A Darkness Strange and Lovely (Something Strange and Deadly #2)(49)

Madame Marineaux’s house turned out to be as elegant and entertaining as its owner. She led me through her hallway and into a private sitting room.

“I never let people come here,” she said with a wink, “but I believe you will find it enjoyable.”

She was right—the room was fascinating. It was like being in a museum: on this shelf was a collection of tribal masks, on that table was an assortment of enormous seashells, and on the windowsill was a row of exotic orchids. The floors were covered in Oriental rugs and the windows draped with thick, scarlet drapes. A fireplace burned with a small, cozy fire, and everything felt so tasteful. So lovingly tended.

It was precisely what Mama had tried to create in our own home, but our knickknacks had been fake and cheap by comparison. And, of course, all those knickknacks were now long gone.

While Madame Marineaux went to check that her servants were recovered enough to make a small dinner, I wandered the room with a slack jaw. After examining everything I laid eyes on, I ended up before a shelf on which lay two hair clasps like Jie’s.

“Admiring my souvenirs?” Madame Marineaux asked. I hadn’t even heard her enter the room.

Smiling, I turned toward her. “Oh yes. Did you give Jie one of these?”

“I did.” Madame Marineaux moved to my side, her skirts swishing. “I thought she might like something from her homeland.”

“She does.” I nodded warmly. “She likes it very much.”

“I am glad.” She motioned me to a pair of rose-colored armchairs beside the fireplace. “Let us sit.

We will have an apéritif before our meal.”

As we crossed to the seats, I noticed a collection of portraits over the fireplace. One was of her, one was of the Marquis, and one was of an auburn-haired woman whom I did not recognize . . . though something about her reminded me of Madame Marineaux.

“Who is that woman?” I asked, dropping into a chair as she eased into the other. “Your sister, perhaps?”

For a moment the Madame’s shoulders drooped, and she did not reply. But finally she said, “No.

The Marquis’s sister, actually. Her name was Claire.” She gave me a sad smile. “And she was like a sister to me—my closest friend in all the world. But . . . she died almost seven years ago.”

“Oh, I am so sorry.”

“Do not be. We must lose everyone we love at some point or another. C’est la vie. ” She clasped her hands in her lap. “Now tell me, what do you think of Paris? What have you seen so far?”

“Not much, but what I have visited is truly beautiful.”

“You shall have to see more then! I will steal you away as soon as you are free and show you my favorite places.”

“Oh, Madame, I would love that! But you’ve already done so much for me. Why, I haven’t even thanked you for this dress yet. It is so nice to have something new to wear.”

Her lips quirked up happily. “I fear the brown is not the prettiest of colors, but I promise”—she tilted almost conspiratorially toward me—“you will have something far more magnificent for the ball.”

“Th-thank you.” I fidgeted with my gloves. “I don’t know how I can ever repay you.”

“By telling me stories.” She clapped her hands. “I love hearing about other parts of the world. Tell me about Philadelphia—oh, or, I know, tell me how you met the Spirit-Hunters.”

“Oh, um . . .” My forehead puckered. I didn’t want to tell her how I had met the Spirit-Hunters, for that would mean telling her about their criminal status back in Philadelphia—about my own unsavory status. Instead, I opted to change the subject. “It amazes me how popular they are here.”

She nodded. “They are the city’s favorites—though how much longer that will last, I do not know.”

I blinked. “What do you mean?”

“Only that it is . . . difficult to keep the city entertained. As odd as it may sound, the less they work and the more parties they attend, the higher their favor.”

“That is odd.” I tugged at my ear. “Would the people not want them to stop les Morts?”

“Of course! But they also want to see the Spirit-Hunters out and about, living a glamorous life.

And you cannot forget that everyone loves the macabre. The newspapers benefit by having stories to tell, the Marquis benefits by protecting the city, and the Spirit-Hunters benefit by being showered with love.” She laid her hands in her lap, grinning slightly. “Do not frown like that, Mademoiselle. It is merely something to consider.”

Right then, a maid—not the hysterical woman from earlier—bustled into the parlor with a tray of champagne. The crystal flutes rattled, and the woman’s face was pinched, clearly indicating that she was not fully recovered from the afternoon’s drama.

Just as she finished pouring the sweet drink and handed one to me, Madame Marineaux exclaimed, “Non, non! Look what you have done!” She glowered at the maid. “You have dirtied her glass with your finger! Please, take my drink, Mademoiselle.” She extended her flute toward me, her face lined with annoyance. “And accept my apology for this foolish maid.”

“That’s all right.” I smiled reassuringly at the maid. “I do not mind.”

“No,” the Madame insisted. “I cannot have you drinking out of a tarnished glass. Think what people will say of me!” She pushed her glass at me once more, so I accepted it—and was instantly rewarded with one of her beautiful smiles. Then, after donning another, quick scowl, Madame