“Well, if you’re planning to treat them the way you’re treating Ananka …”
“I wasn’t asking. I was telling you,” Molly said.
“Geez, Molly,” I groaned, embarrassed by her rudeness.
“Gotta go,” Molly announced, grabbing her box. “I have very important work to do.”
I followed her through the kitchen and out the back of the building. Tucked away in a hidden courtyard was an ivy-covered carriage house. Molly stopped just inside the door and kicked off her boots. I stood in utter shock as my eyes passed from the giant portrait of Ananka Jr. that was hanging above a sofa to the impressive collection of medieval gargoyles mounted to one of the brick walls. Molly Donovan had her own house.
“This is all yours, isn’t it?” I asked.
“Yeah,” Molly said without bothering to look back at me. “It’s time you knew the truth. I’m a spoiled rotten brat.”
“That wasn’t what I was thinking. But you shouldn’t treat your mom like that.” I was whispering, even though there was no chance Theresa Donovan could hear us.
“Everyone else kisses Mommy Dearest’s famous butt. Why should I?” Molly said.
“That’s not the point! And for your information, I don’t give a hoot that she’s a movie star. She’s one of the nicest—”
Molly spun around so suddenly that I braced for an attack. “If you’re going to give me the speech about how lucky I am to have a mom like her, believe me, I’ve heard it a million times. I don’t deserve to have a sweet, beautiful, perfect mother. And she doesn’t deserve a horrible, redheaded delinquent like me.”
“Oh, come on!”
“I don’t have time for this, Ananka. I’ve declared war on L’Institut Beauregard. I’m going to fight for all the girls who didn’t turn out right. For the freaks of nature. For the black sheep. For all the girls like Rebecca Gruber, who are too clumsy or too hairy or too wild or too tomboyish. I’m going to fight for the girls who were sent to that institute because someone wasn’t satisfied with them.”
The speech gave me goose bumps. For a moment, I was prepared to follow Molly Donovan into battle. “It’s a noble cause,” I admitted. “But you’ve got to see—you’re not one of those girls. Okay, so maybe your mom doesn’t understand you. My mother is convinced that I’m a pathological liar. But your mom isn’t trying to change anything about you, Molly. She loves you the way you are.”
Molly snorted. “Because she’s a saint. But every time anyone sees the two of us together, I always know exactly what they’re thinking. How did Theresa Donovan give birth to that?”
“Even if that’s true—and it’s not—why would you punish your mom for stuff other people think? You know, she told me you tell people that you were adopted. Can you even imagine how much that might hurt her?”
“Yeah, well do you have a better explanation?” Molly asked. “My mother and I look nothing alike. We act nothing alike. You know, one of her stupid actor friends used to call me the changeling whenever my mother left the room. He said it right to my face once when I was four. He didn’t think I understood what it meant.”
“So what? You’re Molly Donovan! You’re a legend! A hero to half the girls in Manhattan! You don’t care what other people say about you!”
“God, Ananka, you’re more annoying than all my old shrinks put together. Look, I don’t want to be rude, but I really don’t have any desire to explore my issues right now.”
Molly took an X-ACTO knife from a desk drawer and slashed open the cardboard box she’d just brought home. Inside were stacks of neon-green leaflets.
“What are those?” I asked.
“Ads for my new academy. I’m going to hand them out to all the Beauregard girls.” She passed me a page from the top of the pile.
Reclaim Your Brain!
Every night at 8 PM
The Donovan House, Wooster Street
Free instruction in subjects every young lady
should master
Hand-to-Hand Combat • Guerilla Warfare
Animal Husbandry • Skeet Shooting
Camouflage • Rodeo Riding • Judo
I had to admit it. Molly’s school sounded pretty amazing.
“How are you going to teach these classes? Have you actually been trained to do any of this stuff?”
“No, but I’m filthy rich and I know my way around the Internet. I’ve hired all the experts I need.”
“Amelia Beauregard is going to murder you,” I said.
“I can’t wait to see her try,” Molly said.
