Marie Antoinette, Serial Killer

by Katie Alender

  As for Hannah? She was up in the penthouse suite — alone.

  Jules came by the hotel later, and he and I went out walking. We stopped at a little café for an early lunch. He asked a million questions — he wanted more details about the night before. I told him as much as I could remember.

  “So there are tunnels under the palace,” he said.

  “Oui,” I said, taking a bite of my croque-monsieur. “They go all the way out to Le Hameau.”

  “And yet they have never been found?”

  “They have now,” I said. “But I doubt they’ll still be there the next time someone thinks to look for them. I’m pretty sure they flooded.”

  “Such a shame,” he said softly. “All that history …”

  I didn’t reply, but I was thinking that it wasn’t such a shame. To Jules, it might have been a fascinating piece of the past, but to me, it was a reminder of the horrible things people could do when they were scared or selfish.

  After lunch, he told me there was somewhere he wanted to take me. We got on the Metro and rode it for a while, holding hands but not really speaking. We got off at a little station a few miles outside of the city.

  “Where are we going?” I teased. “To meet your grandparents?”

  He smiled mysteriously and kept walking.

  Finally, we turned into a small graveyard next to an old stone church.

  “Here,” he said, pointing to one of the graves. “I had heard of it before — it is famous, in a way, because of the mystery. Now I know what it means.”

  We stood together, looking at the modest stone, which read JE REGRETTE.

  I sighed for the past, and for the future — for poor Véronique and for the question of whether my family could shake off the effects of a blood bond that seemed to make us genetically predisposed to use people for our own gain.

  I’d made the right choice, saving Pilar last night. But in the face of the years of shallow choices I’d made, that didn’t seem like much to go on.

  Then I thought of Charlie and how he was always looking out for Mom.

  If he could do it, maybe I could, too.

  On our way back into the city, we got off the Metro at the Villiers station — near the former Errancis Cemetery. After paying my respects to Véronique, I felt like I owed at least as much to the queen herself. I braced myself for the chaotic construction site.

  But as we rounded the corner, we found that the street had been almost totally filled in. A single worker drove a small backhoe carefully around the torn-up asphalt. The construction was complete.

  Maybe the queen really could rest in peace now.

  Jules walked me back to the hotel. It was hard to say good-bye. I cried a little. We promised to email each other and to try to meet up again next summer — either in France or in America. But I wondered if what had existed between us was destined to be just a passing moment in our lives.

  “It seems so Parisian,” I said, through my sniffles, “to find someone and then have to say good-bye so quickly.”

  He cupped my face gently in his hands. “It is not Parisian,” he said. “It’s just life.”

  “I know, but …” I let my voice trail off.

  “Colette, you are so different now than you were on that first day. You have changed so much. And I am a part of that. So I am happy.”

  It was true. I’d wanted Paris to change my life…. I’d just had no idea how dramatic the change would be. And Jules was a part of that, as much as the ghost had been.

  “But what about you?” I asked. “What difference did I make for you?”

  He smiled, his eyes crinkling. “Besides convincing me that ghosts are real? You are the only girl I’ve ever kissed on top of the Eiffel Tower. And I swear, you are the only girl I will ever kiss there. So every time I see it, I will think about you.”

  I nodded, wiping my eyes.

  “Plus, Mathilde will never let me forget how nervous I was when you came to eat dinner with us,” he said. “And you know the secret of my brief career as a poet.”

  I smiled in spite of my sadness.

  “You are special, Colette,” he said softly, lifting my hand to his lips and kissing it. “You can forget me someday, but do not forget that.”

  And then he kissed me … and kissed me … and kissed me. And I knew there was no risk of my ever forgetting him.

  Pilar gave her first-class seat to Madame Mitchell and rode in the back of the plane with the rest of us. I was shocked, but Peely didn’t seem to think it was such a big deal.

  “I didn’t want to sit there and listen to Hannah lecturing me the whole flight,” she said.

