Enchantée(16)

“I can’t say, mademoiselle, how I’d been hoping that I might pass you, just like this, on the street, so that I might tell you how much—”

He stopped speaking. His eyes fastened on her purple bruise with its sickly yellow edge.

Why, of all times, did she have to meet him now? Camille stared down at the cobbles, hoping her hat’s brim would hide her face. She saw the toes of her shoes were dusty.

“Look at me.” Lazare put his hand on her arm. “Mon Dieu, what happened?”

“Rien.” Camille pulled her arm away. “It’s nothing.”

He stepped easily around her. “Whatever it is, it isn’t nothing.” His voice was soft, pleading. “Please, mademoiselle—what’s wrong? I only wish to help.”

Dropping her head, she tugged the brim of her hat as far down as she could. Humiliation burned hot in the tops of her ears. Any moment he’d realize what had happened to her and the awful greasy dirtiness of her life would be exposed. “If you wish to help, monsieur, just leave me alone.”

“I can’t do that, I’m afraid.”

“Then please—please stop looking at me.” Despite her intention to be brave, her voice shook.

Lazare stooped, his warm brown eyes meeting hers under the brim of her hat. “It wasn’t a what, was it?”

She shook her head once.

“Then who did this to you?” he said, an edge in his voice. “The dishonorable—”

Camille shook her head again. Imagine if she told him. If this boy then somehow found Alain and—did what? Beat him? Threatened him? Had him thrown in jail?

Any good to come of that would never erase the humiliation of Lazare knowing about her drunken wastrel of a brother. And that she had allowed this, somehow, to happen. If she said anything about it, this beautiful boy with his balloon would know her life of pinching poverty, dirty nails, two decent dresses. Nothing could possibly persuade her to reveal that.

“Stop peering under my hat, monsieur. People are staring.”

Lazare stood back. “Forgive me. I can’t stand that someone would hurt you—”

“There’s nothing to worry about.”

He frowned, as if he didn’t agree. He took a deep breath, exhaled. “Well, then. This is what I’ve been thinking since yesterday, hoping to see you again.” He suddenly looked very young and awkward, all his easy grace gone. “Come visit our workshop, won’t you? Where the balloon is kept? You could properly meet the others. Rosier has all these ideas.”

“Me?”

He pretended to glance back over his shoulder, as if there might be someone there. “Who else? You saved the balloon and us, after all. You were so clever about the ballast, and, besides, I need all the help I can get to keep Armand in his place.” That slow smile. “Don’t say no.”

Lazare was inviting her.

Her heart lifted. He hadn’t thought her a fool. Her bruise hadn’t repulsed him. He hadn’t wanted to get away from her. It had just been the rain. He had been thinking about her. He wished for her to visit his workshop. He wished to see her again. He had been wishing it this entire time.

“Where—”

Camille’s words were cut short by a scream.





10


Across the park, one of the gilded carriages shrieked to a halt. Its chestnut horses reared and whinnied as the coachman sawed on the reins. In front of the horses’ legs, a young man—green suit, blond hair—bent and picked up a body from the street. Its head bobbed loosely on his shoulder, its yellow skirts catching around his legs.

Sophie.

The breath left Camille’s lungs with a rush. Lazare said something—she could not heed it—she was already running. Her head spun. The park wasn’t large, but full of people, walking slow as death, and she had to dodge them all. A group had gathered around the carriage but Camille pushed her way through, using her elbows and feet to get them to move.

Please let her not be hurt. Please. Let her have fainted. Anything, anything, but not—

A dark-haired girl, white-faced and wearing an enormous plumed hat, rushed from the carriage, her mouth a pink O of worry. She was staggeringly pretty, with long dark lashes framing intelligent green eyes. Nearby, the boy knelt and laid Sophie in the grass. Her face was ashen, her lips bloodless.

Not dead, please, not dead, Camille begged, as she ran up to them. “What happened?”

“She’s fainted,” the girl murmured, without a glance at Camille. Careless of her extravagant dress, she dropped to her knees in the grass, unstoppered a bottle of sal volatile she’d pulled from her purse, and waved it under Sophie’s nose. Camille threw herself down next to her sister’s still body. She smoothed Sophie’s fair hair from her forehead.

“Wake up, darling!” Her voice shook. “Wake up!”

Sophie’s eyelids trembled, but she did not open them. Smiling a little, the girl gently slapped Sophie’s cheeks.

“What are you doing?” Camille snapped.

The girl raised one elegant eyebrow, daggerlike against the alabaster whiteness of her skin. “Trust me, I’ve years of experience. Two sisters, both excessively sensitive. She took a fright, that’s all. Poor petite!”

At that, Sophie opened her blue eyes. There was a smudge of dirt across her forehead. “Camille!” she said, wonderingly. “Who are these people?”