“Please, Gérard?” said Sophie. “One song. For luck.”
“Ach, d’accord,” said Gérard. “Fine. Half a song.” He glanced around and licked a finger to check which way the wind was blowing. He cleared his throat.
The first notes from Gérard’s mouth were so clear and sweet that they sent tingles from Sophie’s scalp all the way down to her toes. The words were in French, but it certainly wasn’t a hymn. It made you want to bunch up your skirts and dance with the people you love. It made Sophie want to twirl. It made her want her mother so much, it hurt.
There was silence when Gérard stopped. Even the river was hushed.
Then Sophie and Anastasia burst into cheers. They clapped, and stamped against the cathedral roof. Safi made a shrill whooping in the back of her throat. It was the first noise Sophie had heard her make.
A throat was cleared. “If you hadn’t been making enough noise to wake the saints,” said Matteo, “you would have heard the clock strike midnight. We should get a move on if we want to be at the station at two.”
“Why two?” said Gérard. “Two is a bad hour for gariers. We should go later.”
“Two was when Sophie heard the music last.” Matteo gave a grunt. “I know it’s not much to go on,” he said, “but I thought it would be better than nothing.”
“It’s a possible,” said Sophie. She said it quietly, so the others wouldn’t hear. “You should never ignore a possible.”
23
THEY REACHED THE neighborhood of the station just before two o’clock in the morning. The rooftops had grown steadily lower as they had moved away from Notre Dame, and the rooftoppers were on edge and anxious.
Twice they had to cross a road between buildings. Matteo, Gérard, and Safi jumped from a cedar tree to a lamppost and swung effortlessly to the drainpipe on the far side. Anastasia and Sophie slid down one drainpipe, ran across the road, and grasped the next pipe. It had handholds at regular intervals, but there is nothing like climbing a drainpipe at night to remind you just how dark dark can be.
The five came to rest on the roof of a school. The four rooftoppers sat, alert, in a square, facing outward. Sophie sat a little to one side. She held her breath, and prayed. She whispered to herself, “Please. Please let me find her.” Her heart was thumping hard enough to break, but the words sounded too small and thin in the night air. Sophie clenched her fists, and sat on them.
An hour passed. Sophie grew restless. None of the rooftoppers had spoken. They had not moved a muscle.
At last she whispered, “Can I ask you all a question?”
Matteo grunted. Gérard said, “Of course you can. What?”
“What happens when rooftoppers grow up?”
“Oh!” said Matteo. “I thought you were going to ask about toilets.”
Gérard said, “Mostly they go down to the ground, but they still lead wildish sort of lives. It is easier to be a wildish sort of adult than a child.”
Anastasia sniffed, as haughty as Cleopatra. “Especially,” she said, “if you happen to be a boy.”
“And have there been others?” said Sophie. “In the past?”
Anastasia said, “No,” just as Matteo said, “Yes.”
“Yes,” he said again. “I think so. Look. I found this on my roof, when I first moved there.” Matteo took from his pocket a small knife. It was ornate and heavy. “See the handle?” It looked at least a hundred years old. On the handle, finger grooves were clearly visible. The hand that had made them was smaller than Sophie’s.
“Whose was it?” she asked.
“Some kid.” He shrugged. “A clever kid. I found it wrapped in rope. Rope is the best way to store a knife. Not everyone knows that.”
“Did you ever go looking for them?” Sophie thought she would have, if it had been her. “Why didn’t they come back for it?”
“Non. It was rusted a centimeter thick. It must have been years ago.”
“What do you think happened to them?”
He shrugged into the night. “Maybe they got caught. Maybe they went south. The sun is hotter in the south, and there’s less people.”
Sophie said, “How many do you think there are? How many rooftoppers?”
Gérard said, “I would guess more than ten. Less than a hundred.” The girls nodded. Safi held out ten fingers and thumbs, closed her fists, opened them again. Anastasia said, “I think that’s right. About twenty or thirty. I see shadows, sometimes. I think there’s probably someone living on the Louvre.”
