Maman slammed down the spoon. “What you call lies, I call protection.” She whipped her head around, a hawk alerted to prey. “I told you how embarrassing it was that Aunt Brigitte ended up in the asylum. It’s a disgrace to admit to being any part of that.”
“Monsieur Patenaude doesn’t seem ashamed to be an Insightful.”
Maman stepped toward Nathalie. “Do not ever use that term. It’s an insult.”
“It’s only an insult if you want it to be.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Maman, moving so close she was practically under Nathalie’s chin. “You don’t know how Tante was ridiculed and how your father was mocked when Dr. Henard went from hero to fool. Yes, I kept it from you, and I’m not sorry that I did.”
Nathalie’s face erupted with heat. “Maybe you should be. Because Papa passed it on to me.”
“What?”
“I have visions, Maman.” Nathalie spat the words as if they were sour milk. “At the morgue. Every time the Dark Artist has a victim on display, I touch the viewing pane and I see the murder scene.”
“You’re lying.” Maman took a step back.
“Now I’m lying? No, I’m not. I see the cuts he makes in their faces, Maman. I see the blade sink into their flesh, I see the girls scream until they die, I see the blood pour out of them. I see it as if I’m killing them with my own hands.”
SLAP.
Maman, quick as a wasp. Maman, who hadn’t struck her in the face. Ever.
Nathalie looked away as her hand went to her cheek, cradling the sting. Hot tears trickled over her fingers before she could stop them.
She pulled her hand away, eyes no longer tearing up, and wheeled to face Maman.
The fury she expected to see wasn’t there. Instead her mother’s face reflected fear. Terror, even.
Maman retreated, her back to the stove.
“Why are you backing away?”
Her mother stuck out her chin. “You’re not acting like yourself.”
“Neither are you!”
Maman clutched her apron. “Something is wrong with you. You’re either making this up or you have magical powers you have no right possessing. You and Simone, always exploring something. Her mother has mentioned tarot cards. You … are you two involved in something? The occult?”
Nathalie narrowed her eyes to slits. “I am not dignifying that absurdity with an answer.”
“I ask because this is not possible,” said Maman, more to herself than Nathalie. “No one has ever … unless you’re mad.”
“That’s your answer? Slap me and then go stand by a pot of strawberries?” Nathalie flailed. “You can’t run away from this, Maman! I’m not crazy. I do have powers. Being scared of me is about the cruelest response you could have. Merci for your understanding. And then you wonder why I don’t tell you anything.”
“Perhaps it’s better that way for both of us.”
Nathalie turned on her heel and headed to the apartment door. “Oh,” she called, her hand on the doorknob, “and you’ll be happy to know that I’m never going to touch the morgue glass again. Maybe that will ease your fears.”
“What do you mean, never again? Why?”
Nathalie stormed out of the apartment without answering. She stalked down the hall toward the door that led to the roof and felt for the key above the threshold.
Where is it? Did someone take it?
She looked back toward the apartment, dreading the thought of going back in. Then she spotted the key on the floor, in the corner. She opened the door, locked it behind her, and climbed the stairs. She sprawled on the flat roof and lay there thinking and crying, and at one point contemplated the idea of throwing herself off. It wasn’t a serious thought; when she ran through the scenario, her imagination halted as soon as she pictured walking up to the edge.
The sky went from blue to yellowish blue on the horizon to brilliant orange. Darkness trickled in, and at some point, she noticed stars. Eventually she drifted off to sleep and awoke with a start.
Thunder.
She went downstairs to the warmth of the bed, Stanley curled up beside her. The thunderstorm came through, louder and more powerful than any other this summer, or so it seemed.
27
When Nathalie woke up in the morning, there was a note from Maman on the kitchen table.
At Mass. Will return before noon.
Nathalie crumpled the paper and threw it on the floor. Mass? They went to church for holidays and funerals. Otherwise Maman never went to Mass, only to prayer services at Notre-Dame from time to time.
Maman had never slapped her in the face before, either.
After a quick breakfast, Nathalie returned to her bed. She wrote in her journal.
Waiting.
Wondering.
A short while later she heard the key turn in the apartment door lock.
Her heart thumped. She listened as Maman opened the door and cleared her throat. Next she heard paper crinkling; Maman must have picked up the note. Every mundane sound rustled with suspense, each one a ghost of uncomfortable possibilities, startling her, then skulking into the shadows.
As if she could avoid conversation with Maman forever.
In the next moment she heard Maman’s footfall draw closer. Nathalie’s heart pumped faster and she leaned over the side of the bed, sliding the journal underneath.
Maman cleared her throat again, this time at the bedroom doorway. She took off her white-flowered hat. “May I come in?”
Nathalie shrugged.
“I went to Mass today.”
“I saw the note.”
“I prayed for you,” Maman said, her voice neither soft nor sharp.
“In case I’m some kind of monster? Maybe I need an exorcism.” Nathalie made the sign of the cross in the air, then let her arm drop to the bed, dead weight.
Maman entered the room and sat on the corner of the bed. “I prayed for myself, too.”
“So that you know how to handle your demon child? Or mad daughter? Or science experiment freak? It must be one of those.”
