A Drop of Night(14)

Yesterday I went into the lower passage and stared at the little panel, the secret way into the Palais du Papillon. I saw Father’s motto, picked out in tiny brass letters along the cornice, almost invisible: To Good Luck and Safety and Everlasting Peace.

“We should not stay, Mama, ” I say, sitting up, and every head but hers turns to stare at me. The windows are open onto the park. A breeze is whispering in, warm at first touch and then chilly. “We should take the carriage to Croisilles or go down to Father, but we must not stay here alone. What if someone were to come?”

No one answers. Bernadette and Charlotte do not seem to understand the danger. They have never gone a hot day without parasols or a cold day without fox fur, and I fear they think themselves invincible because of it. Delphine knows something is wrong, but she is six. I could not bear to tell her my worries. It is Mama who should worry with me, who does know but will not tell me. She should be helping me organize our escape, hurrying to bolt up the chateau, and yet she continues on her frivolous course like a horse in blinders. I feel I could scream.

“We will die if we stay here.”

The words leave me like a battering ram. At my feet, Delphine gasps. Charlotte and Bernadette look up from their poetry, startled. Mama glances at me, her eyes wide and limpid. Her voice trembles when she speaks, but her words ring pure and clear: “Everyone dies,” she says. She turns to the window, her beautiful face in profile, the sunlight playing across her long, pale neck. “They are cutting off heads, you say? It is a quick way to go. A mercy.”



The double doors open and Dorf leads us into the dining room. Miss Sei turned down a hallway seconds before we reached it. Guess she’s not mingling with the riffraff this evening.

The dining room is huge. The size of a tennis court. A massive table runs down it, polished walnut with an explosion of peonies and greenhouse hyacinth at its center. Candelabras stand on either side of the flower arrangement. They’re not lit. The lights are in the walls, in the ceiling, thin strips of LED tucked behind panels, illuminating everything with a soft amber glow. It’s like we just stepped into one of Tolstoy’s endless dinner scenes, except it’s high-tech and attended solely by underdressed teenagers.

We pull out our chairs. Lilly decides she wants to sit next to Will three seconds after she’s situated herself next to Hayden. Shuffling and scraping chair legs ensue, followed some by some annoyed looks from Hayden. Now we’re all in place, and silence settles like dust.

Dorf clears his throat. “Your parents have all been informed of your safe arrival. We will be keeping them updated and will have a complete folder prepared and sent to them before your return. Once the media embargo is over, they’ll know as much as everyone else. I think they’ll be quite pleased with what you have accomplished and what you are capable of.”

I hate how he talks. Like we’re kind of not even real people. Like we’re a row of dumbbells with painted faces, supposed to nod and smile at his performance.

“The palace,” Will says. His shoulders are slightly hunched, like he’s uncomfortable in his chair. He’s fiddling with the silverware, straightening it on thestarched linen napkin. “It must have taken decades to build. Versailles took fifty years to build. How could they have kept something so huge a secret?”

Dorf smiles. “They couldn’t. At least, not entirely. There were reports of a great undertaking in Péronne, and certainly local rumors, but many historians thought it was simply another tall tale fabricated by Paris revolutionaries. Slander was rampant against the aristocracy. An underground palace as large as the Sun King’s court but buried 100 feet down was probably too ridiculous and excessive a luxury to even consider.”

“When was it found?” Hayden asks. “How did you hear about it?”

“The entrance was discovered two months ago,” Dorf says. “Quite by accident.” I watch him sitting there. Solid as a rock, like he has all the time in the world. “They thought it was a sinkhole at first. A Mr. Gourbillon was in charge of this house’s restoration. He and some of the workmen came down one morning and found a ten-foot crater in the wine cellar. They started digging and found a chair. Then a room, wallpapered. They had stumbled right onto one of the palace’s higher antechambers. Mr. Gourbillon called the Sapanis’ people. The Sapanis’ people called me.”

Lucky the Sapanis’ people didn’t call the police. The police would have issued a statement and this place would be crawling with AFP and treasure hunters and bearded adrenaline-junky hipsters with huge cameras.

“And why did the Sapanis call us?” I ask. Jules shoots me a look like ‘Really? Now you’re going to bring this up? I ignore him.

“The Sapanis are very keen on nurturing and supporting the youth of today,” Dorf says. “They have multiple foundations and scholarships set up in a variety of fields. They wanted to give you all an opportunity. And they have.”

“That’s nice of them. Why aren’t they here at the chateau if they care so much? Have they already been into the palaee?”

Dorf looks at me curiously. “No. Anouk, the Sapanis are busy people. I’m sure you read your dossier. Their corporate empire spans Asia, Europe, the United States. . . . One of their technology firms may have designed the processor chip in your phone, the engines in the plane that brought you here, the air-filtration system in this very room. Surely you’ll forgive them that they didn’t come running the moment you arrived.”