They fell silent again. Two hours passed by. Sophie sat with her ears stretched wide.
No gariers appeared. There was no music. By five in the morning, Sophie was cold and tired enough to weep.
“We should go,” said Matteo. He knelt, and dusted off his backside. “The sun’s coming up.” He stood.
“Wait!” Gérard pulled him down. “One second! Listen!”
“Cello?” Sophie snapped alert, and she balled her fists. “Gariers? Or music? Can you hear her?”
“No, neither. But listen.”
The rooftop was very still. Far away and down the road, there was a sound that might have been a horse, or someone coughing, or nothing at all. Then a cloud appeared—a gray cloud that spun and zagged across the sky.
Anastasia breathed, “Birds.”
Sophie said, “Starlings.”
The air was suddenly thick with them. There were five hundred, a thousand. Their wings hummed, and they swooped down over the rooftoppers’ heads as fearlessly as if the children were a cluster of chimney pots.
“They’re like a ballet!” said Sophie.
“Maybe,” said Matteo. “I don’t know ballet. They’re like starlings.”
“What do you call a group of starlings?” whispered Sophie.
“You call them starlings, don’t you?” said Anastasia. “I don’t know what you mean?”
“Like, a flock of crows is called a murder. A group of owls is a parliament.”
“Oh. Je comprends. I don’t know, though.”
“A ballet of starlings,” said Sophie.
The children spoke quietly, barely moving their lips. The birds circled and dived. Each time they came near, Sophie gasped. The others did not, but Sophie couldn’t help it. It felt high-day-holiday miraculous. It felt like an omen. Her heart was hot and enormous.
“An army of starlings,” said Matteo.
“A tornado of starlings,” said Gérard.
“An avalanche of starlings,” said Sophie.
“A fountain of starlings,” said Anastasia. “A sun ray of starlings.”
The boys snorted, but Sophie said, “Yes! I like that. Or an orchestra of starlings.”
“A rooftop of starlings,” said Matteo.
24
THEY WENT HOME slowly. The roar of adrenaline had died away, and Sophie felt only exhausted. They went an unfamiliar route, single file, Matteo first and Safi last. Nobody wanted to talk.
Matteo and Sophie left the two sky-treaders and Gérard at the cathedral, and went north alone.
Once they were alone, Sophie said, “Matteo? Just out of interest? What do you do about toilets?”
“Drainpipes,” he said. He did not elaborate.
Sophie laughed and looked away. The surrounding buildings were becoming familiar. But—“This isn’t my street, is it?” Sophie hesitated. “Matteo? Where are we?”
He looked half-asleep. “Near the river.” He shook himself. “It’s a shortcut. Quite close to you now. Ten more minutes.”
“But what building are we on?”
“The police headquarters. You should know that. You said you’ve been here twice.”
“And we’re . . . on the roof?”
“Yes.” He looked confused. “We’re on the roof.”
“How long until sunrise?”
Matteo’s mouth moved as he counted the remaining stars. “Half an hour. Maybe forty minutes.”
“And the city archives are on the top floor of the police headquart
ers, aren’t they?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, they are. I know they are. Could we . . . have a look? Just in through the window?”
“If you want.”
She laid a hand on his wrist to make him concentrate. “How, though, do you think? How would you do it?”
“If you lie on your stomach and hang over the edge, I’ll hold your legs.”
“And you won’t . . . drop me?”
“You’ll be fine.” Which was not, Sophie thought, exactly an answer. “You just have to hope they don’t have curtains.”
If he said she would be fine, she believed him. Sophie lay down near the edge and shuffled forward on her stomach. “Have you got me? Hold tight, won’t you?”
Sophie shimmied forward until her ribs were hanging over the edge of the rooftop. She gripped the brickwork and bent herself slowly forward, but she couldn’t see in. The top window was some way below her. Sophie forced herself not to look down.
“A bit farther,” she said. The blood was going to her head. “A bit farther!” It was no good. The window was too far down.
