by Amy Plum
“Is someone going to look for him?”
“Where would we even start?” Gaspard replied. “Charlotte and Geneviève will stay put for the moment, in case he decides to come back. Otherwise, I’ve spread the word among our nearest kin, and I’m sure news will travel. Perhaps we’ll hear back from someone who has spotted him.” He stood for a moment, looking at the floor as if the tiles held the answer to Charles’s whereabouts, and then, shaking himself out of his stupor, said, “In any case, I have several calls still to make, so please excuse me.”
“Is there anything I can do to help?”
“No, nothing to be done,” he mumbled as he walked toward the double stairway.
“I think I’ll stay, then,” I called.
“Yes, yes,” he said distractedly, disappearing down the hallway at the top of the staircase.
I stood there feeling awful for a moment, wondering what Charles could possibly be up to this time, and thinking of how Charlotte must be going out of her mind with worry. I would write her as soon as I got home.
Glancing down the hallway toward Vincent’s room, I had to almost physically restrain myself from going to see him. Even though he’d never know, I decided to be good. This time.
And then it dawned on me. This was the perfect opportunity to check out JB’s library. I waited for a few seconds, until I heard Gaspard’s door close, and then skipped up the stairs and made my way to the library.
For me, this room was like book heaven. I had never been in here on my own—only with the whole group during the couple of meetings I had attended in it. And now, here it was, all mine to discover. Thousands of volumes, many of which I assumed contained references to revenants, lined the walls in columns so high that the top shelves had to be accessed by ladders.
Where to even start? I knew what I wanted: the stash of newly acquired books that Vincent had mentioned—those that Gaspard, acting as the Paris clan’s unofficial researcher and librarian, hadn’t had time to go through yet. I was convinced that if he had seen Immortal Love—and had actually read it cover to cover—he would have checked out the guérisseur option and Vincent would have told me about it.
I took a few minutes to browse through the shelves, like I had in Papy’s library, situating myself in the maze of books. Although there was definitely some sort of order to them, I couldn’t tell what it was. However, the spine of each book held a little tag with a reference number typed on it, just like in a public library. After a quick glance around the room, I spotted something that warmed my heart: a big wooden cabinet inset with dozens of tiny drawers. Gaspard kept an old-fashioned card catalogue. I felt like kissing him.
There hadn’t been an author’s name on Papy’s book, so I skipped to the drawers that were catalogued by book title. And to my utter astonishment, there it was—Immortal Love—spelled out in old-fashioned typewriter letters. I stood there and gawked at it, incredulous that it had been so easy to find. Underneath the title, Gaspard had typed in French “Illum. manu. 10th century, Fr.,” with a Gaspard Decimal System number in the upper right corner. I memorized the number and went searching.
And it was . . . not as easy as I had thought. The book wasn’t on the shelf where it should have been, which was full of archival boxes, conceivably holding other illuminated manuscripts. And it wasn’t on any of the neighboring shelves. I worked my way around the room, trying once more to get a feel for Gaspard’s organization. Near the windows I spied a set of shelves that weren’t jam-packed full of books like the others. And upon closer investigation, I saw a small metal plaque attached to the front of the bookcase engraved with the words à LIRE. “To read.”
My heartbeat accelerated as I ran my fingers over the spines and noticed that they were organized by number as well. Thank the OCD gods, I thought, and then I saw it. The correct number—on the spine of an archival box. I opened it and there it was: bound in the same rust-colored leather as Papy’s copy.
I lifted the book out and carefully replaced the box in its spot. Then, carrying it to a small table stacked high with assorted volumes, I sat and opened the cover. There they were, Goderic and Else, holding hands in a portrait that was almost identical to the one in Papy’s book.
I had begun turning the pages, carefully, toward the passage about the guérisseur, when I heard footsteps approach and the doorknob begin to creak. Panicking, I dropped the book into my bag, grabbed another volume from a stack in front of me, and opened it.
