“Come quickly, please,” he said. He spoke English with no trace of an accent. “I can only spare ten minutes. And you, Brigitte, should not be laughing during office hours.”
The clerk had a trick of moistening his teeth before he spoke. Like a toad, Sophie thought, eating flies. Sophie tried not to look too nervous. Her upper lip was sweating. She dodged behind Charles and licked the sweat off.
The floor was laid in marble, and rang with the clack of Sophie’s boots as she and Charles followed the clerk down the corridor. She tried to walk on tiptoe, but it slowed her down by half a corridor’s length. The clerk turned round and sighed, damply.
Sophie blushed. “I’m sorry! I’m not doing it on purpose! It’s just . . . my shoes are new.”
Charles turned round too, and walked back, and took her hand. “Don’t apologize. Your shoes are excellent; you sound like a tap dancer.”
The clerk turned away. Sophie pulled Charles down so she could whisper. “What was the secretary saying?”
“Amongst other things, that she thought you very beautiful. I told her a little about you. She said you have the face of a warrior.”
“Oh! Then why was she laughing?”
“She wasn’t laughing at you. Anyway, this place could do with a little laughing, couldn’t it?”
“Yes! It’s like a prison.” She gripped him tightly. “It’s like they’ve forgotten everything important, isn’t it? I mean, forgotten that things like cats and dancing exist.”
“I know. Exactly. Let’s rattle the corridors, shall we? Shall we stomp?”
“Yes!” Sophie said, and Brave, she told herself. You have the face of a warrior.
She straightened her spine and stomped down the hall. Charles attempted a gangly two-step. He looked like a horse trying to climb a ladder. It made Sophie feel immediately better, and she jumped high, and clacked her ankles together. Charles applauded with his free hand against his thigh. The clerk sighed, pointedly, and his bangs rippled upward, like seaweed. Sophie put out her tongue behind his back.
The clerk halted outside a room with a large brown desk in it.
“This is our interview room,” he said. “It’s newly refurbished, sir, so please don’t let your little girl touch anything.” The pictures on the walls were of men in clothes that looked too tight. One, from his face, appeared to be farting.
“It’s very . . . clean,” said Sophie. She pulled her hat more securely over her hair. It was as though, she thought, they had deliberately painted everything grim-colored. Even the chandelier looked depressed.
“If you’ll step inside, Mr. Smith,” said the clerk. “And the little girl—” The clerk gestured to some chairs lined up in the corridor. “The little girl will wait outside.”
“What?” said Sophie. “No! Charles, please? Please.”
“Thank you, sir.” Charles’s face was blank and careful. “But the ‘little girl’ will join us, if she wants to.”
“I do want to stay,” said Sophie. And then, because she had remembered she wasn’t supposed to talk, she glared at the clerk with her lips bitten shut.
“Please be seated, then.” The clerk was short, and his nose came up to Charles’s collarbone. When he sighed this time, it was hard enough to ruffle Charles’s tie. “This will not take long.”
Sophie glanced at Charles. “Why not?” she whispered. “That’s not good, is it?”
Charles gave a tiny shake of his head. His lips formed the words, “Be quiet, dear heart.” Sophie fell still again.
The clerk said, “I’m afraid I must tell you, before we begin, that this is not the sort of request we welcome.”
“Oh?” said Charles. Sophie kept her eyes on him. His face was as blank as a brick wall. “Surely dealing with these requests is your job?”
“It is one small part of my job, yes,” said the clerk, “but a request for a missing person, if you have not met or even seen the missing person in question, seems absurd.”
“Does it?” said Charles. “How fascinating.”
“You will excuse me if I say that such inquiries lead only to time-wasting and disappointment, nine times out of ten.”
“I see,” said Charles. “And the tenth?”
“Actually I should have said ‘nine hundred and ninety-nine times in a thousand.’ ”
“Quite. And the thousandth?”
“Sir, you will not be the exception. I cannot believe that such a woman exists.”