“Pull me up again,” she said. “Quickly, please.”
Matteo gave a grunt and tugged. Sophie’s chin scraped against the brickwork as she rose. She sat up and rubbed it. Blood wetted her fingers. “Damn,” she said.
Matteo pulled a scrap of cloth from his pocket. “Spit on it,” he said. “There’ll be brick grit in the scab if you don’t.”
“Thank you,” said Sophie. She said it to Matteo’s bottom, because he was peering over the edge. There was a pause, and then his feet started drumming on the rooftop. If feet can sound excited, Matteo’s did.
He straightened up. “You’re right,” he said, “it’s too far to bend over. But what if I dangled you by your ankles?”
“What? No!”
“Why not? I’ll hold tight, I swear. I’m strong.”
“By my ankles, though?” she said.
“How else? You said you wanted to see, didn’t you?”
“I do.” Sophie’s skin was suddenly itchy with terror. It was like wearing a sandpaper suit. But it would be too terrible to give up now. “All right,” she said. “But make sure your hands don’t get sweaty. I don’t want to die upside down, thank you very much.”
She scooted forward again, and Matteo took hold of her feet. His grip on her ankles was cutting off the blood supply. “I’m going to lower you,” he said.
He pushed her forward until only her knees could still feel the roof; then only her toes were touching the parapet. She could feel the muscles in his arms shaking, and she grasped the bricks for support. “Don’t look down,” she whispered. Her hair hung down over Paris. She shook it out of her eyes and peered in the window.
The room stretched the length of the building. It was lined with filing cabinets. There must have been hundreds, for there wasn’t a single gap. In the center of the room there was a large table. She blew on the window, hah, upside down, and wiped the window clean with her fingertips. There were no pictures in the room, and no lights. Sophie’s vision started to swim with red spots.
“I’m going to have to pull you up,” called Matteo’s voice. “Unless you want to take the fast way down.”
When all the blood in Sophie’s body had returned to its proper place, the two went on, quicker now, for fear of the rising sun.
“The filing cabinets had locks on them,” she said. “Do you think I could hammer them open?”
“Non,” said Matteo. “The whole of Paris would hear you.”
“Damn. How else, though?” she said. “Could I crowbar them?”
“But you pick the lock, of course.”
“How? Ouch!”
Sophie’s nose met Matteo’s foot. They were crawling over the peaked roof of a butcher’s shop, and Matteo had stopped to stare at her.
“You’ve never picked a lock?” He sounded genuinely incredulous. “I thought it was . . . I don’t know, like breathing. I thought everybody could.”
“Why would I know how to pick a lock?”
“Really? You really don’t know? I can do it with my teeth.”
“For goodness’ sake, no, I don’t!” They were in sight of Hotel Bost now.
Matteo stared at her. She felt herself turning red, and brushed her hair over her face to hide it. At last he said, “I guess I’ll teach you, then. It’s easy. And it’s useful. More useful than the cello.”
“When? Now?”
“Non. Your hands will be too stiff. You need to sleep first. Tomorrow.” He nodded toward the hotel. “Can you do the last part on your own? I need to get home. The sun’ll be up in ten minutes.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said. “And, Matteo—” She scrubbed at her eyes, to give herself time. It was difficult to think of the right words to thank him. But when she opened her eyes, he had already vanished.
When Sophie dropped back into her room, the first strong sunbeams were warming her bed. The palms of her hands were black. There was soot and leaf mold all across the soles of her feet and up over her ankles. The bed looked wonderfully inviting, but before she climbed into it, she fetched the English dictionary from the bookshelf on the landing. She wiped her hands clean on the backs of her knees and flicked through the pages.
A flock of starlings was called a murmuration.
25
SOPHIE OPENED HER eyes and saw Charles bending over her with a mug of something hot. Midafternoon sunlight streamed in through the skylight.
“You’re back,” he said.
