The Keeper of Happy Endings(32)

Something in my chest lets go as I process her words. For years, I’ve wondered what I had done to deserve her wintery brand of motherhood, hoping to find something, anything that might thaw her toward me. Now I understand that there was nothing. There’s a strange relief in knowing.

I lay my hand over hers. “I think you should rest. Your medicine—”

Her eyes flash feverishly. “Be quiet and listen. A chance is coming for you, Soline. One that will take you away from here. You must take it.”

“It’s too late to go to Lilou. London is in the crosshairs too.”

“Not Lilou. Farther away. And for good.”

“But the shop . . .”

She shakes her head, silencing me. “That’s over now. The Nazis have seen to that. They’ll scorch the earth before they’re finished. But you will start again. In a new place.”

An uneasy churning has begun beneath my ribs. “How do you know this?”

Her eyes flash again. “How do you think? I took the hairbrush from your bureau while you were gone to the butcher.”

“You performed a reading . . . on me?”

“Not fully. You came back too soon. But I saw enough.”

The admission astonishes me. She’s always been so adamant about the dangers of using la magie to meddle in our own affairs. “But you always said—”

“Yes, yes.” She sighs, flapping a bony hand. “I know what I said, but I bent the rules. There are times when we must know which way the wind will blow, and it will blow you far away, ma fille. Far from Paris and all this madness. But you will not escape unscathed. There will be hardship and heartbreak along the way. You must hold tight to your faith, Soline, whatever comes.”

I look at her, bewildered. The Roussels have no faith, as such. We have our needles and our thread. That is our faith—The Work. “Please don’t speak in riddles, Maman.”

“My faith was tested once, when I was a little older than you. I failed.” She stops, craning her neck to pull in a breath. “I had no faith in what could be—a life of my own and love. Because I was not a dreamer. And so I followed the path marked out for me. But you, So-So . . . you have such dreams. And you’re gifted. More gifted than I ever was.”

For a moment, I can’t even blink. I’ve waited so long for even the tiniest crumb of recognition, proof that she saw me at all. Now, suddenly . . . praise. I want to weep, but I know Maman will not like it. “I had a good teacher,” I say instead.

She waves the words away, impatient to finish what she has to say. “This chance I spoke of . . . it will test your heart. It might even break it. But the most precious gifts always come at the highest price. I learned this too late . . . which is why I’m telling you now. You must—”

She breaks off, clutching a handkerchief to her mouth to muffle a sudden bout of coughing. By the time the spasms finally stop she’s ashen and shaking, her lips faintly blue. I reach for her hand, the birdlike bones fragile beneath my fingers, and it suddenly strikes me how seldom I’ve seen them quiet over the years. Always with a needle, a tape, a pair of shears. Stitching, pinning, hemming. But soon her illness will still them for good.

My eyes well before I can look away. She catches me by the sleeve, and for an instant, I glimpse a softness in her face. “No tears, mon tendre. Not for me. You will need them later. So many changes are coming, and you must be ready.”

I do as I’m told and blot my eyes on my sleeve, but her grave predictions have me rattled. “You’re frightening me with all this dire talk, Maman. Can’t you just tell me what you know?” But the moment the words leave my mouth, I regret them. “Never mind,” I say quickly. “You’re tired. You mustn’t talk any more tonight.”

She turns her head away, and for a moment, I think she’s crying, but when she looks at me again, her eyes are dry. When she finally speaks, her voice is slushy and thick. “Here is what I know, ma fille. There is a grief worse than death. It is the grief of a life half-lived. Not because you don’t know what could have been—but because you do. You realize too late that it was there for the taking—right there in your hands—and you let it slip away. Because you let something—or someone—keep you apart. But when your time comes, you can do it differently, ma fille. And it will come. But you must keep him alive, So-So.” She pauses, pressing a fist to her breast. “Here, in your heart. And never give up on what can be true for you. As long as you keep his beautiful face in your heart, he will never truly be lost. There will always be a way back.”

She’s rambling now, hovering on the edge of sleep, confusing her past with my future. Her sleeping draught is taking effect. “Rest now, Maman. Close your eyes and rest.”

Her eyes remain locked on my face, suddenly wide and fever bright. “There are times for holding on in this life, So-So, and times for letting go. You must learn to know the difference—and trust your heart enough to let it break. It’s a hard thing, this holding on. But that’s where the faith comes in. Do you understand?”

I nod, because finally I think I do. I glance at the locket, still open in my lap. Erich Freede’s dark eyes stare back at me. Keep his face . . . his beautiful face . . . always in your heart. Yes. For Maman’s sake, I will.

“Sleep now,” I say softly.