“I didn’t send anything to the police this time,” said Nathalie.
Simone raised a brow. “Oh. When you do, then.”
“I won’t be.” She made the decision as she said it. “I’m not doing this anymore. I—I can’t.”
“Meaning…?”
“Meaning I’m tired of the ghastly visions, the constant what-ifs, the dishonesty, the realization that I’m seeing through a killer’s eyes, feeling what he feels, and saying his words, all of it.” Including a letter possibly threatening my life. “I’m not going to give up pieces of my memory now, too. That’s losing my mind, Simone.”
Nathalie closed her eyes, squeezing back the tears she was afraid would fall. She expected to feel Simone’s arm around her shoulder or to be drawn into a hug.
“I don’t understand,” said Simone, shaking her head. “You’re … giving up your power?”
Nathalie stood up straighter. The urge to cry disappeared like an extinguished flame. “I’m not giving up. I’m making a choice. Every peak is followed by a valley, can’t you see that?”
Simone nodded, but it felt like she was humoring her instead of trying to understand. Simone seemed to be humoring her a lot these days.
“And now memory?” Nathalie folded her arms. “That’s quite a sacrifice, and for what?”
“Because you have a chance to help.”
“We don’t know that. So far it hasn’t been much help to anyone. It’s not like I’ve solved the case. Rugs and tables aren’t going to solve a case.”
“We knew this wouldn’t be easy.” Simone lowered her voice and rested her fingertips on Nathalie’s wrist. “It even came up in the tarot cards. Remember the Hangman? Self-sacrifice, changing how you think?”
Nathalie jerked her wrist away from Simone. “They’re only tarot cards, Simone. A parlor trick. Just because the cards mention sacrifice, that doesn’t mean I should just accept losing my mind.”
“I never said that!” Simone’s voice rose so quickly that two women stopped talking. They stared for a moment before resuming their conversation.
“Not in those words.” Nathalie folded her arms. “It sounds to me like I should be doing what the cards say I should be doing. Feeling what they say I should feel.”
“That’s not what I mean,” said Simone, rolling her eyes.
I hate it when she rolls her eyes. “Then what do you mean?”
“If you’d let me finish a sentence, I’ll tell you.” Simone threw up her hands theatrically.
“No need for the flourish,” said Nathalie, mocking Simone’s gesture. “Just say what you want to say.”
Simone gritted her teeth. “Stop interrupting and I will.”
One of the gaping women whispered something to the other. “Occupez-vous de vos oignons,” Nathalie snapped. Rarely did she tell people to take care of their own onions, so to speak, but these women deserved it. She waited until they turned away before continuing. “I’m done interrupting, Simone. Please explain to me whatever it is you want me to believe.”
Simone looked from the tableau to Nathalie. “This is an atrocious set of crimes. You can do something about it. Not many people can; they just go to the morgue to gawk and gossip afterward. I don’t think you should give up that gift so easily.”
“Easily.” Nathalie sneered. “Nothing about this is easy.”
“I didn’t say that it was!” Simone rolled her eyes.
Again.
“Where has sensible Nathalie gone?” Simone continued. “First you have us chasing an eccentric man with a rat all over the city, and now you’re putting words in my mouth and arguing with me. Why are you acting this way?”
He threatened me! That’s what Nathalie wanted to say, but she didn’t. She couldn’t. She’d promised she wouldn’t.
Nathalie clenched her teeth. If she spoke, she’d burst into tears. She certainly didn’t want that on display. The wax figures were the exhibit, not her personal fears.
Nathalie stormed out of the room, her heels thudding on the floor with an angry, determined pace. Simone followed her out, room after room until they reached the exit, all the way babbling about things like “persistence” and “special ability” and “destiny” and a slew of other phrases that climbed on top of each other.
Why me? “Why me? WHY ME?”
“Don’t look at it that way.”
“Don’t tell me how I should look at it.” Nathalie’s whole body burned with fury, resentment, and a fear she wouldn’t admit. “I cannot live like this. I will not live like this. I can’t tell anyone but you about this bizarre curse. I can’t wish it away or pretend it isn’t there.” She closed her eyes and sighed. “I can’t unknow what I know.”