Sophie took the mug. She tried to look innocent. “Back from where?” It was hot chocolate. It was rich and sticky, the way Charles made it at home. As a baby she had called it “cocoa-extragavant.” It took half an hour to make it that particular, chewy thickness. Sophie’s guilty feeling deepened.
“I don’t know,” said Charles. “You tell me.” He sat on the bed. “I came in at eleven last night, and you were gone.”
“Was I?”
“I don’t want to be a boring old fart, my darling, but I thought you’d been taken. I thought you had been . . . I don’t know.” He wasn’t smiling, and there was no light in his eyes. “Where were you?”
“I can’t tell you.” She wrapped her fingers round his wrist. “I’m so sorry. I would, honestly, but it involves people who aren’t me.”
“Sophie, are you telling me—”
“But I promise, nobody could have seen me. I swear. I didn’t go on the streets until it was dark. And I covered up my hair.”
“Why didn’t you at least tell me you were going out?”
“I couldn’t. I thought you might stop me.”
Charles took her mug from her, sipped, handed it back—all in silence. His eyebrows were raised so high, they were almost on top of his head.
Sophie asked, “Would you have stopped me?”
“I wouldn’t, no.”
“Oh!” Guilt caught at Sophie’s chest.
“At least, I hope I wouldn’t.” He took another draft from her mug. “I might have. I don’t know, actually. Love is unpredictable.”
Love is unpredictable, thought Sophie. She hesitated. Then, “Charles? Can I ask you something?” she said.
“Of course. Always.”
Sophie tried to find the right words. To give herself time she gulped the rest of the chocolate, and ran her finger round the inside of the cup.
“It’s only that I’ve been thinking, if she is alive—and I’m sure she is—why didn’t she come for me?”
“But she would have been told you were dead, Sophie. If we couldn’t get a list of survivors, neither could she. You wouldn’t have been in the hospitals. Nobody in France would have known about you.”
“I know. I do know that. But . . . they told me that she was dead, and I didn’t believe them. Why did she believe it? Why didn’t she keep looking?”
“My darling, because she is an adult.”
Sophie ducked behind her hair. Her face was
hot and tight and angry. “That’s not a reason.”
“It is, my love. Adults are taught not to believe anything unless it is boring or ugly.”
“That’s stupid of them,” she said.
“Sad, child, but not stupid. It is difficult to believe extraordinary things. It’s a talent you have, Sophie. Don’t lose it.”
26
THAT NIGHT, BEFORE sophie climbed out of the skylight, she left a note for Charles on her pillow. It said that she was going to the police headquarters—though not that she was going via the sky—and it promised she would be back before dawn. Then she pulled on trousers and Safi’s gray rag of a jersey. She put a candle stump in her pocket, flexed her fingers, and headed out into the dark.
Matteo was waiting for her on the roof of the police headquarters, hopping from foot to foot. Sophie had expected that; but under the chimney stack sat Anastasia, Safi, and Gérard, passing round a bag of raisins. Both Safi and Anastasia were dressed in black jerseys and gray trousers, and their faces looked silvery white in contrast. She had forgotten how beautiful they were. It gave her a shock.
Gérard saw her face and laughed. “I know! Mon Dieu, non? But you get used to it, eventually.”
“We’re here to keep watch,” said Anastasia. “Gérard has hearing like a rabbit. He’ll know if anyone’s coming. And we brought food.” She tipped a dozen raisins onto Sophie’s palm. As she ate them, the sugar warmed her, and she turned to Matteo.
“Shall I go first?”
“Non,” said Matteo.
“No, but please. I’d like to.” It felt so important to do it right, but Sophie couldn’t properly explain. She felt she was so close. Every thought of her mother made her quiver.
Matteo said, “Do you know how to break open a window latch?”
“Oh. I don’t, no.”
“Then I go first.”
Matteo slid down a meter of drainpipe until he was level with the windowsill. Sophie lay on her stomach and watched. She didn’t want to say, “Be careful!” She didn’t want to be a “Be careful” sort of person. So she called, “Good luck!” and after a second, unnecessarily, “We’ll keep watch!”
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