The sparrowlike figure of Violette stepped through the door. “Kate!” she cried, and came over to where I sat to give me cheek-kisses. “What are you doing here?”
“Gaspard canceled my fight training, so I thought I’d just hang out and read.”
Violette looked over my shoulder at the book I had opened. “You are reading about snake anatomy?” she asked, confused.
I looked down to see that the page held an illustration of a dissected snake, with Latin terms identifying the different bones and organs. “Um, yeah. I find nature . . . fascinating!” I cringed inside. I sounded like the head of the Geek Patrol.
She closed the book and sat down on the table facing me. “So Vincent is dormant. Would you like to do something?”
I grinned. “I’m actually having lunch with Georgia, but I could meet you afterward for an afternoon showing.”
“We can both have a look at Pariscope and then telephone each other. Should we say around four o’clock?”
“Perfect,” I said, standing. Violette wasn’t going anywhere, and I was dying to have a look at the book. I could have read it there, right in front of her, but it would have seemed weird to be hiding something from Jean-Baptiste’s collection in my purse. I would just have to return it later. Gaspard had so many volumes on his “To read” shelves that I was sure he wouldn’t miss it.
“You are finished with your snake reading?” Violette asked jokingly.
“Um, yeah,” I said weakly as I headed toward the door. “See you later then. I’ll text you with my top movie picks.”
She smiled and waved before heading toward the card catalogue.
I closed the door behind me, my heart thumping away as I felt awash in a tide of guilt. What in the world was I doing? I was sure JB and Gaspard wouldn’t mind me using the library, but taking an old, valuable book home with me? I couldn’t imagine they would be very happy about that. I’ll bring it back tomorrow, I thought, and made my way out of the house of the dead and back into the world of the living.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
.....................................................................
EIGHTEEN
I SAT IN MY ROOM, STARING AT THE TWO OLD books that lay open side by side on my bed. The word that had been crossed out in Papy’s book was easily legible in Jean-Baptiste’s copy—it was “Audoniens.” However, the “Sign of the Cord” bit had been crossed out so thoroughly that it was impossible to decipher. Both books were needed to fit together the puzzle pieces: the guérisseur lived among the Audoniens and could be found under the Sign of the Cord.
How strange, I thought. Someone wanted to make this guérisseur very hard to find. But not impossible. Well, if someone’s identity was being protected, that must mean that this was more than just a fairy tale. I just wondered if the healer’s descendants were still around, twelve hundred years later.
So, I was looking for a faraway land (at least far away from Goderic, wherever he had lived) and for a people called les Audoniens. Once I found them, I had to find out what the Sign of the Cord was. “Selling relics to pilgrims,” it said. So probably near a church.
I checked my clock. It was a half hour until my lunch with Georgia—a half-hour away—at a restaurant in the Marais. But Georgia was always late.
Slipping my laptop out of my desk drawer, I typed “Audoniens” into Google . . . and almost jumped out of my chair when I saw what appeared on my screen. “Audoniens” was the French moniker for people who live
d in Saint-Ouen. Saint-Ouen . . . as in the neighborhood in the north of Paris. Of course, in medieval times it must have been its own town. As Paris grew, it gobbled up all the little towns on its borders and incorporated them into the city. So the healer didn’t say “Paris” or “Parisians” because he was referring to the then separate village of Saint-Ouen.
It was so close, I could go there every day if I needed to until I found what I was looking for. Or found that what I was looking for no longer existed. Pushing my luck, I searched for “Sign of the Cord” in English. And came up with a lot of references to spinal cord injuries. There was nothing of interest when I checked in French. I closed my laptop and stuck it back in my desk, then lay JB’s book carefully in its own drawer.
I threw my coat on and left the apartment at a jog, with Papy’s copy of the book in my bag. I had what I needed, and could at least give his book back today. Hopefully he hadn’t had the chance to go through his inventory cupboard and wouldn’t notice when I replaced it. Not that he would mind me taking things from the gallery. Papy had always been overly generous with me and Georgia. I just didn’t want to draw attention to the fact that the book that I took was all about revenants. He would definitely be suspicious after my “numa” slip last year.