“There are thousands and thousands of things we have not believed that have turned out to be true,” said Charles. “One should not ignore the smallest glimmer of possibility.”
“Sir. This is impossible. You have asked us about a woman for whom you have no birthplace, no date of birth, and no profession.”
Sophie said, “She was a musician. You told him that, didn’t you, Charles?”
“You will forgive me, Miss Smith, but women are not musicians. We do, in fact, have records of a woman called Vivienne Vert, but—”
“You do?” Sophie sat up, as straight as an arrow. “Where is she?” The clerk ignored her. “What do they say?”
Charles repeated Sophie’s question. “What do these records say?”
“It cannot be the same woman, if what you say is true. She was not a musician. She seemed to be in minor trouble with the law.”
“What kind of trouble?” said Sophie.
“Oh, trespassing, loitering, associating with tramps and vagabonds. Anyway, she vanished thirteen years ago—suddenly no doctor’s notes, no bank records. Women of her type often disappear. We have no record of a child. And we certainly have no record of this woman on board the Queen Mary.”
“Presumably we may see the records of the Queen Mary?” said Charles.
It was a simple question, but the man’s face froze. The corner of his mouth twisted downward. “Have you any reason to, sir?”
“Of course we do!” cried Sophie. “I was—” She stopped.
“Yes?”
Sophie said, “Nothing.” She was Miss Smith, of course, who had nothing to do with Sophie Maxim. “Sorry,” she muttered. “No.”
The clerk went back to ignoring her. Charles said, “Curiosity is a good reason for most things, I think. Have you any reason not to show them?”
“Yes,” he said. Sophie watched his eyes flick to the filing cabinets and back again. “Or, not precisely; that is to say, I believe the records may have gone down with the ship. That sort of search is not my responsibility.” His voice grew shrill. “Paperwork, sir, is a complicated business! I’m afraid I can’t help you. No.”
“In that case, could you refer our request—”
“Coffee!” cried the man suddenly. He rang a bell. “May I offer you some coffee before you go?”
“Thank you,” said Charles, “but no. I would rather discuss—”
“I must insist!” His eyes were panicked. “French coffee is the best in the world.” The receptionist wheeled a silver trolley into the room. She winked at Sophie. “Just put it down and go, Brigitte,” said the clerk. “Now. What were we saying?”
Sophie took a mouthful and tried to swallow, but found her throat had stopped working. She spat it, very quietly, back into the cup. A little of it spattered onto her white top, and the clerk recoiled.
“Sorry,” she muttered. “Too hot.”
The clerk turned his back on her, as best he could while sitting down. It looked painful. “Now, what were we saying, sir?” he repeated.
“You were saying,” said Charles, “that you are unable to help us find the records of the Queen Mary. I am asking you to refer our request to someone who will feel differently.”
Pouring out the coffee had given the man time to gather his thoughts. He moistened his frog-lips. “I cannot do that, I am afraid. That is absolutely impossible. Protocol.”
Charles nodded. “I see,” he said. His politeness was deadly. “Sophie,” he said, “could you step outside for a moment?”
“Oh! Why? Beca
use I spat? Please, don’t—”
“No,” he said gently, “not because you spat. But please do go.”
Sophie saw his face; without a word, she stood up.
“I’ll be just outside the door,” she said, and shut it behind her.
Outside, Sophie dropped to the floor and gripped her ankles. The corridor felt colder than it had before. It felt darker. Sophie clenched her fists and stared at the ceiling. She whispered into her knees. “Please. Please. I need her.” Her heart was thumping painfully. “That’s all I want. Just her.”
There were voices coming from inside the room. Sophie shook herself, and then laid her ear against the keyhole. The metal was cold, and made her face squirm, but the keyhole was large and she could hear clearly.
The clerk was speaking. “ . . . ridiculous. A child’s imagination—a little girl—”
Then Charles’s voice. “You underestimate children. You underestimate girls. Sir, I need an appointment with the chief commissioner.”
