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To my brothers, in order of appearance:
Kenny, for the realm of ideas and culture.
David, for loyalty and imagination.
And to both of you for your pride and for always bringing the funny.
1
June 4, 1889
Nathalie rushed along the Seine, passing an array of concerned faces. If the French she caught among the swathe of languages was any indication, everyone thought she was being chased.
No, she was the one doing the chasing, so to speak. Of time. She was simply in a hurry, trying to get around all the ambling tourists and avoid being late. So far, nothing had gone as planned this morning.
First of all, Christophe had sent word for her to come to the public morgue even earlier than usual, if possible. The courier had arrived as she was leaving the apartment. While Nathalie composed a pithy response, Maman reminded her to pick up bread, and Stanley made figure eights around her ankles with a meow. Meeting S. and L. at the Palais des Beaux-Arts when it opens; will come immediately after. If J. is there, ask him to please wait—coffee. Even that she had to start and stop twice, because Papa came over to give her a few sous for lunch. Second, the steam tram had been full—a frequent occurrence since the Exposition Universelle opened last month—and she’d had to wait for another.
Her eye caught the ivy-covered clock in front of the agriculture exhibit. She halted, heaving a sigh of relief and mopping her brow. Almost a quarter hour to spare. All that nimble darting through the crowds had bought her some time after all.
Good. Now she could enjoy a stroll the rest of the way. Jules often encouraged her, with her swift walking pace and propensity to plan too much in a day, to slow down. For the next few minutes, she would.
She went left onto the bridge, the old Palais du Trocadéro from the last Exposition at her back. It was the colossal iron skeleton in front of her, its Venetian red arches beckoning her to the grounds, that took her breath away. Again.
The Tour Eiffel had only been completed in March, but Nathalie could barely remember the Paris horizon without it. Somehow, the architect Gustave Eiffel and his builders made three hundred meters of iron lattice into something beautiful (so much for the smug critics who were convinced it would be ugly). She’d gone twice already to the first platform, marveling at the view and the feeling that came with being almost sixty meters up. Soon, the elevators would be operating, and she’d be able to ascend to the second platform and to the top. What would that be like?
As she crossed the bridge, stepping to the side to accommodate a carriage, the crowd grew even denser. The Tour Eiffel served as the grand entrance to the Exposition grounds. In the course of several months, ordinary land and city streets had been transformed into a wonderland of lush gardens and ornamental structures. From the Galerie des Machines at the opposite end to the cultural pavilions on either side of the tower and throughout the grounds, the landscape had become the epitome of both here and elsewhere. This extravagant international showcase wasn’t the first world’s fair of its kind, but Nathalie was certain it would be the best.
She walked under the Tour Eiffel and through the queue of people waiting to go up, narrowly dodging a spilled lemonade. Today marked her ninth visit to the Exposition. In her eighteen years, she’d never seen anything like it, this astounding display of culture and ingenuity. It was a celebration of the République, and despite never being prouder to be a Parisian, Nathalie found that the pavilions representing other lands intrigued her most. Jules, after reading four world history books in the months leading up to the fair, called it “Around the World in 80 Days on Champ de Mars.” She perused the Exposition’s 288-page Guide Bleu frequently: She wanted to see everything, do everything (except maybe the agriculture exhibits, which sounded tedious), and observe everyone she could at the Exposition from now until October. A world map accompanied all her visits; whenever she visited a nation’s pavilion, she circled the corresponding place on the map. She also made notes of her encounters—a conversation she’d had, food she’d sampled, a souvenir she’d bought. And then there were entries about the clothing styles, fascinating on any given day, as visitors from across the world weaved a tapestry of fabrics, cuts, and colors.
Nathalie stepped out of the Tour Eiffel’s imposing shadow. Simone and Louis were easy to find, she in a white hat and fuchsia dress, he with well-coifed red hair and donning pale green. They were huddled over a grounds map at the designated meeting spot, the chairs in front of the Fontaine de Coutan. A powerful, ornate display of classical figures bearing torches, the fountain announced the cobalt blue Dôme Central with splendor. At night, the fountain was illuminated with streams of water in red, blue, green, and gold.
“I am so eager for this, I scarcely slept last night! And still I was delayed,” Nathalie said, explaining why as she exchanged cheek kisses with both of them.
“The biggest culprit is Stanley, who tried to trip you, I’m sure of it.” Simone winked as she folded up the map and put it in her dress pocket. The three of them walked toward the Palais des Beaux-Arts, opulent with arched windows and a lavish exterior, beside the Dôme Central. Flags projected from the top of the building; down below, palm trees and people lined the parterre. “Look at that crowd.”
Nathalie squinted in the sunlight. “Much more than I expected at this hour.”