“I understand, but—”
“Non!” Nathalie spat out the word like poison. “You wouldn’t have brought me here thinking this would ‘impress’ me if you did. You don’t understand. No one can understand. That’s the point. I don’t know, maybe my crazy aunt would. But that doesn’t matter. I’m trapped. Trapped!”
Simone bit her lip for a long time before speaking in a calm voice. “You aren’t trapped. We can—”
“Stop. Just stop.” Nathalie held up her hand. She hoped Simone didn’t notice the quivering. “No ‘we.’ I’ve had enough of you, too.”
“What? What does that mean?”
Nathalie answered by pushing open the door and storming down the sidewalk.
Simone was going to follow her. She was sure of it.
Except Simone didn’t.
Good. She’s just in it for the adventure, anyway. And to impress Louis. And to make tarot card readings come true.
Nathalie couldn’t see through her tears. Luckily her feet knew this pavement so well that it didn’t matter.
16
Nathalie didn’t want to go home yet.
She walked without knowing where she wanted to go. While standing next to some Spanish tourists, she noticed them studying a map. Her eyes fell to where they were pointing: Bois de Boulogne.
The perfect spot—a park where she could be alone among people and settle down on this hot-but-not-too-hot day. She’d gone there just before Simone had moved, on an unusually warm April day. The two of them had spent an afternoon there sprawled out on a blanket, eating fruit and madeleines and watching people. They’d invented stories about every young man who passed by and what their sweethearts might be like.
Already that seemed like ages ago.
She went to the nearest tram stop and hopped on right before it pulled away; her temper subsided with every click-clack of the tram. She had to change trams twice to get to Bois de Boulogne, and the trams were crowded, but she nevertheless felt a sense of peace by the time she stepped onto the grass.
All the trees were taken, with couples and families and solitary picnickers spread across almost every spot of shade. Nathalie strolled until she saw a mother and her little boy gather up their things, leaving behind a place in the shade just like the one she’d had in mind.
She reclined, limbs stretched out, and gazed at the sky framed by leaves of the nearby elm. She placed one hand on the grass, enjoying the feel of it through her fingers. With the other she loosened her top button and let her fingers rest on her collarbone. She didn’t have the energy to move another muscle.
The sounds of the park, distinct and discrete, soon became a hum that was neither noise nor symphony. After running through the events of the day several times, her thoughts began to drift.
To Simone, and the last time they fought before today. It was just over two years ago and about a self-centered, brooding boy who was a bad influence on Simone. Simone disagreed, and they didn’t speak for a month, which was when Simone decided that the boy was in fact both self-centered and brooding. Nathalie had felt regret rather than validation, though, swearing never again to pass judgment on Simone’s beau choices. As for Louis … it didn’t matter now, did it? Not if she and Simone weren’t talking anymore.
She thought ab
out Agnès. Her interest in the murders, and Nathalie’s choice to keep the visions from her. Maybe now she’d tell her, now that it was an experience in the past.
Her thoughts drifted to Papa, too. She missed him, plain and simple. He’d been home several weeks before Maman’s accident. And then he was off again, like he often was, for months and months. He wouldn’t be back until September. Then he would be with them through January or February, and Nathalie was already thinking about how they’d play cards, visit the Louvre and Catacombs, and make soup together. And bread. Papa loved to make bread.
Then she thought about the last time she’d seen Aunt Brigitte “on the outside,” prior to her committal to the asylum. Nathalie remembered wearing the bright red winter coat her grandmother had made her for Christmas. The coat was too big and too puffy. (She suspected that Mamie thought she was ten, not seven, because Mamie was very wrinkly and forgot stuff. At the time, Nathalie thought maybe wrinkles made people forgetful.) Maman insisted she wear it all the same. The only good part was that she also got to wear her new boots, which meant she could stomp in the slush when Maman wasn’t looking. And even once when she was, which Nathalie pretended was an accident.