“Stop it. You’re in your bedroom, not on stage.” Maman’s tone had an edge to it for the first time since she’d begun talking. She exhaled into a weary, troubled sigh. “Please tell me what’s been happening. All of it. I will listen without getting upset. I promise.”
Nathalie propped herself up straighter. “Non.”
“Ma bichette.” Maman drew closer, placing her hand on top of Nathalie’s. “Please.”
Stanley jumped off the bed. “Giving us privacy, are you?” Nathalie watched him leave the room. She paused, staring at the empty doorway for a moment, before facing Maman.
“It started a little more than three weeks ago.”
Nathalie described the visions and the memory loss. She didn’t mention the hypnosis or the fight with Simone, and she left out anything having to do with the Dark Artist’s threats. Sharing this secret with Maman was challenging enough; she didn’t need to throw that onto the pile. As for her choice to stop eliciting the visions, she explained it as something she didn’t want to torment herself with any longer. Maman understood.
When Nathalie was finished, Maman stood up. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were one of Dr. Henard’s patients.”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to say.”
“I don’t understand any of it. This has never happened to anyone before, not that I know of, but maybe something else brought this on.” Maman traced her scars several times before continuing. “I received a transfusion, too, Nathalie.”
“What? You have magical powers?”
“No, I don’t. It—it didn’t work on me. A handful of people tried the experiment and failed to acquire any special ability. I was one of them. No one other than your father knows that.”
She felt as though instead of speaking those words, Maman had punched her in the stomach with them. Was that the reason? If both of her parents had gotten a transfusion, then may
be whatever didn’t work on her mother was passed on to Nathalie.
Yet there was no way they could ever know, was there?
Perhaps I inherited the magic she was supposed to acquire. “What happened?”
“Your father and I met shortly after he and Brigitte received transfusions,” said Maman, her voice almost apologetic. “It was a different time. You don’t understand. This was a promising new discovery, a chance at something incredible. Superhuman.”
Nathalie shook her head. “You didn’t think there would be risks. You trusted that something so inconceivable was real without consequences.”
“Yes, we did,” said Maman, and her voice was more sure than it had been so far. “We did believe it. The proof was there at first, and magic was a new, enticing discovery. With the exception of the very religious and very old-fashioned, most everyone in Paris thought this was the next big step for the human race. It’s hard to comprehend that now, but for a time, Dr. Henard was praised for his work. He tried to be a good man, I think.” The last few words caught in Maman’s throat, and she paused.
Nathalie folded her arms. If I had been alive at that time, would I have tried it?
“I was enamored with the gifts Papa and Brigitte had,” said Maman, a sentimental shine in her hazel eyes. “I wanted that, too. When I got the transfusion and it didn’t take, I was devastated. Hundreds had been successful, and fewer than twenty hadn’t. I pitied myself for being unlucky. And I was jealous, very jealous, of your father and Tante. I felt inferior to them and almost ended the relationship with Augustin because I didn’t think myself worthy.”
Nathalie loosened her folded arms and put her hands over her heart. She beckoned Maman to continue.
“Not long after that, the stories started cropping up. We thought the problems were anomalies, just like I was among the few anomalies in the experiments.” Maman fussed with her hat. She pinched the silk flowers and tugged at the fabric. “We were safe for a while, until your father’s symptoms emerged. Then Brigitte’s behavior started to change little by little.”
“Like what?” Nathalie asked. “What did you notice first?”
Maman placed the hat beside her. “She began having trouble distinguishing between reality and dreams, what had happened and what was going to happen. When she started taking matters into her own hands, violently at that…”
Nathalie knew the rest. From Mme. Plouffe’s to the asylum. She wondered how many other women at Saint-Mathurin had been among Henard’s patients.
“What about Papa?” Nathalie asked in a whisper, stroking her bed linens.
Will he go mad?
Will I?
“He uses his power to tend to sailors who have fallen ill in a subtle way, such that people often don’t know he’s healed them.”
My goodness. Such humility. She loved Papa more than ever.
“Whatever they have,” Maman continued with a sigh, “he takes into himself—just a small part. A broken leg, his leg will be sore. Whooping cough, he’ll develop a cough. Never deadly, thank the Lord. Henard’s patients suffer, but they don’t die from their symptoms. Even so, he has to restrict how often he heals or he’d be constantly sick, and he cannot heal himself.”
“He’ll be able to heal your hands.”
“Not completely. He can’t make them perfect again.” She examined her hands, sadness darkening her face. “But he can take the pain away, maybe help me move them better. He can prevent someone from getting too weak, and he can help someone’s body get stronger, healthier. I suppose you could say he helps the body heal itself.”
A surge of pride swelled in Nathalie as she took in what that really meant. Her father helped people, better than a doctor, better than anyone. And he did it even though it temporarily diminished his own health.
She thought of the many times growing up where he’d touch her skinned knee or kiss her forehead when she was sick, telling her he’d make her stronger. She thought that was just the kind of thing fathers said, a playful game, but he really had been helping her. “That sounds like a marvelous gift. I don’t understand why it’s a family secret or a source of shame.”