“Like a busy day at the morgue,” said Louis. “Which it sounds like it might be, if our favorite police liaison dispatched a courier to you so early. Mischief must be afoot. Mind if we go with you? We’d like to see what body or bodies have prompted a sense of urgency.”
“What’s this ‘mischief afoot’ talk?” Simone asked, tucking away an errant blond curl. “Is that another Shakespeare reference?”
“Oui.”
“Enough.” Simone gave Louis an affectionate poke. He was in an acting troupe now, and they’d performed Voltaire’s translation of Julius Caesar this spring. “That’s the second one this morning already. It’s too much for my unrefined cabaret sensibilities.”
“As You Like It,” Louis whispered.
Simone tapped him on the shoulder. “Saying it quietly doesn’t make it any less of a bad pun, Louis.”
Nathalie laughed and assured them they could come along. Simone, once her neighbor, was more than a best friend. Ma soeur, they had taken to calling each other these days. Nathalie didn’t have a sister, but if she could choose one, it would be Simone. Loyal, daring, and as colorful in spirit as she was in wardrobe.
Louis, Simone’s beau of two years, had become akin to a favorite cousin. Full of puckish whimsy and daring appreciation for life’s experiences, he was like no one Nathalie had ever met. He and Simo
ne, both a year older than she, made for an entertaining, well-suited pair. (“Like brie and raspberry,” as Simone often put it.)
The doors to the fine arts building opened right before they reached the portico, antiquity-inspired sculptures greeting them here as well. The exhibit devoted space to paintings and sculptures from France, England, and the United States, with the French art focused on creations from the Revolution of 1789 to the present. People disappeared through the statue-guarded archways as if the massive edifice inhaled them. Nathalie, Simone, and Louis filed in, pressed from behind by the ever-growing horde.
Once inside, they looked around in awe, as they did with nearly every structure at the Exposition. The expansive, airy dome proclaimed paintings and sculptures at every turn.
“Where shall we start?” asked Nathalie, admiring the winding wrought-iron staircases.
“Let’s start down here and then go upstairs,” said Simone. The three of them started walking toward a gallery of paintings, planning their route through the building.
The chatter of the crowd filled the dome like steam in a covered pot, taking up every meter of space that wasn’t a display.
A woman’s shriek ruptured it, a blade through the veil of banter.
The echo disoriented Nathalie; for half a blink, she didn’t know where to turn. Then it became obvious.
“Over there,” said Louis, pointing to the Galerie Rapp. “Where the sculptures are.”
More beacons of distress.
A man’s voice, moaning in horror, followed by a woman shouting, “Garde!” over and over again.
Screams swept the building like flames. The crowd spilled everywhere; most people bolted for the exit, some rushed toward the cries. Louis was closest to the commotion. He made eye contact with Nathalie and Simone as he evaded the people jostling past him. They nodded in silent agreement and followed him, wading through the rippling hysteria.
They were escorted through the gallery by crisply rendered statues capturing moments and essence. Women playing musical instruments. Gods in repose. Warriors bracing for battle. Infant angels reaching out.
Nathalie looked up to see a cluster of people at the second-floor railing along the perimeter, gawking at something below. Their faces were frozen in alarm, as if they’d become sculptures, too. Nathalie followed their line of sight but still couldn’t see the source of the mayhem.
Then finally she did.
As the tallest of the three, she saw it first. She stopped, five or six meters away, letting the mob buffet her.
Louis took another few steps and halted with a gasp.
“What is it?” asked Simone, standing on her toes.
Nathalie started to say, but before she could, Simone’s face stiffened with shock.
The end of the center row. Pedestals as tall as people, plaster busts atop them. Heads of emperors and philosophers, white and neatly cast, led the way to the final base.
That one held a severed human head.
2
A guard shoved his way through the frenzy and reached the pedestal. Fright crossed his face, evident even from afar, before he regained his poise. “Stand back!”
A group of onlookers fell away, water through the cracks. The remaining people stepped closer, despite the guard’s outstretched hands.
“I want to see,” said Nathalie, taking a tentative step forward. Yes, she was an Insightful who had visions of murder scenes from the perspective of the killer. And it didn’t matter that it was her job to report on dead bodies at the morgue for Le Petit Journal or that she’d watched the murderer Pranzini’s execution by guillotine. This was unlike anything else, stirring up a novel ratio of revulsion and curiosity. She’d read about revolutionaries putting heads on pikes and had seen art depicting John the Baptist’s head on a platter. And the day she’d learned about Marie Antoinette in school, she’d dreamed that the ill-fated queen’s disembodied head followed her home.
This wasn’t having a vision or reading a book. This wasn’t attending an execution. This was seeing something appalling and uncomfortably compelling.
She wanted a closer look.
Or … maybe this was close enough. She didn’t know what she felt. “Anyone else?”
“No.”
“Yes.”
Simone and Louis traded looks after talking over one another.