“And you, sir, overestimate your own importance. I cannot let you see the chief commissioner.”
“I see.” There was a pause. Sophie held her breath. “The girl at reception is very charming, isn’t she? She was very helpful.”
“I fail to see what that has to do with anything.”
“She mentioned your innovative brand of accounting. Your grasp of numbers really is . . . unique. And your own bank account seems to appear more often than is traditional.”
There was a sputtering noise. Sophie guessed the clerk’s coffee had made a reappearance.
Charles’s voice said, “I have no wish to deal in dirty things, but I feel an appointment with the chief commissioner is in both my interest and yours.”
“This is blackmail.”
“Quite,” said Charles.
“Blackmail is a felony.”
Charles said, “Exactly.”
The clerk’s voice sounded as stiff and cold as a corpse. “Is the girl worth it? Worth committing a felony?”
“She is,” said Charles evenly. “She is bright enough to start a forest fire.”
“She seemed fairly ordinary,” said the clerk. Crouched outside, Sophie bristled.
“People usually do, until you know them,” said Charles. “Sophie is uniquely endowed with intelligence, grit, and, at this particular moment, coffee stains. In fact, speaking of which—” A chair scraped, and Sophie just had time to stumble backward two steps before the door opened.
“Come back in, Sophie. This gentleman has good news.”
The clerk was whiter than before. His nostrils were curling. “I can make an appointment,” he said, “with the chief commissioner. He may be able to help you.”
“Thank you,” said Charles. “How kind of you. Tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow is impossible. In fact, this week is very busy. I’m not sure if he—”
Charles stood. At his full height, he loomed over the clerk. His eyebrows were at their most alarming. “The day after tomorrow, then. Thank you. We’ll be here at midday. Come, Sophie.”
For the second time that day, Sophie pulled him down to whisper. “I haven’t finished my coffee. Do I have to?”
“No,” said Charles. “I think I’ll leave mine, too. It tastes like liquefied carpet.”
“Good,” said Sophie. “I thought it tasted like burnt hair, actually.” She spat, for a second time, into the cup.
11
THE NIGHTS WERE Quieter in Paris Than they were in London. Sophie couldn’t sleep. Once she was in bed, the moonlight shone in brightly enough to read by, but Sophie stared at her book without seeing the words.
She was frightened. She told herself there was no reason to be afraid, but her pulse quickened and quickened until she couldn’t breathe. Sophie tried to think of Charles, who was so kind and so amply belegged; and then she tried to think of her mother, who was perhaps only a few streets away. Neither helped. She could think only of being caught, and the horror there would be, and the happy twist there would be on Miss Eliot’s face.
Sophie heard the rest of the hotel settle into silence. She tossed in bed until her sheets and blankets were in a pile on the floor, but still she couldn’t sleep.
At last, Sophie climbed onto the bed frame and looked closer at the skylight. They had forgotten to buy oil, and when she tugged at the window fastening, nothing happened. The hinge was rusted and flaking.
An idea came to her. Sophie whispered, “Yes!”
She ran down the stairs two at a time. Outside the dining room she waited, listening at the door. It sounded empty; she darted in, seized the bottle of olive oil from the nearest table, and was out again before a mouse in the corner had time to do more than blink.
Back in her bedroom, Sophie poured the oil over a handful of newspaper and dabbed at the hinge. After a few minutes, nothing had happened to the hinge, but the paper had disintegrated stickily in her hands. She needed something tougher.
“Cloth. I need cloth,” Sophie whispered. Perhaps the pillowcase would do? But the hotel might have strong opinions about that. Then she had a flash of inspiration: She pulled off one of her wool stockings, put it on like a glove, and tipped half the bottle of oil over it.
With her tongue sticking out between her teeth, Sophie scrubbed at the hinge. Flakes of rust began to peel off, and beneath them was bright brass. Her heart, inexplicably, began to pound. Once she had gotten it smooth enough, Sophie clicked back the latch—it was stiff, but the oil on her fingers helped—and pushed, hard, at the window. Nothing happened. She pushed harder. It creaked angrily, and stayed shut.