Maman closed her eyes, then opened them. “Along with Henard’s disgrace came the disgrace of his patients. One time,” she said, shaking her head, “a crowd marched down Champs-Élysées saying Henard’s patients were diseased, or unnatural. ‘Henard is not your God,’ they shouted, and ‘You’re less than human, not more,’ and worse.”
Nathalie swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood up. She gave Maman a hug.
She’d held back telling Maman some things, and she had no doubt Maman was doing the same. Maman’s eyes held on to something—reasons, perhaps, and explanations she was too ashamed or uncomfortable to share. She still resented Maman for hiding all of this, but it was the kind of resentment that, she realized for the first time, might become more tepid with mutual understanding. Anger wasn’t going to get her anywhere.
A cautious peace settled around them for the rest of the day, fatigue slipping into the cracks. Nathalie could trust her mother with some, but not all, of her secrets. For now these would have to do.
28
The next morning, on her way to the morgue, Nathalie stopped at the mail box. When she saw Agnès’s fluid penmanship, her insides became gnarled tree roots. Did Agnès forgive her? Surely she’d be understanding. But Nathalie had expected Simone to be understanding, too. What if Agnès was just as lacking in compassion, or worse? Nathalie couldn’t bear another conflict this summer.
She stashed the letter in her bag, opting to read it later. When she was ready.
That decision lasted scarcely a minute.
Biting her lip, she leaned against the wall and retrieved the letter.
Dear Nata,
I confess that my first response was not a very kind one. Upon reading your letter about this ability of yours, I wrote one promptly.
Then I did what Grandmother recommends. I put it to the side and slept on it. When I woke up, I read it again. I tore it up and disposed of it.
It does not matter what I said, because that letter was selfish and impulsive; I only tell you about it out of guilt. These are the words that reflect my thoughts.
I do not hold this against you at all, my beloved friend. A secret such as that is neither easily kept nor easily shared. You have endured more this summer than all of our schoolmates together, and that you can speak of it at all, with any semblance of normality, is stunning. I would be a heap of sorrow and nervousness. You are, even at our age, a pillar of both pluck and resilience.
Hypnotism is not something I believe in—or rather, I didn’t before your letter. Now I am not sure what I think of it. I suppose it may not be the fraudulent parlor trick I assumed it to be.
As for the Dr. Henard experiments, I know only what my parents have said. They are critical of those who partook in them, I’m afraid, and believe only those who fancied themselves better than the rest of us sought to be patients. I do not share their opinion. Do you think your power is related to that somehow?
Our date at Le Canard Curieux still holds. This shall be my last letter of the summer, for by the time you receive this, we’ll be within a day or two of leaving. Aside from packing, I plan to spend my time with my hands in the earth (Papa still insists on it) and in dough—not at the same time, of course.
I very much look forward to our meeting. It is splendid to see your words, but I am eager to hear them in person. Despite the tone of our recent letters, I predict much laughter between us, too. Not all our moments should be solemn, even in the darkest of circumstances, and I know you agree.
Until then.
Bisous,
Agnès
Nathalie sighed audibly. Thank you for understanding, Agnès.
She’d learned so much about herself and the world around her that it was hard to believe a letter sent less than a week ago could be out of date. So many things different, so many new discoveries, already.
* * *
Nothing new occurred at the morgue; the fourth victim was still on display. When Nathalie took a seat on the steam tram afterward, an abandoned copy of Le Petit Journal lay on the empty seat beside her.
Streetwalker Charlotte Benoit Identified as Fourth Victim
Charlotte Benoit. She had a name, yet her corpse was still on display.
Nathalie didn’t feel the same connection to this victim because she hadn’t touched the glass, and now she felt guilty about it. She hadn’t given as much thought to her as Odette, the nameless second victim, and Mirabelle.
Wasn’t that the point? To avoid being consumed by the madness of the Dark Artist?
She felt different this time, learning Charlotte’s name. The feeling was new, something mixed with a soft brushstroke of remorse, a drop of curiosity unfulfilled, and a pinch of liberation. Maybe that’s how she’d feel from this point on, now that she’d distanced herself. Or maybe that combination would shift—more of this, less of that, all of this, none of that—over time.
Or maybe the Dark Artist would stop. Or get caught. Then she wouldn’t have to think about it at all. And what would happen with her gift once the murders stopped? Would it emerge again? Would she see other murders? Why these killings in particular? Was there something special about them that brought out her ability?
None of these questions matter. I’m never going to use this power again anyway.
Yet they did. She still wanted to understand as much as possible.
A short time later, as she handed M. Patenaude her article, she asked if he had a few minutes to continue their conversation from the other day.
“Happy to,” he said, closing his office door. Arianne was away from her desk.
“I probably shouldn’t be telling you this, but … you’re the only one I can talk to right now. After everything we discussed the other day, I can’t keep this from you,” she said, pressing her knuckles together. With a sigh she settled into the chair across from his desk and explained how Maman had gotten a Henard transfusion but didn’t succeed in obtaining magic. Despite the modest amount of guilt she felt betraying her mother’s secret, she didn’t see any way around it. M. Patenaude had the ability to discern truth, and he’d know if something wasn’t quite right.
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