RoseBlood(66)
The clicking of keyboards and shuffle of pages around me become nothing but white noise as I choose an entry and read. Hand gripped around the mouse, I scroll down, afraid to miss anything: Saint-Germain traversed France in the 1700s, and had a reputation for never aging. He adored wine . . . but was only vaguely interested in food. He had a fascination with mirrors . . . insisted they were the portals to other worlds. He knew twelve languages. Managed to out-philosophize the philosopher Voltaire, whom he befriended. He also developed sleight-of-hand tricks beyond what most magicians would even dare conceive to try. And he had the uncanny ability to impress his desires upon people, without them being the wiser. With this talent, he befriended dukes and kings. His closest friend was a Parisian emperor who built and owned the opera house Le Théatre Liminaire. Saint-Germain spent many an evening there, socializing with royalty.
My breath catches on that last detail, locking the scent of carpet and old books inside me. Liminaire . . . the building where I attend classes every day. Where I live. My ancestor used to frequent RoseBlood’s halls when it was an opera house long ago.
I look around the room in search of Aunt Charlotte. She was on the other side of the table earlier, checking the school’s email. I don’t see her now, but my gaze veers back to the computer of its own accord.
Saint-Germain used his many connections to accrue great wealth in the form of gems and jewels. He stashed it away, keeping only what he needed to travel. His life was an unending quest for knowledge. He imbibed it, as if it gave him the energy to stay youthful and sharp-minded. It was said he died in 1784, but there were alleged sightings of him still alive and youthful all the way into the 1900s.
“Rune.” Aunt Charlotte’s voice breaks the silence behind me. I let out a startled yelp and click the X to close the page. I turn and try to hide my trembling hands by tucking them into my tunic’s pockets.
“Pardon! I didn’t mean to frighten you.” She pats the white bun at her nape and nods an apology to the librarian in the corner who’s now glaring at us. “What were you looking at so intently?” Her hazel eyes scan my face, as if they’re digging into my soul.
I swallow hard and study her with equal intensity. “Nothing, really.”
She squints beneath her glasses. “I hope you know, ma douce, you can talk to me about anything. About the music that has plagued you . . . about how it no longer seems to hold you in its thrall. It is wonderful, the strides you’ve made since you’ve been here. But if you are still having trouble, with anything, you can tell me. Or any questions to ask? You can trust me.”
Can I? Where was she when my dad was sick? She didn’t even take the time to come to the States when we buried him. And now, she’s dragged me to Paris to appease her insane and homicidal mother’s dying wishes. So, no. I don’t really think I can trust her.
What could she possibly know that would help anyway? Compared to the other teachers here, Aunt Charlotte is so normal she borders on boring. I’ve been eating dinner with her three nights a week since Mom left. Our conversations range from my grade-point average to if I’m sleeping well at night and waking up refreshed. Refreshed. Who even says that? Stilted, awkward conversations that go nowhere. If there is some strange affliction I’ve inherited from our ancestor, Comte de Saint-Germain, it passed my aunt by. There’s no glow to her eyes. There never has been. I’ve also never seen anything strange about her auras. But then again, I am new at reading them . . .
My cell phone vibrates inside my beaded tote. I drag it out, careful not to let my aunt see the clothes and makeup I have stashed inside. I open the text. It’s Sunny responding to my message. I told her I had to escape Aunt Charlotte . . . that my aunt was being a helicopter and I wanted time alone to check out the Palace of Versailles. So I needed to lie and say I’d be with my friends, then asked if she’d cover for me.
Curfew is ten o’clock. I promised Sunny I’d get back before that, early enough that she can watch for my arrival and sneak me in. I wanted to be sure no one at RoseBlood will pay for my dishonesty, including Aunt Charlotte.
I bite my lip, pretending to read a long message that’s nothing more than a thumbs-up emoticon from Sunny. I stand. “Look, Aunt Charlotte . . . I hate to ditch you, but I know you’re going to visit Grandma Lil anyway.”
She frowns and nods for me to continue.
“Sunny and a few classmates want me to meet them in Paris to buy our Halloween costumes for the masquerade on Monday. We’ll hang out the rest of the day in the city.” It’s an outright lie. Unbeknownst to my aunt, we bought our costumes two weekends ago. My friends would go ballistic if they knew what I was really planning, even more so if they knew I used them to do it. “It’s just, it feels weird, to be so close to the prison. The memories of the fire . . . it’s like I can smell the smoke from here.”
Aunt Charlotte winces, and I know I’ve hit a nerve. It’s deplorable, to use her shame over Grandma Liliana’s crimes to my advantage . . . to make it impossible for her to refuse me. Yet it doesn’t stop me from asking for her Paris metro pass so I’ll have unlimited access to the city, or leaving her to buy herself a new ticket so she can get back to the academy later this evening.
My stomach churns, the guilt overwhelming as she digs in her bag for the pass and also pulls out seventy euros. “This should be enough for lunch, dinner, and the costume.” As I start to take it, she holds the money between us, like a bridge she’s reluctant to break. “I need you to assure me you will stay with a group of friends the entire time. Do not venture anywhere alone. It’s dangerous.” Her whitish-gray eyebrows furrow. “Your mother would never forgive me, were you to end up in trouble.”