They’d gone to see Aunt Brigitte so they could help her pack and tidy up the room she rented from old Mme. Plouffe.
“Where’s Tante going?” Nathalie asked as they approached the white stone house with ivy in the front.
“To a place where they can help her,” Papa said.
“Why does she need help?”
“Because she has a sickness.”
Nathalie didn’t understand that. Aunt Brigitte was skinny, but she walked quickly, and she never coughed or said she had a bellyache. She didn’t look sick. “What’s wrong with her?”
Papa and Maman talked to each other with their eyes, as Nathalie thought of it, and then Papa answered. “She forgets things.”
“Like Mamie?”
“Somewhat.”
Nathalie wasn’t sure whether or not she could believe Papa. After all, Aunt Brigitte didn’t have wrinkles and her hair was brown, not gray. “Then how come Mamie doesn’t need help?”
“Your grandmother has Papi to take care of her,” Maman said, taking her by both mitten-covered hands and stooping down to make eye contact with her. “Tante is lonely. She wants to be with more people, and the nurses will help make her stronger.”
With that Maman kissed her hands (more properly, her mittens), a gesture Nathalie knew meant “no more questions.”
Aunt Brigitte never had an apartment, not that Nathalie remembered. She just rented a room from a kind elderly woman who “helped women like Brigitte,” as Papa described it. Mme. Plouffe had lots of rooms and lots of people living in her home—how could Tante possibly be lonely?—and she cooked for them. Sometimes she played the piano for them after dinner, Aunt Brigitte said. Whenever Nathalie visited, Mme. Plouffe gave her a cookie or biscuit. She was a very nice woman, Nathalie thought, and it was too bad Tante was leaving. Nathalie hoped the next place had a nice woman who gave out sweets, too.
Papa lifted her up so she could use the knocker (“only three times and not too hard,” Papa said). Mme. Plouffe opened the door, an unusually serious expression on her face, and let them in. She whispered something to Papa while Maman and Nathalie took the stairs to Aunt Brigitte’s room. Papa followed.
Aunt Brigitte sat at a small table playing solitaire. She got up to give each of them a hug and was all smiles, as though she were welcoming them to a party. The room, dark and smelling of flowers Maman called “gardenias,” was covered with papers. On the floor, on the bed, even on the gardenia plants. Papa asked Nathalie to sit at the table with Tante so he and Maman could organize the room and pack the bags.
“Do you want to learn how to play?” asked Aunt Brigitte.
Nathalie bobbed her head. For the next few minutes she watched as her aunt played solitaire while explaining the game. She stole glances at the papers Papa was gathering as Aunt Brigitte spoke. Then Nathalie couldn’t stand it anymore. Curiosity prodded her the way that toothy oaf Jacques poked her in class to try to get test answers.
“What are all the papers?”
“It’s my story,” said Aunt Brigitte, pride lighting up her face. “Let me show you.” As she leaned over to pick up one of the papers, her blouse lifted.
Nathalie gasped. “Your stomach!” she hissed.
Maman and Papa were talking; they didn’t hear anything.
“Just a few boo-boos. I’m okay.” Aunt Brigitte patted her belly with a flinch and handed Nathalie the paper she had picked up. “I know you’re a very good reader. Read my story.”
She took the paper but her eyes were still on her aunt’s stomach. Maybe that’s what her parents meant when they said Tante was sick, because those boo-boos must have hurt. Nathalie looked at Maman putting clothes into a valise and at Papa stacking papers. Did you see?
She placed the paper on the table and sat on her hands. At the top was one word, written in big letters. INSIGHT. Nathalie didn’t know that word, but she memorized it (she was very good at both memorization and spelling) and would look it up later. She tried to read the words below it and frowned. Aunt Brigitte’s handwriting was too hard to read, almost like scribbling. Not neat like Maman’s.
“Brigitte!” And like that Papa was at her side, his big hand flattened over the paper. “She’s only a child. This isn’t meant for her eyes.”
He snatched the paper off the table, and before Nathalie could blink twice Maman had her by the hand.