That’s when my phone began to ring.
Chapter 29
The Bombs Below
PARIS: FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 20
Good manners are the ultimate sign of good breeding and good parenting.
—Amelia Beauregard, Savoir Faire
When I was small, one of the first things my parents tried to teach me was to chew with my mouth closed. The question I always asked (usually without bothering to swallow my Brussels sprouts) was: Why? I wasn’t really trying to be rude. I truly didn’t understand. Who cared if I looked like a little barbarian? Why was everyone watching me, anyway? And why did my parents expect me to put on some kind of show every time we ate a meal in public? More often than not, the frustrated reply I received was, “Just do it, Ananka.” As you might imagine, I was hardly convinced.
But there was one response that might have made a difference. My mother could have said something like this: Imagine a washing machine with a window. Now, fill that machine with Brussels sprouts, chicken, mashed potatoes, and spit. As you watch the contents begin to churn, sit down and try to enjoy a meal. Getting a little sick to your stomach? Well that’s how everyone else feels when you chew with your mouth open.
The point I’m trying to make here is that manners weren’t invented to make you or your parents look good. I don’t really care if adults think I’m sweet, charming, and well behaved. (In fact, I would question their sanity if they did.) But I’d rather people not feel sick in my presence. Manners, I’ve realized, aren’t about impressing people. They’re about being considerate. And a four-letter word for considerate is kind.
Which brings me, believe it or not, back to the dark, dank tunnels beneath Paris. Kiki lingered a few steps behind as Etienne and Verushka toured the catacombs, cramming notes into the various cracks and crevices used as drop points by the Darkness Dwellers. The moment the trio had left the hideout, the future Duc de Lutèce had offered his arm to the old soldier, and they’d walked side by side ever since. Etienne was a gracious host, eager to answer questions about subterranean Paris and happy to absorb any wisdom that Verushka wanted to share. And when Verushka began to show signs of a limp, he slowed his own pace without saying a word.
Kiki had never known her own mother, but she had listened closely to Verushka’s stories and read every book ever written about her mother’s short, ill-fated life. By all accounts, the most beloved princess in the history of Pokrovia had shown all of her subjects the utmost kindness. And she had done so without ever realizing that it might seem unusual. Princess Sophia had been known to give tours of the palace to children caught trespassing on its grounds. She invited workmen to lunch with the royal family and had her chauffeur offer lifts to anyone walking with a cane, a crutch, or an unwieldy bag of groceries. The heir to the throne treated her maid with the same courtesy she would have offered a grand duchess. Such behavior had scandalized those like her sister, Livia, who insisted that manners needn’t be shown to the masses. Those who knew better realized the Princess’s kindness had earned her people’s love—but more importantly, it had also earned their respect.
And as Kiki watched Etienne and Verushka travel through the catacombs arm in arm, she realized that the woman who’d raised her was right. Sophia would have liked Etienne Antoine very much, indeed.
“Do you mind if we stop here and rest for a few minutes?” she heard Etienne ask the counterfeit nun after he’d stuffed yet another piece of paper
into a hole in the tunnel wall.
“I think that’s a good idea,” Kiki announced when she reached the pair. “Verushka’s leg must be hurting by now.”
“I am a soldier,” Verushka insisted, ready to forge on. “I feel nothing.”
“You may be a soldier, but you’re a terrible actress,” Kiki said.
Etienne checked the time. “It’s four fifteen. We should turn back toward the coliseum soon. It will be a long walk, and I could use a break myself.”
“Are you sure we’ve delivered enough of these messages? Are the Darkness Dwellers going to find any of them?” Kiki asked skeptically. “We haven’t seen a soul the whole time we’ve been in the tunnels.”
“That doesn’t mean there isn’t anyone down here,” Etienne replied. “All we need is a one member to read our note. A single Darkness Dweller will be able to relay the information to his associates aboveground.”
Etienne helped Verushka lower herself down to the dusty ground. Once the weight was off her wounded leg, the old woman exhaled with relief.