  I was beginning to get the feeling that Pilar wouldn’t be putting up with much of Hannah’s lecturing at all from now on.

  We landed and went to baggage claim, where Mom and Charlie were waiting for me with a sign that said WELCOME HOME! and, under that, in tiny letters Mom hadn’t noticed, STUPIDHEAD.

  I hugged them both and pointed my bag out to Charlie. He picked it up off the belt and rolled it back to our car while Mom peppered me with questions about the trip.

  I tried to answer them all, but she got so excited that they all ran together into one sustained request for information, and I had to promise her I’d talk all through dinner and well into the night if that was what it took to satisfy her curiosity.

  She did want to know about the murders. She’d followed the news about them all week.

  “I was worried about you,” she said, “but I didn’t call about it, because I knew you’d be mad at me.”

  “She knew that because I told her so,” Charlie added. “You’re welcome.”

  “Well, Paris is a huge city,” Mom chimed in. “Statistically speaking, I knew you weren’t in danger.”

  “I showed her the statistics,” Charlie said. “You’re welcome again.”

  I gave my mother a little smile, grateful she didn’t have to know everything that had really happened. “All’s well that ends well, right?”

  She inclined her head. “That’s been my motto for a year. I’m just glad you’re home.”

  We pulled into our space in the parking garage, and Charlie lugged my bag up the stairs.

  “I know this will be a disappointment,” Mom said, “after being in a fancy hotel all week. I just want you guys to know that I’m going to get us out of this apartment as soon as I can.”

  “Mom,” I said, “stop worrying. It’s great.”

  “It’s … great?” she repeated.

  I looked around the main room. She and Charlie had made a lot of progress while I was gone. “Yeah, you guys fixed it up super cute. We’ll be fine here, won’t we, Charlie?”

  Charlie looked confused, then smiled at me. “Très magnifique,” he replied.

  Mom looked as if she couldn’t quite believe it.

  “You must be hungry,” she said at last. “Do you want to unpack while I make some dinner?”

  I shrugged. “Unpacking can wait. I’ll help you cook. Charlie, you can hang out, too.”

  She headed to the kitchen, glancing at me over her shoulder as if I were some apparition that might disappear. Then she pulled out a pot and a package of ground beef.

  “How does spaghetti with meat sauce sound?” she asked.

  “Yummy,” I said, and Charlie nodded.

  As she cooked, we all talked, and I described as much of Paris as I dared. Then we ate, and afterward we sat around the table talking, like Jules’s family did.

  “So,” Mom said, as we carried the dishes into the kitchen, “how does it feel to be back?”

  “Wonderful,” I said. “It feels wonderful.”

  Later that night, I was in my bedroom, unpacking. Charlie came in and sat on my bed.

  “Are you just being nice because you’re tired or something?” he asked.

  I laughed. “I don’t think so.”

  “Okay, good.”

  He looked around. Normally, I wouldn’t have even let him into my room, so this w
as a new experience for him.

  “Um, hey.” He stared at his hands. “I’m sorry I scared you in the garage before you left.”

  “Have you been feeling bad about that the whole time?” I laughed and patted his shoulder. “You’re forgiven. Not like I haven’t been mean to you for the past, oh, fourteen years.”

  He laughed, but it was the kind of laugh that meant I’d spoken the truth.

  “You know, Charlie … we don’t have to do that anymore.”

  “Do what?”

  I took a deep breath. “I don’t know, hate each other? Maybe we could just start getting along.”

  “What, starting now?”

  I shrugged. “Why not?”

  “Okay.” He gave me a small smile. “You must be tired.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I’m so turned around, I can’t even tell what time it is.”

  “I’ll let you go to bed, then.” He stood and then leaned over me and gave me an awkward little hug, which I returned as well as I could. “You want me to take that back downstairs for you?”

  He was looking at my desk, where Great-Grandma Colette’s box was still sitting.

