In a panic, I tore through the room, Oliver right beside me. Under tables and chairs, and even in the bathroom, I searched.
But my bag was gone.
I grabbed Oliver’s sleeve, on the verge of hysteria. “You are sure you didn’t take it?”
“I didn’t!” His head shook frantically. “Where was it?”
“Under the bed.”
“What?” He gripped my upper arms. “Why would you keep the letters in such a damned obvious place?”
“Because I didn’t think—”
“No, you didn’t think! Are you completely stupid, Eleanor?” He was shouting. “Anyone could bloody take them— including Marcus!” His fingers dug into me.
“But can’t you find them?” My voice was shrill. “Sense them with your magic?”
His grip loosened.
“The way you found the letters on the boat,” I pleaded.
Oliver swallowed and then nodded. “Yes. Yes, I-I’ll try that.” He released me.
“Do I need to command you?”
“No. I . . . I can simply feel for it—the same way I sense you. Now be quiet.” He closed his eyes, and the faintest shimmer of blue shone through his eyelids. Then they popped up and he pivoted around, aiming for my balcony.
I scrabbled after, and we both tumbled through the glass door.
And instantly stopped. For there were the letters, reduced to a pile of smoldering ashes. The carpetbag was open beside it.
“Oh no, no, no.” Oliver dropped to the embers and shoved his fingers in. “No, no, no— please no.”
But his hands came up with nothing but soot. Tears slid down his cheeks, and he rolled his head back, eyes closed. “This was all I had left of him, El. How could you just leave his letters out?”
“They weren’t out—”
“And they damned well weren’t hidden either.” He jumped to his feet, rounding on me. “You are an idiot.”
I skittered back into my room. “I-I’m sorry.”
“Sorry isn’t enough! I told you that I was still under Elijah’s command. I needed those letters to find the Old Man! Those letters and this locket”—he clasped the chain, his knuckles white—“were the only things I had left from Elijah.”
“Me too!”
“But he wasn’t your—” he broke off, his eyes twitching.
“Wasn’t my what?” I demanded.
“Nothing!” he roared. “It’s bloody personal, and none of your damned affair. I cannot believe you could be so stupid as this.” He twisted away from me, and when he spoke again, his voice was low. “I need a drink. I’ll be at the bar.” He released the locket and stalked to the door.
I ran after him. “You can’t just leave! What about the Old Man in the Pyramid? The Black Pullet?
Or Marcus?”
“What about Marcus?” He stopped at the door. “He’s obviously in the city, and now he has burned our only chance of finding the Old Man. You wasted away our time, and now he caught up to us.”
Oliver spun back to the door.
“Don’t go.” I grabbed his hand. “Please, Oliver. There’s no reason to be so mad.”
“No reason?” He flung off my hand. “You call losing our only clue to the Black Pullet no reason?
You call losing my only connection to Elijah no reason?”
“We do have a clue,” I snapped. “We at least know we have to go to Marseille.”
“No, Eleanor. We think we have to go to Marseille.” He resumed his stomp to the door.
“Stop!” I shrieked. “This isn’t fair for you to be so angry. I can try to remember what Elijah said!
Or I can try to set you free before the command—” I broke off. He was already to the door.
I lurched after him. “Please, please do not go. If you do, I’ll . . .”
Oliver paused, his whole body tensing. Slowly he looked back. “You’ll what, El? Command me?”
I gulped and nodded.
His eyes flashed gold. “Oh, I dare you to. I dare you to command me. Because I will fight it. I will fight it until you and I are both on the ground weeping from the pain.” He ripped open the door. “Now let me go. I want to be alone.” Then he stormed away, slamming the door behind him.
And I was left standing there, watching the empty space where he’d just been. “But I don’t,” I whispered, “I don’t want to be alone.”
My bedroom door had barely been shut for four shaking breaths when a knock sounded. My heart heaved—was Oliver returning?
The knock came again. “Mademoiselle Fitt?” a man asked—a man I didn’t know. “Est-ce que vous-êtes là? J’ai un télégramme pour vous.”