“Come,” Maman said. “Let’s go see Madame Plouffe. I think she has a cookie for you.”
Nathalie slipped off the too-tall chair. She waved to Aunt Brigitte, who smiled.
“Maman,” Nathalie whispered. “Tante’s belly.”
Her mother crossed the room, her hand clasping Nathalie firmer with each step.
Nathalie whispered even more softly. “It’s full of tiny red crosses, like someone pushed them on her and made her bleed.”
And then Nathalie felt it. Gloved hands around her throat. She turned enough to see Aunt Brigitte’s face hovering over her own and the grip growing stronger until … she tried to breathe—
Her eyes opened, and she saw a blue sky with leaves and branches around the edges. Nathalie blinked several times. It was all a memory, all save the very last part. Aunt Brigitte had never tried to choke her. Not ever. That must have been when she’d fallen asleep.
Nathalie’s hand was on her neck, resting now, but her fingers felt tight, strained.
Anything but relaxed.
17
Nathalie gathered her satchel and headed to the Arc de Triomphe, where she took a crowded omnibus down the tree-lined Champs-Élysées avenue. She got off at the Place de la Concorde, beside the Louvre gardens, sick of passengers and of sitting. Going the rest of the way home by foot would take a while, but she needed to release some energy.
At first she didn’t walk; she paced, like the restless black panther at the Ménagerie in the Jardin des Plantes. Whenever she went to the zoo she made it a point to visit that panther. It didn’t matter what the weather, season, or time it was; the panther paced almost incessantly, stopping only for feeding time.
But she wasn’t a panther and she wasn’t confined, so there was only so much pacing she could do. She resumed walking. She wanted to tire herself out, to be fatigued enough to collapse when she got through the door. It would be a welcome relief from all of … this. There was no other term to describe it. This. All she had to do was give in to weariness.
She couldn’t, and she wouldn’t. Not yet, anyway.
Those papers in Aunt Brigitte’s room preoccupied her after that memory-dream. She hadn’t given the papers a thought in years; in fact, she’d forgotten about them entirely. Ever since she’d left the park, they’d consumed her thoughts.
After all, it was better than thinking about the Dark Artist, who may or may not be M. Gloves, what he was doing now, and w
hether he had his eye on her a week ago. Yesterday. Now.
It was also better than thinking of Simone, who, Nathalie decided, had simply changed too much since moving away. The old Simone would never have gotten so caught up in the idea of a “gift” that must be nurtured at all costs, even memory loss. No doubt Le Chat Noir and all its influences, including Louis, played a role in Simone’s fantastical notions.
She took a route along the Seine. In her periphery she saw something in the river, floating. Another body? She whipped her head around.
A bather. Just a girl cooling off, lying on her back. The girl lifted her head and spoke to a friend sitting on the bank, who then plunged into the water with a splash.
Nathalie scoffed. Au revoir, visions. I won’t miss the paranoia.
Tranquility had been rather standoffish toward her lately, and she hoped to reconcile with it soon enough. For good.
With a sigh, she reached into her bag for her vial of catacomb dirt. Her fingertips explored the bag until they bumped into the glass. She clutched the tube.
It felt different in her palm. Shorter, fatter, bulkier.
She yanked it out of the bag. A small jar containing dark red liquid.
Blood.
Nathalie stumbled and almost fell into someone. She moved to the wall, pressing herself against it for support.
Breathe.
Perhaps it wasn’t blood. Just a rash assumption prompted by the sight of the girl in the river.
She raised the jar to eye level, tilting it to see the consistency. The sticky way it streaked against the glass, the slight thickness of fluidity—she was right. She wanted to be wrong because that would mean this might be harmless or a prank or even a mistake. And it would mean she wasn’t standing here beside the Seine, with a jar of someone’s blood in her hand, in this bizarre life that felt like it belonged to someone else.
Then she noticed something else inside the jar. Thin, opaque.
She unscrewed the lid and sniffed, cringing at the unmistakable metallic smell. A slip of paper was submerged in the blood, all except for a tiny corner.
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