“I keep a lot of secrets, Nathalie. I promise not to say anything to anyone.”
She regarded M. Patenaude, with his not-so-thick glasses today, and thought about just how difficult that must be. To know the truth when sometimes it might be easier to accept a lesser version of it.
Nathalie cleared her throat. “I realize I may never know how or why I have this ability. I like to think what Maman didn’t get, I did, and that Papa’s magic added to it somehow. Whatever happened, and whether it’s correct or not, I consider myself one of you. An Insightful.”
Maybe Maman didn’t like that term, but Nathalie did. She liked choosing whether or not she touched the viewing pane, and she liked the idea of deciding what to call herself.
He smiled. “It’s human nature to want to make sense of things. We’ve talked about that with regard to journalism—it’s one of our truths, to be sure. So first, I think your theory is an excellent one. Second, I’d consider myself an Insightful, too, if I were you.”
Nathalie took off her cap and let her walnut-colored waves fall onto her shoulders. While she was in here with M. Patenaude, peeling back a layer of her identity, it felt absurd to be dressed as a boy.
Then she asked the question that had been bothering her since she saw that headline earlier. “Do you think it’s wrong of me to reject the visions? Am I being selfish?”
“Not at all.” His tone was decisive, which made her glad she asked. “No two people experience this the same way. Ability, symptoms, what it means to bring magic into your life … it’s very personal.”
It occurred to her that she didn’t know what side effect, or symptom as he called it, M. Patenaude endured. “What’s it been like for you?”
He walked over to his desk and sat behind it, moving a stack of newspapers to the side. “Sometimes a blessing, sometimes a curse.”
That’s exactly how Nathalie had thought of it. She nodded.
M. Patenaude pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and continued. “The blessing is the feeling of clarity, of cutting through the nonsense when communicating with people. That’s also the curse. Believe it or not, there are times when it’s easier to hear a lie than the truth.”
Easier to hear, easier to tell. Sometimes.
“And as you know,” he added, “we all have something taken from us. For me, it’s loss of vision to varying degrees. It comes back, but it wavers.”
She stared at his glasses. That’s why sometimes they seemed thick, sometimes they seemed thin. He really had been wearing different glasses at various times; she hadn’t been imagining it. “Would you have done it if you knew you’d struggle with eyesight?”
“I’ve asked myself that question too many times, and the answer changes. So I’ve stopped asking.” He pinched the stem of his glasses. “More often than not, I think yes.”
“You’ve done a lot a good with your gift, like Papa. I’m sure that’s rewarding.”
“It is, but I can’t take too much credit for the gift itself,” he said. “You don’t choose the ability. It comes from who you already are.”
Nathalie hadn’t thought about this, and as soon as she did, her stomach knotted up. Seeing murder came from within? “That’s not comforting.”
“It should be; you’re learning something about yourself, what’s important to you.” He leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs. “You have your father’s height and eyes but your mother’s nose. No one can predict which physical features a child might inherit. The magic works sort of like that—some intangible attribute that makes you ‘you’ weaves into your ability. For example, truth has always been interesting to me, and words captivate me.”
“So those are the things that manifested your power,” she said, intrigued by the conclusion. What did the visions say about her?
A knock at the door interrupted them. “Mail,” called a voice from the other side.
M. Patenaude rose from the desk and opened the door. After a fleeting, somewhat muffled conversation, he came back with some mail. “I asked for your mail, too,” he said, handing her several unimportant pieces before halting. His eyes rested on the envelope a moment before holding it up to show her.
Uncomfortably familiar handwriting. Addressed to the Morgue Reporter with “A Fellow Writer” in the return address.
Her pulse climbed like a frightened cat up a tree.
“May I?” asked M. Patenaude.
“Please do.”
M. Patenaude opened the letter and read it out loud. “‘My Dear Scribe, I see you found my present to be most inspiring. Bravo on this most recent description of my latest exhibit. I am pleased. Be sure to continue.’”
Nathalie felt as if a cool breeze passed over the back of her neck. “He’s disgusting.”
“He is,” said M. Patenaude with a nod, “yet his sentiment, revolting as it is, is also genuine. That makes me think the safest choice remains to comply.”
“I hate it.” It was one thing to read Poe. It was another to write about real people and real crimes to please a killer.
M. Patenaude tucked the letter back into the envelope. “I could assign—”
“Non.” Nathalie pushed her chair back. She took some hairpins out of her trousers, tucked her waves back, and put on her wool felt cap. “I’m a journalist. I’ve already given up the visions for my own well-being. I’m not giving this up, too.”
It wasn’t necessarily a pleasant compromise, but it was one she could accept. For now.
* * *
As the days passed, she found peace in her decision to refrain from touching the glass, and she found strength in her trusty always-in-sight policemen. Regaining some control brought her confidence.
No worries about visions, memory loss, or entwining secrets with her soul. She would just be Nathalie Baudin, anonymous reporter of public morgue displays. Not Nathalie Baudin, odd girl who went into a trance macabre whenever the Dark Artist sent another victim or who felt like she was being watched by the other morgue visitors.
Right?
I feel safe.
I feel normal.