Sophie swore. She sank down to the floor. There was no reason to be so upset, she told herself. It was just a window. It probably wasn’t designed to open. For no reason at all, she found herself fighting that prickling feeling behind the nose that comes before tears.
“Calm down. You’re being stupid,” she told herself. She pulled the stocking off her hand and stuffed it under the bed. “Think.” She got to her feet, and as she did so, knocked something off her bedside table. It was the station woman’s Chelsea bun. “Oh!” whispered Sophie.
The bun was stale around the edges, but still sweet and sticky in the center. She finished it in less than a minute.
Sophie licked her fingers (and instantly regretted it—the sugar and oil together tasted disgusting) and pulled herself to her feet. She spat on her hands and pushed at the corners of the window frame with all her weight. She heaved. Then she leapt back as the skylight opened suddenly with a shriek.
“Yes!” she said. Without waiting to think, Sophie scrambled up. She laid one knee against the ledge and one foot on the bedstead; and then she gave a one-footed jump, and both her hands scrabbled for a hold on the roof outside. Then, with a grunt of pain and a tumble, she was on the rooftop.
Sophie crouched on hands and knees, waiting for her breath to slow. She was bleeding quite vigorously from one knee, and while she waited to stop shaking, she licked it, and tied it up with her other stocking.
The roof stretched away, flat and gray and smooth, and decorated here and there with bird droppings. There was a chimney stack, and a weather vane, and black soot layering everything. She thought the rooftop must be one of the highest for miles. A single pigeon watched her. She made a face at it. It looked haughtily at her and turned its back.
Sophie crawled to the edge and looked out, across the city. Paris lay below her, colored in shades of night-blue. The city was a cross-hatching of roads and squares. In the moonlight she could see the tops of bright shop awnings—they were surprisingly dirty, seen from above—and the concentric circles of two smart gentlemen’s hats as they passed. Top hats look much less stupid, she thought, seen from a rooftop. And from up here, she thought, the streets looked like rivers. The river itself was quicksilver in the moonlight. The wind shifted, and the wet-hay smell of horses hit her.
She leaned farther out, and looked straight down. This was a mistake. She softly whispered a swear word, and
her stomach dropped down into her pelvis. She found herself retreating rather quickly, and digging her nails into the brickwork of the chimney stacks for reassurance. She had never been this high up, ever. The moon looked close enough to hit with a pebble.
Sophie peeled off her nightgown and stood up in her underpants and undershirt. She spun on the spot, and the Paris sky spun in time with her. The wind blew stronger, and a great bubble of happiness was rising up through her chest into her nose. Sophie threw out her arms and danced a war dance round the chimneys, whooping, very quietly, under her breath.
Sophie would have liked to stay out all night, but sometime after the clocks struck two she grew cold and her knee began to bleed again. She wiped off the worst of the blood with leaves and wrapped it more tightly with her stocking before she lowered herself through the skylight.
Just as her eyeline dropped down inside, she thought she saw something moving across the rooftop opposite. But night shadows, she knew, throw your eyes off-kilter, and it was just a large bird, or a swirl of night air.
12
SOPHIE DID NOT Sleep for Long. She was only halfway through a dream when there was a clattering crash and a thump. Sophie jerked awake. She was lying facedown, and her scream was muffled by her pillow; even so, a voice spoke very clearly in the darkness.
“Don’t wail like that. You’ll wake the whole hotel.”
Her dressing table was on the floor, next to a broken mug. Mud and soot were scattered across the carpet. And there was a boy standing at the foot of her bed.
The boy said, “Stop it. Arrête! Stop crying! Stop, Sophie!”
Sophie had not been crying, in her own opinion; she had been choking, which seemed reasonable under the circumstances. She pushed the hair out of her eyes.
“Who are you?” She grabbed a book and held it over her heart. It might help if he tried to stab her. “I’ll scream.”
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