I Métro’d over to the Marais and walked down the tiny street called rue des Rosiers, which was infamous for the World War II roundup of Jews for transport to concentration camps. One Jewish deli still had a bullet hole in its window: the owners left it as a testament to that darkest of times in the neighborhood’s history.
I neared the end of the street and saw the three famous falafel shops, lined up in a row. Heading toward the one with the green facade, I spotted Georgia already seated inside. On time. Which had to be a personal record for her.
Over squishy falafel sandwiches smothered in tahini sauce, my sister and I caught up on the last couple of days.
“So it takes your boyfriend being dead for you to come out with me?” Georgia teased.
“Not dead—dormant. And you’re the one who’s so busy I never see you anymore.”
“Yes, well, being a rock star’s girlfriend takes up all my extracurricular time.” She pretended to do an over-the-shoulder hair toss, even though her hair was way too short to be tossed, and took a big bite of pita.
“Rock star?” I teased. “When did he get the promotion from ‘wannabe’?”
“Ha, ha,” Georgia deadpanned. “You’ll see for yourself next Saturday night. Because you are coming. So . . . tell me. How’s your hunt for Vincent’s miracle cure?”
“I actually found something,” I said, leaning in toward her and squeezing her wrist excitedly.
“What! What is it?” Georgia’s eyes grew big.
I carefully wiped my hands, and then, using a paper napkin to protect it, pulled Papy’s book out of my bag. I turned to the first page to show her the double portrait. She studied it for a second and then said, “That is some serious cougar action going on there.”
“Georgia!”
“I’m sorry. I couldn’t help myself. So, what is it?”
I tucked the book back in my bag and told her the whole story.
“Wow—you booklifted something from Jean-Baptiste’s library?”
“Just for a day. I don’t know why I couldn’t just show it to Violette.”
Georgia lifted an eyebrow to show me her feelings for Violette were unchanged.
“Anyway, so now I have this mysterious information to go on, and am going to sleuth around Saint-Ouen looking for some nameless healer whose family might have died out centuries ago.”
“Sleuthing. That’s so Nancy Drew.” Georgia smiled. “Gonna have to get you a pencil skirt and an oversize magnifying glass.” Her expression changed from silly to serious in a second flat. “So, what can I do to help?”
“Well, first of all, you can help me return the book to Papy’s gallery. Distract him while I put it back where I got it. But after that, I think I’d rather do the sleuthing alone, since I have no clue where I should even look first.”
“Deal. But just let me know if you ever want me to come along.”
I smiled my thanks. “Oh, and don’t mention anything to Vincent. I don’t want him to know what I’m doing until I’m sure I’m onto something. He’s kind of been . . . doing his own thing that he’s not telling me about.”
I had meant it to sound flippant, but my voice cracked and gave me away. My sister’s eyes filled with sympathy. “Oh no, Katie-Bean. What’s going on?”
“It’s something he’s doing to make things easier on us—some kind of test. But he doesn’t want to talk about it because he thinks it will freak me out. Whatever it is, it’s not good for him. He looks worn out. And beat up. I’m just afraid it’s dangerous.”
“Oh, little sister,” Georgia said, and leaning over, took me in her arms. She gave me an affectionate squeeze before sitting back and considering what I had said.
“Well . . . first of all, I hope that your instincts are wrong and that Vincent’s not doing anything stupid. But secondly, I think you’re totally right about striking out on your own, Katie-Bean,” she said, petting my arm consolingly. “You’ve always been the smartest one in the family. If you think you can solve this, then I’m sure you will. And then, when you show up with the answer to all his immortal problems, you’ll knock that dead boy right off his feet.”
I smiled at her, reassured. Nothing like a sister-sister pep talk for comfort.