To celebrate the first week of her newly regained sense of freedom, she bought Maman flowers from Mme. Valois. She was pleased to think that this time she’d remember buying them.
Nathalie carried the bouquet of yellow, pink, and white daisies into the morgue. She almost expected fate to jab her with the irony of another victim, but thankfully, no butchered young women lay on top of the concrete blocks. All the unfortunate men and women there, except for the man whose neck and face signified a suicide by hanging, simply appeared to be swollen but asleep. Their deaths were cold, pitiable, and alone—the opposite of dramatic. Forgettable. That was in part why Nathalie found them to be so tragic.
Five days after Charlotte’s body appeared in the morgue, Paris had wondered aloud if the killer had stopped. Although he’d gone more than two weeks between killing his second and third victims, the public appetite had been whetted. He’d teased them, trained them to expect more, cultivated a sense of urgency. You couldn’t pass a tram stop or stand in line at the morgue or sit at a café without hearing someone speculate as to whether or not there would be any more murders. Maybe he was killed. Maybe he left the city. Maybe he’d been found out and was being blackmailed. Le Petit Journal asked, HAS THE DARK ARTIST PUT DOWN HIS KNIFE?
Whether or not the Dark Artist was done, she was.
Nathalie glanced at Christophe, who gave her a courteous nod.
As she daydreamed about meeting with Christophe and discussing subjects other than death and visions and magic, she smiled. She wanted to talk to him, truly talk to him, and was working up the nerve to invite him for coffee and a sweet.
Yes. She’d made the right choice, and she was ready for new and joyous experiences. Life should be—would be—better now.
29
The next afternoon, Nathalie stepped into the shopping arcade and paused to let her eyes adjust. As much as she enjoyed being outside, a str
oll through the bustling passage, with its vaulted glass ceiling and granite floor, was equally stimulating. The plethora of shops and restaurants on either side brought the boulevard indoors, which Nathalie thought to be a clever concept.
She made her way along the walkway, passing underneath the decorative wrought-iron signs that arched overhead. Somewhere between the stationer’s shop and a perfumery, she halted. People ambled to and fro, but something didn’t feel right.
Was someone following her?
She turned and saw her policeman the usual distance away. No one loitered or pretended to look away; nothing seemed out of the ordinary. (If anything, people were annoyed that she didn’t keep moving along.) After examining every face in view, she concluded that she’d been mistaken. It must have been the combination of her policeman and this confined, crowded space.
Shaking her head, Nathalie continued along the passage. As she approached Le Canard Curieux, Agnès arrived from the opposite direction. She was tempted to burst into a run and scoop petite Agnès into her arms.
They met at the entrance, bubbling with hellos and hugs and cheek kisses. A waiter seated them inside the restaurant and presented them with menus.
“You seem so refreshed!” said Nathalie. “If Summer were a sixteen-year-old Parisian girl, she would look like you.”
Agnès’s dirty blond hair had grown lighter over the summer, and her peachy skin was a few sun-kissed shades darker than usual. Her clear blue eyes sparkled more than ever, and her pink cotton dress with white peonies framed her summer look perfectly. Nathalie was suddenly aware of her own drab hair and sunburned cheeks.
“Thank you,” said Agnès, beaming. “And that dress of yours is divine. I like the yellow, but I especially like the beadwork. If you weren’t so much taller than me, I’d be asking to wear it.”
Nathalie made a mental note to ask Maman to show her how to make a similar dress for Agnès. If she had a few months to work on it, she could give it to her for Christmas.
“I brought you something,” said Agnès excitedly.
“Oh!” Nathalie’s eyes lit up. “One of those violet-flavored candies?”
Agnès’s face darkened. “I was supposed to bring you two somethings. That was to be the first. But Roger the Rascal got into my bag and took the candies I’d bought you.”
“He plays his role as aggravating younger brother well, doesn’t he?”
“Too well,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Fortunately your inedible gift fared much better.”
Agnès reached into her bag. She pulled out a bluish-green jar, similar in size and shape to what Maman used for jam, and handed it to Nathalie. “Since you couldn’t come to the beach, I brought the beach to you.”
“And I don’t even need a hat! Good, because they’re bothersome,” said Nathalie with a laugh. Inside the jar was sand and seashells. She took out the three reddish-gold shells, not yet bleached from the sun, and ran her fingertips over the delicate ridges. “What stories these could tell.” She then pinched a few grains of sand and let them sift through her fingers. It wasn’t the coarse sand and gravel of Paris. It was finer, subtly multicolored, and complex.
The waiter interrupted them to ask for their orders. Neither had read the menu yet, so they made their selections hastily—quiche au fromage for each of them—and continued talking before the waiter even left the table.
Agnès leaned in. “We had a family picnic on the beach at Deauville. Which, as enticing as that sounds, amounts to sand in your food, no matter what.” She wiped off her empty plate to demonstrate. “I scooped that up from beside our blanket.”
“Thank you, Agnès.” Nathalie was touched that Agnès had done her best to connect her to the holiday she was supposed to have shared with her. “That means a lot.”
“Don’t thank me too much. It’s only a temporary gift. You have to give it back next year.”
