’t think I respect those who help us with justice?”
Rosalie’s fists stung where nails pierced flesh. “Monsieur, we have a daughter and nephew who need him here. My husband is a good man. He helps us survive with what our country and the law ask of him.”
“Madame, it’s only for questions. Your closest neighbors have said there have been suspicious sounds coming from here.”
Rosalie scoffed. “Rumors! Unless they mean the sounds. My husband called you lot about them, need I remind you. It seems contrary to good sense, doesn’t it, for a killer to call the police?” The fire stroked, licked, flashed with Rosalie hard and cold between the police and Anatole, as if, even with her stinging eyes and trembling ankles, she could be that wall.
The taller officer said, “Is there another man here?”
Anatole said, “No, it’s only been us.”
“And your nephew, the one who helps you?”
“He’s likely with a friend,” Anatole said.
“But you don’t know?”
The shorter one whispered to his partner, “What about her?”
“The woman looks too frail to leave the house.”
“Perhaps if you continue to speak directly to me, you’d see how frail I am.” She added with a bow of her head, “Monsieurs.”
The taller officer’s eyes were haunted, and despite Rosalie’s indignation, his reluctance made it worse. It’d be easier to fight if she could hate him more, hate him into abstraction. To Anatole, he said, “If you come quietly, we can be finished with this soon.” That would’
ve been a good time to refuse to be silent or gentle, but Anatole wouldn’t do that. Always having to bend, appease, sacrifice for the people’s sake. Always the honest public servant.
How could they do this to him?
Anatole squeezed her shoulder, but she barely felt it. “I love you. I’ll be back.”
In an instant, she was cold. “Just like that?” If only those who loathed Anatole knew how little he fought; if anything, Rosalie needed him to fight more, more bones, more teeth.
“I’ve no choice,” he said, quiet. “It’ll only hurt us more to put up a fight.”
Ignoring the two other men in the room, and ignoring all the decorum she had learned from Maman and school, Rosalie said, “But I—we need you here, Marcy and André.” She exhaled. “If you aren’t here when they return, they won’t survive without you. Is that not enough for you to fight more? Are your daughter and nephew not important enough?”
“They’ll have you, and I’ve more faith in you than God, my heart.” His thumb brushed her cheek.
Rosalie scoffed. “Don’t go to Hell on my account.”
“And I’ll return, I swear it.”
“There you go again with your promises.” Unable to restrain herself, Rosalie flung her arms around him, nuzzling her cheek into his firm shoulder. “God, I love you too.” It hurt her throat. Defeat trickled through, a leak widening into a flood. She rubbed apologies into his shirt, but her nails couldn’t reach deep enough, couldn’t find warmth.
When they separated, Anatole turned to the shorter officer, set a hand on his shoulder, and leaning close, whispered, “Hugo, I’m sure you’ll find Addie.”
The man’s jowls quivered, and the taller one took Anatole by the arm, and her husband showed no resistance. The officer called Hugo, who had a talcy smell, tried to comfort Rosalie with a touch on the arm.
She lost her grip on the moment like it was water, and only when the door closed and no words came, she realized herself and shuddered.
No one here, gone, all gone.
Not a soul besides her and the dog.
She collapsed on the living room rug, which burned her palm when it hit the coarse threads. Bent like a splintered willow stuck in post-storm fog, her sobs broached screams, and the house echoed back to her.
Heaving, Rosalie whispered, “God help him. God help us. God help me.” Jolie padded over to her with a low whine, offering a single paw.
With nothing left to do but mourn, she buried herself in Jolie’s coat.
16
Jehanne
The room froze, the bookshelves gaping down like mouths with crooked, discolored teeth.
The air fractured, and Jehanne’s mind stuttered like a broken gramophone. Father made no move to get up, hands splayed by his sides, legs strewn as he sat and stared with wide eyes. Fear, that was what that was.
Her fury scared him.
When he broke his gaze and pinched the bridge of his nose, Jehanne ran, swinging the study door behind her. Her world was a damp flurry of light as she fled down the stairs, one level of existence away from Father. Going, going until she collapsed by a hall window, gray light, the burgundy curtain spilling under her.
Jehanne tried to conjure the portrait of her poor mother, her mother grasping the satin crushed in her fist, grasping her sanity as her belly cramped and blood ran down her legs. But nothing came, it was only Jehanne there alone, utterly alone, while she swallowed her sick.
She contemplated running away before she rotted away like the walls, before she became lost in wondering what leered in each corner. The logistics didn’t matter in this maddening daydream, only the thought of new, fresh wind in her hair. A bustling green country with no war and no demons, with no blood or ashes in its rivers.
Jehanne released sob after sob. She’d ordered around Clair like Father had, asserted her power when she could. That meant she was his shade, a monster like him.
God, maybe literally, but that was ridiculous, wasn’t it?
It’d explain her feeling of new skin. Jehanne could be afflicted with a witch’s curse; she could be a loup-garou, a wolf-person. Oh, Father would hate that she was taking stock in fanciful little myths. A wolf-person—that’d explain the scars, wouldn’t it? It’d explain why she was found naked on the riverbank with no memory of what had happened before. Maybe the special teas didn’t just heal Jehanne, they also suppressed whatever needed to be locked away.