“May I ask how you injured your leg?” Etienne inquired. “You don’t have to tell me if you’d rather not talk about it.”
“I was shot,” Verushka replied bluntly.
“Two and a half years ago. By one of Livia Galatzina’s men,” Kiki added. “The bullet was poisoned. Verushka almost died a few months ago.”
“And yet here she is, searching the catacombs for Livia’s daughter?” Etienne marveled.
“If it was Livia who was lost underground, I would not strike a match to look for her,” Verushka explained. “Sidonia is only a child.”
“A cruel, evil, despicable child,” Kiki said.
Verushka raised an eyebrow. “Or perhaps a weak, confused child who was trained to behave like her mother.”
“Sidonia is almost seventeen, Verushka. She’s not a little girl. She’s not going to change.”
“I am almost sixty-one. To me, Sidonia is a child. And even I am not too old to change.”
Kiki huffed. “I think you’ve been wearing that nun’s habit too long. You’re going soft.”
“If that’s what you prefer to believe, Katarina, then perhaps we should talk of other things,” Verushka said. “I have wanted to visit these tunnels since I was a very young woman. I do not want the experience to be ruined by bickering.”
“Why don’t you tell Kiki the story you told me?” Etienne jumped in. “I’m sure she would like to hear about the mystery of the catacomb bombs.”
“When were there bombs in the catacombs?” Kiki asked. “And why haven’t I heard anything about them?”
“People forget bombs that never exploded,” said Verushka. “But when I was training for the Royal Guard of Pokrovia, my favorite instructor was an expert on sabotage. He worked with the French during World War II and arrived in Paris the day the Germans retreated. He could not believe his eyes when he saw that the city was standing. It was known to all that Hitler had ordered his troops to leave nothing but a pile of debris. Some time later, a German general took credit for saving the capital. He claimed Hitler had given the order to bomb Paris, but that he had refused to comply. My instructor never believed the man was telling the truth. He was convinced there was another explanation. He knew that explosives had been found throughout the catacombs. They must have been part of a plot to destroy Paris, but for some reason it did not succeed.”
“You have to admit, it was a remarkable plan,” Etienne said. “Everyone expected the Germans to bomb Paris from the air, but they were going to destroy it from below.”
“Had you heard this story before?” Kiki asked him.
“No,” Etienne said. “I knew the Germans had bunkers down here, of course, and that the French Resistance also used the tunnels. I think there were other groups as well. In fact, I’ve started to wonder if the original Darkness Dwellers might have been English spies.”
“The original Darkness Dwellers?” Kiki asked.
“English spies?” Verushka added.
Etienne turned to Kiki. “Do you recall the rubble I pointed out the other day when we were on our way to the party?”
“You said you knew a story about it,” Kiki recalled. “But then we were interrupted.”
“I once asked Phlegyas why he had given the Darkness Dwellers an English name. He told me he pulled it out of that rubble on his very first trip to the catacombs.”
“He enjoys being cryptic, doesn’t he?” Kiki remarked.
“I always assumed it meant that Phlegyas discovered something among the rocks. A tract or a message of some sort with the name written on it. Then, a few months ago, I was working on an essay for school about Paris during the Nazi occupation, and I had the idea to create a map of important sites. According to my research, there was a very important location right above the rubble in the tunnels. The Lutetia Hotel—Nazi headquarters.”
“The Darkness Dwellers were spying on the Nazis,” Verushka said.
“That’s exactly what I think!” Etienne exclaimed. “Maybe the Darkness Dwellers were English-speaking spies. Who knows? Maybe they were the ones who prevented the bombs in the tunnels from exploding.”
“Perhaps you should do a little digging. Find out what lies behind all the rubble,” Verushka advised.
“Yeah, I bet if you solved the mystery, the Darkness Dwellers would finally invite you to join their precious club,” Kiki said.
“That may not be a bad idea,” Etienne mused.
“Although I still don’t understand why they haven’t made you a member.”