Telegram? Maybe there was word from home! I hurtled to the door and swung it wide. A startled, blue-uniformed steward gawked at the state of my gown and hair. In his hands was a silver platter atop which lay a neatly folded telegram.
I snatched it from him—“Merci, merci! ”—and then I kicked the door shut, already unfolding the telegram.
In Le Havre. Will reach Paris Saturday. Have news.
Allison
My jaw went slack, and for several moments I could do nothing but reread the message again and again.
Allison Wilcox was coming to Paris. On Saturday . . . that was tomorrow!
“Have news,” I whispered, my eyes searching the scant message for some sort of sign; but there was nothing to be found.
Why hadn’t she telegraphed from Philadelphia? To be arriving so soon could only mean she had left shortly after me—on some indirect voyage, I assumed. Yet . . . what could have possibly prompted such a trip?
Panic began to creep in. Panic and guilt and a growing shroud of black dread. Allison was coming tomorrow with news. I had almost killed Laure. I had threatened the Spirit-Hunters. I had raised a hundred animal corpses by accident. I had left Elijah’s letters out, and now someone had destroyed them. And my demon—the one person I thought I would have left—had abandoned me.
And Allison Wilcox was coming tomorrow. Oh, why, why, why? What news could she have?
Nothing good, nothing good . . .
The sound of rustling paper hit my ears. I blinked. My hands shook violently, and my stomach churned. I staggered toward the bathroom, certain I would vomit. Certain I would collapse at any moment.
I paused at the door, clutching at the frame. “What have I done? What have I done?” I slid down to the floor. Daniel was right. I was disgusting for being so foolish . . . so weak.
And now I was alone too, and very, very lost.
Without thinking I pulled in my power—what few traces had returned since raising the corpses . . . since healing Laure. There wasn’t much, but even that little trickle was enough to soothe me. It was like a prayer to a nun, and simply feeling the blue energy slide into my heart. . . .
I summoned the only spell I knew. “Hac nocte non somniabo,” I whispered. The magic eased out of me, taking my dread and my panic and my problems with it. I exhaled slowly, sinking into the heady feeling and savoring it.
Take a nap. Just a small nap until Oliver returns.
Using the doorframe, I dragged myself up to stumble to the bed. And as I drifted off into a dreamless sleep, a smile played on my lips.
For I was not completely lost. I still had my magic. . . .
I awoke to another knock at my door. Terror rose in my chest, bright and paralyzing. Was it the
Spirit-Hunters? I snapped my eyes open, only to find that the sun had barely moved.
“Who—” I tried to call out, but my voice cracked. I swallowed and tried again. “Who is it?”
“Mademoiselle Fitt? It is Madame Marineaux.”
I shot upright, my fear receding with each heartbeat. Here was someone who did not hate me.
Someone who did not know all the horrors of my life, who sought my company simply because.
I bolted toward the door, black briefly clouding my vision . . . but then it receded, and I staggered to a stop. I was still wearing my ruined brown g
own—the gown she had given me! And my arms were coated in animal blood, and my hair—
“Mademoiselle Fitt? May I come in?”
“Uh . . .” I crept to the door.
“The Marquis told me you were caught in the hotel’s Morts.”
I reached the door and with great care cracked it barely an inch. “Yes, Madame. I fear I am a terrible mess. Perhaps you ought to return later.” Through the space, I saw her face tighten with worry.
“Nonsense, Mademoiselle. If you are hurt, then I can help. Please, let me in.”
I reluctantly spread the door wider, taking in the Madame’s impeccable silver-gray gown and feathered hat.
As she examined me, her hands flew to her cheeks. “Oh no! You are injured!”
“No, I’m fine,” I rushed to say, but she had already shoved in.
“You are covered in blood!”
“It isn’t mine. I assure you, Madame, I am not hurt.” Not on the outside, at least. I gulped and pushed away the thought.
