Spectacle(45)

Her mind stumbled through the murky labyrinth of reality. “How long have I been under?”

“Not quite ten minutes,” M. Lebeau said.

No, it had to be hours and hours. Her body said so. She approached the window. The shadows hadn’t changed much. He was right.

“I don’t believe you were truly under,” he continued. “Very close, but you didn’t let go entirely. Somewhere in between, it seems. You may remember much of what happened, rather like a dream.”

Her legs were loose with fatigue. She felt as though she’d been running from something other than herself for the past few hours.

“Mademoiselle, please sit,” said M. Lebeau, guiding her to the sofa. “I’m so sorry this happened.”

Mme. Lebeau, who smelled of clove and something medicinal, placed a wrinkled hand on her cheek. The touch reminded her of Aunt Brigitte’s.

“I’ll get you something to drink,” she said, vanishing into the mysterious back room.

Nathalie tried to swallow away the harsh sensation in her throat. “I feel like I was in a nightmare, but worse. Does this happen often? Someone being ‘in between,’ as you said, and then coming out of it terrified?”

M. Lebeau shook his head. “I’m afraid it doesn’t. Only once before under … special circumstances. Are you…?”

The question perished on his lips.

“Am I what?”

He picked up the opium vase and pipe, set them on a desk in the corner, and stared at her. Then he broke into a smile much like the one he’d greeted her with when she’d entered. “Are you feeling well enough to walk? That is, will you need help getting home?”

His tone had a drop of artifice in it.

That’s not what you were going to ask.

“Am I what?” Nathalie repeated as though he hadn’t answered. Because in truth he hadn’t.

Mme. Lebeau returned carrying a silver tray with a teapot and cup. She set it down on the end table next to the sofa. “This will make you feel better.”

“Monsieur, what were you going to ask me?” Nathalie tried again.

“Nothing,” he replied cheerfully, crossing his arms. “I’m sorry, that’s not true. I was wondering how old you are. A rude question, I know.”

“Sixteen.”

“Oh!” His eyes brightened. Was he surprised? She looked her age and was never taken for more than seventeen or eighteen. “To be young again. Eh, Geneviève?”

Mme. Lebeau smiled. “Indeed.”

But something about the way he spoke, something about the way his face lit up, told Nathalie that wasn’t the question he’d intended to ask, either.

He wasn’t going to budge. Whatever he’d nearly asked faded into never.

Why?

Mme. Lebeau poured the tea and handed her the cup, decorated with blue and white stripes and some kind of exotic script.

Nathalie lifted it to her lips, inhaled its pungent earthy, floral smell, and immediately put it down. “What is this? It’s not tea.”

The elderly Lebeau couple glanced at each other before Mme. Lebeau responded. “It’s similar to tea, and it will bring you back to yourself.”

“Is it opium?”

“No,” the old woman said, “but it does have poppy seeds and other herbals.”

Nathalie prickled with unease. For a second she was tempted, very tempted, to drink the tea as quickly as she could swallow. But she didn’t. She couldn’t.

“I’d better be going,” she said, standing up on legs that suddenly felt much better. “Thank you for trying to help me. How many francs?”

M. Lebeau waved his hand. “I would not take your money, Mademoiselle. My apologies that your experience was so unsettling. I can only conclude that—that whatever you came here to forget cannot be forgotten.”

Nathalie straightened up, noticing for the first time how small and shriveled these two strange people were. Despite it all she found them likable in their eccentricity. There was a freedom about them, she decided. Something like what Simone wanted, only with the experience and confidence that age brings.

She took her satchel and said a hasty good-bye, with M. Lebeau’s final words chasing her all the way home.

“Remember who you are,” he’d said, “and then you’ll know why you can’t forget.”





20


The hypnosis session, or whatever it was given that she hadn’t actually gone under, affected Nathalie in an unexpected way: It sharpened her focus.

For the rest of the day, her thoughts kept returning to one thing. Not the visions, the Dark Artist, the letters, or the bottle of blood. Not even Simone or her unusual-but-engaging sweetheart.

Aunt Brigitte.

Nathalie had been determined, after that memory-turned-dream in the park, to look for Tante’s papers. The blood jar discovery had pulled her onto a different path; besides, she hadn’t had an opportunity to search the apartment the past few days. But Tante’s appearance in her hypnotic reverie brought her attention firmly back to those papers.

Why were they so important?

They were the ramblings of a woman hanging on to the rim of sanity by her fingertips.

And yet.

Papa had made an effort to save them. Protect them, even. And of all the facets of Aunt Brigitte to filter into hypnosis, only the most prominent word on those papers came through.