“That’s a question for Phlegyas.” Etienne checked his watch. “You’ll have your chance to ask him in about thirty minutes. It’s time for us to meet up with the Darkness Dwellers.”
Chapter 30
You’re Not So Tough
NEW YORK CITY: FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 20
Where are you, Fishbein?” Luz demanded the moment I answered the phone. Someone was screaming bloody murder in the background.
“Right where I said I’d be! At the Donovans’ house!” It was becoming clear that nobody trusted me anymore.
“You need to get to Chinatown as fast as you can.” I heard crashing, crunching, and cursing. “Ouch! Oona! You just hit me with that!”
“Why are you in Chinatown? I thought you guys were at my house researching Thyrza.”
“We couldn’t get Mrs. Fei on the phone, so we walked down to Catherine Street to let her know that Oona was okay. We found out why Mrs. Fei didn’t answer the phone. Lili Liu stole it.”
“She what?”
“That’s where Lili was last night. Stealing all of Oona’s stuff.”
“How did she figure out where Oona lives? How did she get in?”
“Look, I’m too busy ducking to explain, Ananka. You need to get here before Oona kills someone. Like me, for instance!”
“Okay, just give me a few minutes. I’m on my way.”
“I’ll try to hold out as long as I can,” Luz said, “but if anything happens, please don’t let my mom bury me in a dress.”
“Looks like you’re off the hook for the moment,” I told Molly as I switched off my phone. “I’ve got a five-alarm fire to put out in Chinatown.”
“Who’s Thyrza?” Molly asked.
“What? Oh, some World War II femme fatale. Amelia Beauregard’s boyfriend ran away with her.”
“That was my grandmother’s name,” Molly said. “I’ve never heard of anyone else named Thyrza before. Except for the girl from the poem, of course.”
A strange chill tickled my spine. “What was your grandmother up to during the war?” I asked.
“No idea,” Molly said. “She died way before I was born. Are you thinking my grandma was the woman who stole Amelia Beauregard’s boyfriend? How awesome would that be? You think the old lady’s trying to get her revenge by turning me into a zombie?”
“Knowing this particular old lady, I’d say anything’s possible,” I ventured. “Listen, Molly, I realize yo
u’re still angry at me, but can you do me one little favor? Could you please talk to your mom and ask her if she knows where Thyrza was during World War II?”
“I told you, I’m busy destroying the institute.”
“Fine. You know what could be the coup de grâce? If it turns out Amelia Beauregard has been luring young women into her academy under false pretenses.”
“Not bad,” Molly conceded. “Not bad at all. Nice to know you haven’t gone completely yellow, Ananka.”
“Gee, thanks,” I muttered.
The world and the weather had both turned against me. I called DeeDee and Iris before I sprinted across town to Oona’s house, pelted by hail the size of gumballs. I fell four times, ruined my shoes, and nearly got flattened by a careening taxi. I was beginning to feel like the slow-moving target at a shooting range. Wherever I went, I seemed to be under constant attack.
I arrived at Oona Wong’s house to find her elegant living room in shambles. The carpet was littered with shards of pottery, overturned plants, ripped-up fashion magazines, and a manicurist’s tools. The walls bore several shoe-shaped holes. Someone’s lunch was splattered across the kitchen door. Mrs. Fei was sucking up the noodles with a vacuum cleaner.
“Oh my God!” I shouted over the roar. “Lili did this?”
I couldn’t hear Mrs. Fei’s voice, but I read her lips. “No,” she informed me. “Oona did this.”
“Where is she?” I asked, and the old lady pointed down the hallway toward the bedrooms.
Oona’s room was in even worse shape than the living room. Every single article of clothing she owned had been ripped off its hanger and kicked across the floor. The bed’s mattress had been picked up and flung against the wall. Fortunately, Oona’s frenzy appeared to have reached its conclusion. She was slumped in a chair, her face buried in her hands. A frazzled Luz was keeping watch over her—from a safe distance.
“What happened?” I asked.
Oona didn’t move, so Luz answered for her. “Lili stole her computers, all of her jewelry, her phones, and her ID.”
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