A bitterness flooded her mouth. Why couldn’t Father just tell her what had happened that made her sick? If Jehanne knew more about what was wrong, if Father could move past secrets, she could be more knowledgeable about controlling herself before she hurt someone.
But she could no longer face him.
Maybe she should be thrown behind one of the many locked doors. Doors with dust and darkness behind them. Dust, books, doves? Which door had doves behind it? Part of Jehanne wondered, a little shamefully, whether the doves existed at all, or if they were little fancies in Father’s head to calm his stormier moods.
What good that did.
Worst of all, if they did exist, she wondered if this hollow madness in her would make her tear their wings off to spite him.
No, she couldn’t let the burgeoning resentment win, couldn’t be like Father, couldn’t give in to the molten roil in her belly. She had a choice.
Vision blurring, Jehanne shuffled to the kitchen, hips and legs knocking against hallway corners. The kitchen smelled of ammonia and the dim lights flickered. A glass tray of tarts rested on the counter. Raspberry or strawberry, she couldn’t tell.
She wrapped one in a cloth napkin, and the filling smeared a bit. What a sad little treat.
When she returned to her room, climbing the stairs and treading forth with mounting dread, she was hopeful to return to sleep, but her bed was undressed. Jehanne set the tart on the nightstand. She opened the drawer and reached for a pad and pen. She couldn’t write much, so she strung together wobbly letters as best she could manage.
mlle,
sorry I rude to you few many times. heal.
jehanne
When she read over it, she huffed. How asinine it was to ask Clair to heal when she still served Father.
Her throat burned, and she stumbled to the washroom and retched. How funny it was, the relief, that brief weightlessness before her heart hardened to iron. When she finished, she stared dully into the commode and laid her cheek on the porcelain. Emptiness filled her; she shuddered. She was vile, vile and lonely.
From there on the bumpy tiles, she heard faint shuffling in her room, the rustle of sheets. When she gained the courage to face another person, Jehanne ambled into her room. The bed was fully made with sheets that looked no different than the old ones. That was a godsend, but her heart lurched when she saw Clair adjusting a pillowcase.
Clair paused and clasped her hands when she noticed Jehanne. On the nightstand, the note and treat were unbothered.
“Are you ill?” Mlle Clair asked. Neither of them must’ve looked well then, since Clair’s cheeks were blotched, her countenance a shade whiter, the darkness under her brow the sort from a sleepless night.
“I think so.” It wasn’t a complete lie. “Please, if you can, if you want, I need tea to sleep, and I don’t know how to make it myself.”
“It’s not night. It’s not even noon.”
Jehanne sniffed and crawled into bed. “I know.”
“Did you speak to your father?”
Jehanne couldn’t trust herself to speak without crying, so she nodded.
Clair took great interest in her own simple black shoes. “I don’t know what you learned, but I’m sorry.”
“So am I.” Her eyes leaked, and she made no effort to wipe at them.
“I’ll go make you tea.”
Jehanne curled into a ball. “Thanks. Take your tart.”
Clair’s forehead crinkled. As she accepted the gift and read the paper, she sucked in her bottom lip, and Jehanne couldn’t tell if it was because th
e words were powerful or indecipherable.
Swallowing, Clair covered her mouth as if to hold in a sob before rolling the napkin up and setting the tart in her apron pocket. She took great care to place the uncreased note there as well. Jehanne wondered how long it had been since anyone had gifted Clair anything without expecting a service in return.
“You really shouldn’t have done this. Why would you do this for me, of all people?”
Jehanne whispered, “Why wouldn’t I?”
Instead of giving warmth, the new understanding between them ached like a broken arm set back into place.
Sore and cold, Jehanne whispered, “God, God forgive me.”
“Forgive you for what?”
“Father abused my maman, hurt her because he thought it meant no other man would want her.” Her arms spasmed from tremendous weight. Was Father possessed by a demon? “He’s my father, and I shouldn’t hate him, but I do. What must God think of me?” Was Jehanne possessed? Was that why her mind was so broken? Or could she be one day?
Clair, with her frazzled hair and smelling of sweat and chamomile, flexed her hands and sat on the bed so that her arm was the closest thing to Jehanne. Given that Clair was a wisp of a person, the mattress didn’t so much groan as grunt. “That’s not your fault.” With her fingers and spine curled, the woman struggled to be as taut and closed as before. “Our fathers aren’t our fault, unless we choose them before we’re born.”
Jehanne folded deeper into herself. “I never thought he’d be capable of that. Was it the war trauma that made him do these things? No, this must’ve been before. The war hasn’t gone on that long.”
“For your sake, you should try to make it work. He’s sacrificed so much for you. There are some things not worth compromising for that little piece of joy in this awful world.” What a terrible burden for Mlle Clair to not see herself and her abuse worth ruining a relationship for, as if her pain cost others more than it cost herself.
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