Enchantée(58)

The lantern light flared as Lazare shifted behind her. “It’s not his fault.”

What did he mean? How could it be the fault of the chimère?

He cleared his throat. “Remember, in the balloon, how you said Paris looked so different from above?”

Camille nodded.

“Come see this Paris,” he said as he set the lantern down and moved toward the parapet.

Standing at the edge, gripping the stone wall, Camille held her breath. Below them, the city spread out, closer than when they’d been up in the balloon. And now it was night, the windows of the dark houses lit by candlelight; the bridges gleaming with torchlight; barges and boats on the Seine, the flambeaux at their sterns reflected in the inky water. Looking out at the lights of the city—a reflection of the star-flung sky—she felt Paris, her own world, was new to her. The games she played at Versailles—the gambling and the cheating, the magic and the flirting and the conversation—she didn’t have to play them here.

“It’s almost like flying, being on the tower,” she said. “Though not quite as terrifying.”

“No.” His voice was very close in the darkness.

“Is that why you come up here? Because it’s like being in the balloon?”

“Nothing is like that,” he said. “But being here, I feel different. Freer, with fewer rules to follow.”

A breeze pulled at Camille’s cloak and this time she let it, opening her arms so that the pale pink silk winged out behind her. “What if I stepped up on the parapet and launched myself into the air?”

Lazare grabbed her arm. “Don’t.”

“I only mean I wish I could.”

“And leave me here by myself?”

“I thought you knew how to fly, monsieur.”

“That’s what the balloon is for. Which reminds me,” he said quickly. “I have something for you, mademoiselle.”

A package, clumsily folded in brown paper and tied with a slippery silk ribbon.

“Did you wrap this?”

“Yes, why?”

Camille shook her head. “No reason.” It was comforting to know that not everything came easily to him. While he watched, she slipped off the ribbon—nicer than any she or Sophie had worn in their hair before la magie—and folded back the paper.

It was a balloon, hardly bigger than her hand.

Its chariot was fashioned of woven wire, thin silver threads like ropes running to the balloon, its oilskin surface painted blue like the midnight sky and scattered with silver stars. “Oh,” she breathed. It was one of the most beautiful things she had ever seen.

“You don’t like it?”

“Oh, monsieur, it’s—” She swallowed hard. “It’s ravishing. Where did you find such a beautiful little balloon?”

“A jeweler friend and I made it.”

For me? She wanted to ask, but she couldn’t bear it if he said no. “It’s an automaton?” she asked instead.

Lazare reached into his pocket and pulled out a little brass key, which he threaded onto the silk ribbon and gave to her. “A music box.”

Camille fit it to a keyhole in the chariot and began to wind it. In her hand, she felt the spring tighten; when she stopped, the balloon began, slowly, to twirl. A tinkling music poured out of it. As the balloon spun, the stars on it shimmered.

Was it meant to be a souvenir of their flight? It had to be. She couldn’t speak.

“If you put a candle near it—it’s difficult to see it here, in the dark.”

“It’s not difficult at all. It’s absolutely beautiful, monsieur.”

“Please call me Lazare.”

Camille’s stomach danced. “Lazare.” Wonderingly, she traced the pattern the stars made. “Does it have a name?”

“Heart’s Desire.”

Beyond the dark curve of his head, stars dusted the sky. He was standing very close now. His eyes searched her face, catching first on her cheeks, then on her mouth. She reached up, tentatively, and put her hand on his shoulder.

“I’ve missed you,” he said, low in her ear. Camille’s heart beat so loudly she knew he must hear it.

She started to ask him where he had been when he bent and kissed her. His lips were soft, asking. Her mouth against his was an answer, her whole being rich and alive, weightless and full of stars, tethered to the only thing that now existed. Gently, his hand caressed her jaw, his fingers twining in her hair. She wanted nothing more than to be here, at the top of the world, kissing him.

And then the night watchman flung open the door.

It was over. They broke away, stepping apart, catching their breath.

For a moment, she saw herself as the old man must see her: her hair half-tumbling down, her face and throat flushed with heat—another foolish girl up in the tower at night.

“Monsieur,” he grunted, “you must descend now, or I will lose my position. This is a church, not a—”

“Of course,” Camille said, moving toward the door. “We’ve finished gazing at the stars.”

They walked home, side by side, fingertips almost touching. She was afraid to look at him, afraid of what she might see in his face. What if that kiss had meant nothing? What if it was—just a kiss? She wanted it to mean more, but was afraid to hope it did.