“Then let us clean you up.” She grabbed for my arm, then—clearly thinking better of it—withdrew her hand and motioned toward the bathroom. “The dressmaker will be here any moment for your final fitting before the ball.”
I flinched. “The ball? Oh no, I cannot possibly attend.”
She tutted and bustled toward the bathroom, not even bothering to see if I followed. She seemed to know I would . . . and I did—though slowly.
“You will attend the ball,” she said lightly. “It will be the best solution to your afternoon of horrors.” She paused at the bathroom doorway and finally glanced back at me. “Trust me, Mademoiselle Fitt. I know these things.”
“A-all right,” I stammered. Even though I was determined to avoid the ball—Jie still needed finding, and Oliver . . . who knew when he would return? But in the meantime, I could at least enjoy a bath.
Her lips curved up, making her bright eyes crinkle. At that smile, my chest loosened. Some of my earlier worries pulled back, almost as if . . . as if I were using my magic.
And it occurred to me that maybe friendship was a better balm for my problems than magic.
Chapter Nineteen
I floated on air. Giddy. Positively brimming with joy and perfection. My gown was beautiful, andI was beautiful—more beautiful than I had ever been in my entire life. The bloodred color of the fabric made my skin glow and my cheeks bright. My hair was coiled and curled, and roses were tucked in at the back.
Madame Marineaux had spent the entire afternoon with me, helping curl my hair, pulling my stays until I could hardly breathe—yet, oh how tiny my waist was after!—and pinching my cheeks to add color.
Now we rattled in her carriage on our way to the ball—a ball! My very first ball, and in Paris no less. Oh, how proud Mama would be if she were here to see this.
Or—my brow furrowed—would she be proud? Something was wrong with that thought; but before
I could identify precisely what, Madame Marineaux gestured to the window.
“We are almost to the Palais Garnier. I think you will like what you see.”
I slid across the velvet bench seat and swept aside the matching curtain. “You have such a lovely carriage, Mad—ohhh.” I stopped speaking, too enthralled by the gleaming and golden palace at the end of the street. As party guests alighted from their carriages and glided toward huge archways that marked the building’s entrance, bright streetlights bathed them in an ethereal glow.
And as our own carriage slowly rolled closer, the full splendor of the palace came into view—the giant golden angels flanking its sides, the copper-domed roof, and the elaborate faces and statues that peered out from every spare inch. All I knew of the palace was that it was meant to be a theater—yet we had no theaters even half as magnificent in Philadelphia. Even the lovely Arch Street Theatre I had visited with Clarence seemed a drab, tiny thing in comparison to this.
“Come.” Madame Marineaux’s sweet voice broke into my gawking. “We must make our grand entrance. An old lady and a stunning young femme.”
“Old lady!” I cried. “Hardly! You look positively perfect tonight.” And I meant that. Madame
Marineaux’s gown was a vivid black silk—so unusual yet so striking against her pale skin and dark hair. I was elated to be spending the evening with a hostess as remarkable as she.
A footman opened the carriage door and helped me bustle out. Other guests sailed past, all of them in pairs and chattering happily. Drifting over their conversations was the faint sound of a thrumming waltz. A breeze caressed my bare shoulders, sweeping beneath my curls.
It was a perfect night. I had no cares in the world. Only this delicious buzzing happiness in my chest.
Madame Marineaux swished past me toward the columns, her face beaming as she declared, “The ball calls us, Mademoiselle! Let us dance and dance until our feet hurt and the sun rises!”
Dancing! I gathered up my skirts and traipsed after her, my heart singing at the thought of real dancing! I had certainly learned the waltz, the mazurka, and all the other popular dances, but I’d never had chance to do them! As we approached, the music grew louder, and I could see dancers soaring past on the second-floor balconies.
But staring out from above those balconies were staid, golden statues of composers, and I grinned up at Mozart as he watched me approach. It was with such silly distractions in mind that I finally reached the wide steps leading to the Palais Garnier’s entrance. I followed Madame Marineaux up through an archway, and after passing through a wooden entryway, found myself in a high-ceilinged hall, where dim lantern light flickered over life-size statues of more composers.