Nathalie raised her eyebrows.
“Not to me. To the beach itself. I want you to bring it when we go next summer. Pour it out on the beach and get some of your own!” She laughed her Agnès laugh, one that sounded like gemstones clinking in a wineglass.
Nathalie smiled. She didn’t know if she’d be able to go on holiday with Agnès next summer; it would depend on Maman’s ability to work and money and a host of other things. Yet she didn’t want Agnès to think otherwise, not for a moment. “That’s a delightful idea. I promise to do exactly that.”
The waiter came over with their meals shortly thereafter. The egg and cheese on the buttery, rich crust were fresh and flavorful, and the dish was perfectly cooked. As they ate, the conversation turned from the carefree talk of Agnès’s one-day beau from Rouen to the heaviness of Nathalie’s visions, the Dark Artist, and the Insightfuls. Nathalie apologized yet again for keeping Agnès in the dark and more than made up for it, telling her everything that had happened since that first touch of the glass.
“You’re blessed, Nathalie,” Agnès said, her voice measured with awe. “I don’t care how you obtained this gift. Don’t worry—I’ll never tell my parents any of this. I don’t share their perspective, as you can guess. Your power is incredible. It’s meaningful. You’re doing great things as a journalist already. And you’re going to do great things with your gift.”
“You are too good to me,” Nathalie said with a warm smile. “I’ve given up my gift, though. And you know how it was with those Henard experiments. Sometimes the magical ability fades away or changes.”
Agnès shook her head. “It’s still there. If you want it and need it, you reach inside for it. It’s become such an intimate part of you so quickly that I bet it will never leave.” She tucked her hair behind her ear as she paused. “It’s who you are, even if you don’t use it. Like a flower that disappears into the soil over the winter. It’s still a flower.”
Nathalie had never thought about it that way. The analogy was sweet and comforting. She could say the same of her friendship with Agnès, too.
They spent the rest of the day together, even making a trip to the morgue. (Christophe was just leaving the display room and didn’t see them. Nathalie pointed him out all the same, admitting her fondness for him. “What are you waiting for?” Agnès asked.) After the morgue they shared a pain au chocolat at Café Maxime, as was their custom. Agnès was in such good spirits that she began to sing. She had a voice like a songbird and was a choir member at Notre-Dame, but she didn’t sing church music now. No, Agnès playfully sang some traditional French songs, got Nathalie to join in, and got the people at the neighboring table to sing along. Soon half the café was singing and laughing.
Nathalie took in the joy around her, wishing she could make it last forever. This was the best day she’d had in a long time.
They made plans to meet up again at Le Canard Curieux in a week. Simone might be out of the picture, but Agnès was here, and Nathalie appreciated her companionship more than ever.
And she had almost a year to convince Maman to let her go on holiday to the Normandy coast for a month next summer. After all, she had a mission. She had to return some sand to the sea.
* * *
Several days later, after going through the morgue, Nathalie moseyed over to the Seine. She stood on the nearby Pont de l’Archevêché and watched for a while as boats sailed under the bridge.
“Good afternoon, Mademoiselle Baudin.”
Her favorite voice this summer.
“Hello, Christophe.” She turned, hoping he wouldn’t notice the blush in the bright sun. “Stepping out for some fresh air?”
“Fresher than bodies.” He rested his elbows on the railing. They both faced the river and spoke of the boats and bathers and how nice it would be to have some glace à la vanille on a day like this. Then he paused and looked behind them. “I see your escort is nearby. Everything is going well, I assume?”
“It is,” she said, stealing a glance at his handsome profile. “I’ve never had anyone look after me this way. I’m flattered.”
Chri
stophe spread his hands out on the railing. “It’s part of what we do, particularly in times of heightened awareness. More importantly you … remind me of someone dear to me. You have her curiosity and wit.”
“Do I?” Nathalie’s body tingled with anticipation. She wanted to place her hand on his but refrained. “Who?”
“My sister. I became a police officer to honor her life,” he said. “Her husband came home in a drunken rage and beat her, as he often did. One time he pushed her out a window, and…”
He didn’t have to say the rest.
“I’m sorry. I—I had no idea.” She felt sorry for him, and she also felt foolish. “Paris is very lucky to have you protecting it.”
He half smiled. “Insofar as I can. This is the most sinister set of crimes I’ve ever seen—and unpredictable. There’s no pattern as to how or why the Dark Artist is picking them. At least two men spend their days trying to figure out what connects all these young women and there’s still no clear answer,” he said, shifting his weight. “My betrothed is in America with her family for the summer. Although I miss her, I’m very glad she’s not in Paris right now.”
Nathalie found herself gripping the railing tightly. “Betrothed?”
“Ah, yes. I’ve not mentioned her? I proposed just prior to their departure in May.”
Several feelings surrounded her, partnering in a quadrille dance around her heart. Pity for Christophe, sorrow for his sister, admiration for his pure heart, and embarrassment that his heart wasn’t for her, not in that way, despite her deeply buried hope.
“No, you hadn’t.” Nathalie kept her focus on the river. “How exciting for you.”
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