  “You know what?” I said. “I’ll do it myself.” After what I’d been through, the storage closet no longer seemed so scary. And I liked the idea of sealing the box back up and stashing it far out of reach, even though it was free of the medallion.

  Some things deserved to be locked away.

  Charlie nodded and left my room, wishing me good night as he closed the door.

  I went to the bathroom to brush my teeth, unpacking my toiletries with one hand while I brushed with the other. I knelt to put my makeup bag under the sink, and when I stood up, I stared into the mirror.

  I waited for the swimmy, woozy feeling to take over, for Véronique’s face to show up in place of my own. But even though I stared for a full minute, I only saw myself.

  I hope you’ve found peace at last, Véronique.

  I knew that I would always be looking for her. Every time I looked in a mirror, I’d expect to see her face. Véronique was part of me. What she’d done was part of me. But … what I’d done, what I’d chosen, was a bigger part.

  I returned to my room, slipped beneath the covers, and fell asleep before I had time to wonder if I was tired.

  I dreamed of small, curving streets paved with rough stones; of the perfume of flowers and sweet pastries in the air; of beautiful buildings rising up on every side of me; and of a feeling of magic and history beneath my feet.

  And my dreams felt as real as a memory.

  WHILE MANY OF the details found within this book are based on actual locations and historical accounts, the Order of the Key, its members, and its role in Marie Antoinette’s life (and death) are completely fictional. In reality, the queen’s dearest friend, Princess Marie Louise of Savoy, the Princess of Lamballe, was executed for her stalwart loyalty to the royal family.

  MANY THANKS TO Aimee Friedman, David Levithan, and the other wonderful people at Scholastic who helped to make this book what it is: Natalie Sousa, Janet Robbins, Rebekah Wallin, Erica Ferguson, Becky Shapiro, Stacy Lellos, and Tracy van Straaten.

  Thanks to Matthew Elblonk (as ever) for his encouragement, patience, and guidance.

  Thanks to the friends, readers, fellow authors, teachers, librarians, parents, and booksellers who have been so supportive of my books over the years.

  Special shout-out to the lads (you know who you are).

  And finally, infinite love and gratitude without end to my family, especially my husband, Chris, my sister Ali, and baby G (who kindly put off being born by a few days so Mommy could meet her deadline).

  KATIE ALENDER is the acclaimed author of several novels for young adults, including Bad Girls Don’t Die and From Bad to Cursed. A graduate of the Florida State University Film School, Katie now lives in Los Angeles with her husband and her daughter. She enjoys reading, sewing, and eating delicious high-calorie foods. To find out more about Katie, visit www.katiealender.com.

  Bad Girls Don’t Die

  From Bad to Cursed

  As Dead as It Gets

  Copyright © 2013 by Katie Alender

  All rights reserved. Published by Point, an imprint of Scholastic Inc., Publishers since 1920. SCHOLASTIC, POINT, and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Alender, Katie.

  Marie Antoinette, serial killer / by Katie Alender. — First edition.

  pages cm

  Summary: While in Paris, France, on a class trip, Colette Iselin enlists the help of her charming French tour guide to help uncover a possible connection between Marie Antoinette, a series of gruesome murders, and perhaps her own family history, and he also gives her insights into herself.

  ISBN 978-0-545-46809-1

  [1. Interpersonal relations — Fiction. 2. Ghosts — Fiction. 3. Marie Antoinette, Queen, consort of Louis XVI, King of France, 1755–1793 — Fiction. 4. Serial murders — Fiction. 5. Paris (France) — Fiction. 6. France — Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.A3747Mar 2013

  [Fic] — dc23

  2012045535

  First edition, October 2013

  Cover photo by Michael Frost

  Cover design by Natalie C. Sousa

  Author photo by Christopher Alender

  e-ISBN 978-0-545-57699-4

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permission, write to Scholastic Inc., Attention: Permissions Department, 557 Broadway, New York, NY 10012.