Madame Marineaux whirled around quite suddenly, her gloved arms outstretched. “Oh, I almost forgot! You must take a dance card.”
I blinked and then realized she held a palm-size white booklet with a delicate cord attached to the spine. I gasped excitedly and snatched it up. My first dance card! I flipped it open and scanned the list of all the dances—we were currently on the polka redowa.
“I shall introduce you to everyone,” Madame Marineaux continued, clearly enjoying my pleasure, “and then I am certain all the men will be vying for a dance with the pretty American girl.” She hooked her arm into mine, our enormous skirts pressing inward, and gave a long, contented sigh. “I have been so lonely until you came along, Mademoiselle Fitt. It is . . . wonderful to have a companion once more.”
“But . . .” I looked away from the card. “What of the Marquis?” At that name something tickled in the back of my mind, yet when I tried to pinpoint why, the feeling flittered away like a hummingbird.
Madame Marineaux tugged me into a walk, leading me toward an archway. Beyond was an enormous staircase, glowing golden and warm. “I adore the Marquis, but a man is no replacement for one’s female friends. Nor is he a replacement for my m—” Her lips puckered. “My first man.”
“I . . . I am sorry.”
“Do not be! Did I not tell you only two days ago, c’est la vie? And look.” Smiling, she pointed to a bronze statue beside the stairwell. Beneath its elaborate candelabras stood two men in deep conversation. “There is a friend of mine, and”—she flashed her eyebrows at me—“he has a very handsome son who I am certain will wish to escort you to the dance floor.”
After our introduction, the young man, a Monsieur Something-or-other, did escort me. Up and up the stairwell we went. The music grew louder with each step, and my fingers traced along the balustrades. At the first landing the stairs split in two, and the monsieur—who prattled endlessly in
French and did not seem to mind that I neither understood nor listened—veered right.
The moment we reached the second floor, however, we were forced to slow. People were everywhere. Women clad in all shades of a pastel rainbow hung on their black-suited partners. As we waited for the crowds to thin, the young man took my dance card, withdrew a pencil from his waistcoat, and scribbled his name beside the galop. I grinned delightedly as I slipped th
e dance card’s cord around my wrist. My first dance! And with such a dashing gentleman on my arm . . . except, I felt there was someone else I would rather have on my arm. But for whatever reason, I could not remember who.
I brushed it off, intoxicated by the atmosphere. My escort said something and motioned to our left.
Yet before I could even try to comprehend his French, he was tugging me through a dim doorway and into a round room with a bright sunshine painted on the ceiling. Mirrors adorned the walls, magnifying the light from a gold chandelier and reflecting a flushed, bright-eyed me.
I had just enough time to evaluate if my roses were still in place in my hair (they were) when my escort pulled me through the tiny room and into an alcove crowded with men. They debated in excited
French, hands wild and mustaches wiggling, as completely disinterested in the dancing going on beyond as I was in their debates.
Fortunately, my partner was of the same mind, and we finally managed to wedge ourselves into the ornate ballroom just as the first strains of the galop began.
And moments later, with his gloved hand on my back and his other hand clasping mine, we sashayed onto the dark-wood floors. Crystal chandeliers hung overhead, dripping with light and illuminating all the swirling faces. My partner smiled; I smiled.
The dance passed in a blur, and I barely had time to catch my breath before Madame Marineaux had a new young man to meet me—and to sign my dance card. One after another, I waltzed, polkaed, skipped les lanciers, and hopped into another galop. And one after another, my partners’ faces blurred together. . . .
Just as the first bouncing beats of a waltz began, my newest partner drew me into his arms. But then another man shoved through the crowd. He snarled something at the Frenchman, and before I could even process it all, this new young man had me in his arms.
His suit was like all the other gentlemen’s, his patent leather shoes just as gleaming, his white gloves just as crisp, yet something about the way it all came together on Daniel was a thousand times more striking. His hair was slick and combed, but a ruffle at the front meant he’d run his fingers through it anyway.
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