“I’ll stay here,” said Simone, making her way to the wall. She leaned against it with a shiver, despite the heat. “You two go investigate. I don’t need a better look.”
Nathalie led the way past the sturdy busts, placid with vacant stares. She felt their collective gaze, half expecting them to blink.
They were in a river of people and panic, smells and sighs, drifting along and being pushed from every side. Floral perfumes and sweat and onions and candy all danced underneath Nathalie’s nostrils before floating away to another. A couple elbowed past them to exit, the woman waving a Tour Eiffel fan, the man’s eyes fraught with distress. A father picked up his child, who sobbed into his collar. She didn’t have to understand all the languages around her to discern the fear in all of them.
Louis pulled her close. “Are you tempted to … you know…”
“Touch it? Not at all. I’ll wait and do it at the morgue.”
“Good,” Louis said in a low tone. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
Nathalie’s visions of murder scenes—which began with the Dark Artist murders in 1887—came from placing her hand on the viewing pane at the morgue, in the room where the public viewed the bodies. For every vision, she lost a memory, however, ranging from a few minutes to several hours.
Except once, when she’d touched a dead body directly.
That body, of all corpses, had brought about the worst, most unexpected effect of all. The ensuing uncertainty and turmoil had endured much longer. She’d been caught in an interstice of great anguish, not knowing if she’d have her gift anymore while also being too afraid to use it. (Yes, she’d stood at Agnès’s wake and promised her dear friend that she’d never again give up her gift. That was before. Surely Agnès understood?) In the months that followed, Nathalie’s visits to the morgue had been solely as a reporter.
“Ouch!” yelped Louis, pulling back his stepped-on foot. People crammed the last few meters. Moving past everyone was like putting a hand into the candy jar when it was too full of berlingots to take one out.
The now-calm guard urged everyone to step away, but his firm tone fell into a soundless well of inquisition. The surrounding mob heaved like a bee’s nest.
Finally Nathalie and Louis stood before the victim, three or four people in front of them.
Even though she’d spotted the man’s head from across the room, even though she’d kept her eyes on it as she approached, Nathalie struggled to reconcile it with reality.
Two bunches of grapes, one red and one white, lay on either side of the head, draping over the side of the pedestal. A once-white scarf circled the base of the neck, resting in a pool of blood that oozed around the grapes. The blood dripped onto the floor and onto the bust of the emperor displaced by the head.
Drip. Drip drip drip. Red raindrops from a cloud of death, streaking down the bald head of the bust.
The man’s features were strong, like the men who worked at the Mediterranean stalls at the market. Prominent nose, sharp chin, the next day’s beard ready to grow. His skin, creased with the faintest signs of aging, was olive. A mop of dark curls nested on his head like a crown, cropped in an unusual fashion, short in the back and combed forward. It reminded her of—could it be? Her eyes studied the surrounding busts.
Yes. The cut of his hair resembled that of a Roman emperor.
Nathalie’s stomach felt like it was being tugged from three sides.
And this head, this head connected to a person who was thinking and talking and laughing and eating and breathing not so very long ago, had become nothing but a flesh-and-blood pastiche.
A bearded gent in front of them turned around
, pale and wan. “I need to leave,” he said, motioning to cut through with one hand and covering his mouth with the other. In his haste, he stumbled and slipped on the blood, kicking the pedestal as he fell to the floor.
The pillar wobbled. Nathalie saw the head about to tumble off and put out her hands.
In a breath, she was there.
She stood in a cavernous room, dark except for a flickering candle, over a curly-haired man on his knees. Hands tied behind his back, white scarf tied around his throat, and a gag in his mouth, he was prostrate before a guillotine. Shriveled brown petals were strewn on the floor beneath him. No—not petals. Wisps of hair. Freshly cut hair.
Nathalie peered down through eyes that weren’t hers at hands that weren’t her own. Sinewy, a bit of hair near the knuckles. Not distinct, but clearly belonging to a man.
The killer bent over next to the man and kissed him on the cheek. The bound man recoiled and shook his head.
He wept.
Nathalie couldn’t hear him. She could never hear them or any other sound. Only the voice of the killer.
Powerful hands secured the man’s neck at the bottom of the guillotine, then the killer stood. “May the king live forever.” The voice was falsetto, with a dramatic affect. He moved to the side of the contraption and pulled the rope.
The angled blade released and—
“Nathalie!”
Her mind hurtled to the present.
“Mademoiselle?” The wide-eyed guard reached for the bloody head in her hands. She passed it to him and stared at the crimson rivulets trickling across her fingers and wrists.
“Non, non!” She stared at the victim’s head and back at her hands. Hers again. Not the killer’s. “Mon Dieu, what have I done?”
Louis wiped her hands with a handkerchief. She watched as he grasped them to steady their trembling. His touch was comforting, reminding her that these really were her hands, belonging to her, not a murderer.
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