Georgia and I pulled the book-replacement scheme off brilliantly, with Papy so surprised to see my sister actually in the gallery and acting interested in the antiquities, that I easily excused myself, nabbed the key, and slipped into the back room. I was relieved to see all the boxes were in the closet where I had left them. Papy would never know the book had been gone.
Leaving Papy’s, Georgia and I walked up the rue de Seine, past all the minimalist galleries and crowded antique shops. I glanced over at La Palette, the café where I had spotted Vincent with Geneviève last fall. The terrace was punctuated with tall, treelike gas heaters, and all the tables beneath them were occupied.
My eye was caught by a blond boy sitting at a table, talking to a man standing beside him. The table held several open notebooks: The boy had been interrupted while writing. As we got nearer, I saw it was Arthur.
Georgia noticed him at the same time. “Hey, isn’t that one of Vincent’s friends?” Arthur glanced our way, and he flinched as he registered who we were. “Bonjour! Hello!” he called, after a second’s hesitation.
“Great. Thanks, Georgia. He looks really happy to see us,” I grumbled as we crossed the street to stand in front of his table.
The guy talking to Arthur was a handsome older man, probably around Gaspard’s age. He looked like someone I knew, but I couldn’t quite place him. And there was something weird about him, something just outside my mind’s grasp that didn’t seem right. When he saw Georgia and me heading in their direction, he tucked his newspaper under his arm and walked quickly away.
“Another friendly acquaintance of the oldsters,” I muttered to Georgia, and then I said more loudly, “Hi, Arthur.”
Arthur stood politely to greet us. “Hello, Kate. And Georgia, is it?”
“Georgia it is,” my sister said flirtatiously.
“Yes, well”—Arthur gestured toward his table—“would you like to join me for a coffee?”
“Sure—” Georgia began.
“No,” I said, cutting her off. “Thank you, though. We have things to do. In fact, I’m supposed to be meeting Violette soon.”
“Ah, yes, for one of your movie dates. Well, she’s just up the road shopping.” He indicated the direction with a nod of his head, and then stared silently at me, with an expression that looked almost apologetic.
I stared right back, challenging him to say something. If forgiveness was what he wanted, he wasn’t getting any from me. “See you,” I said after an awkward pause, and, taking Georgia’s arm, led h
er away.
As soon as we got out of hearing distance, she turned to me. “What is wrong with you?” she asked. “He was trying to be nice.”
“He also got me kicked out of a house meeting for being human.”
Georgia drew her breath in sharply. “He did not!”
“He did,” I confirmed.
“So they’re both racists,” Georgia mused. “But the difference is, he’s cute. Katie-Bean, doesn’t he kind of remind you of . . .”
“Kurt Cobain.”
“Totally!”
We were barely out of view of the café when we saw Violette a half block away, inspecting the display in a shop window. Spotting us heading her way, she smiled broadly and waved. “Hello, Kate! Hello . . .” And then she saw who was with me.
“Oh, wonderful. The evil munchkin herself,” moaned Georgia. “I’m outta here,” she said loudly enough for Violette to hear, and walked off down a side street.
The revenant acted like nothing had happened. “I was about to phone you about our movie.”
“Yeah, me too,” I said, “but we saw Arthur, and he told us where to find you. We weren’t supposed to meet for another hour or two, but if you want, we could go now.”
“Absolutely,” she said. “My only plans were to sit around with that sourpuss at La Palette and wait for you.”
“Sourpuss?” I asked, surprised. This was the second time she’d said something unflattering about her partner. Not that I didn’t agree.
“Oh, Arthur can be such a stick-in-the-mud sometimes. I have stayed with him for centuries, but sometimes he makes me crazy.” She grinned at me conspiratorially. Laughing, I grabbed her arm and walked with her toward the nearest art-house cinema.
“That was very, very strange,” Violette mused as she sipped her coffee.
“I warned you,” I said, stirring some whipped cream into my hot chocolate.
“But I thought it was going to have something to do with . . . you know . . . Brazil. I mean, that is what it is called. If they had called it ‘Bizarre Alternate Universe,’ I would not have chosen it.”