Spectacle(50)

“Nothing worse, eh?” said a throaty voice. A tall, striking woman with raven hair pointed to Nathalie’s hand. “My beau gets splinters all the time.”

“I’m right-handed and have to use my left to get it out. Most inconvenient.”

The woman fussed with her hair, atop her head like a crown, and smiled. “Would you like my help?”

“No, no, thank you,” she said. Something about the woman’s demeanor was off-putting. Familiar and false all at once.

Nathalie picked away and finally caught the end of it as she crossed the threshold of the morgue. As she finished pulling out the stubborn sliver of wood once and for all, she bumped into the man ahead of her, causing him to drop his newspaper.

“Je suis désolée,” she said, bending down to scoop up the pages. While handing them to him in a clumsy gesture, she noticed an illustration across the top half of the newspaper.

A tarot card with a man and a woman, with an angel hovering above. The Lovers. She knew this because the first time Simone had done a reading for herself, this card had come up. Simone had talked about it for a month, all but certain it boded well for herself and Louis, who at that time she only admired from afar.

DARK ARTIST SENDS TAROT, the headline read.

Nathalie knew, in that split second between seeing the headline and looking at the viewing pane, that Victim #4 was on display.

And so she was.

This unfortunate girl, with Seine-bloated, olive skin and dark hair, was sliced worse than any of the others. Mirabelle Gregoire had been left with a gash on her temple. In Nathalie’s vision, Mirabelle had been pushed and fell against the corner of a table. This victim had cuts in the same place where Mirabelle’s wound had been. And on her throat and cheek like the others.

They were deeper. Stronger. Angrier.

Nathalie’s stomach seized up. She reached inside her satchel and pulled out the vial of catacomb dirt. She clutched it with so much force her hand went numb.

The compulsion to touch the glass, to see a few moments of what happened, overwhelmed her.

You’ll regret it. Don’t do it. Pray for the girl and write your column. This is none of your concern.

The urge grew more pervasive, and Nathalie felt a change in her breathing.

Maybe I overreacted. Maybe I gave up too soon. Maybe I’m nothing like Aunt Brigitte.

Each breath was shorter and shallower than the last.

It was surprisingly hot in here, given the mild day. The room felt crowded, yet it wasn’t any more so than usual.

It darkened inside the morgue, as though a black cloud moved over the building and blocked the sunlight. Bathing it in shadows that grew blacker and blacker …

The next thing Nathalie remembered was being sprawled out on a cold stone floor staring at the ceiling. Three people, including the man she’d bumped into and the tall woman who noticed her splinter, stood over her. The woman extended a hand. “You fainted. How do you feel?”

Nathalie knew she had to have been scarlet from head to toe because she had never, not once, been so embarrassed. She took the woman’s hand and got up, carefully, because the only thing worse than fainting would be fainting again immediately afterward. “I’ll be better once I get some fresh air. Merci beaucoup.”

Nathalie looked at the viewing pane again.

The visions have done enough harm. Don’t.

She took a step and heard something crack at her feet.

Her vial of catacomb dirt, shattered. The dry soil spread out on the morgue floor in between bits of broken glass. A mess to anyone else, good luck charm and unexpected source of comfort to her. Nathalie’s heart sank.

“We’ll clean it up,” whispered the guard. No doubt he thought he was reassuring her.

Cheeks burning again, she hurried out. She took long, fast strides across the bridge and went to Café Maxime.

“Mademoiselle Baudin,” called a familiar voice from over her shoulder.

She turned to face him.

“I saw what happened at the morgue. You ran off before I could check on you. May I join you for a cup of coffee?”

Her heart fluttered. This was the last thing she expected this morning. Her instinct was to say no because … well, she couldn’t think of a good enough reason, other than that she was self-conscious. “Please do, Monsieur Gagnon.”

“Call me Christophe.”





22


Her insides did a pirouette. “Call me Nathalie.”

First names. Did that mean no more official questions?

And coffee. What did that mean?

They walked to the back of the outdoor café a respectable distance apart, with Nathalie wishing the whole time they were arm in arm. Christophe motioned for her to lead the way, and as she did, she once again picked up on his woodsy-orange blossom scent. As Jean cleared the table, Nathalie watched a man at the table next to them. He had Le Petit Journal open to the tarot card story. She tried to read over his shoulder, but he was sketching something—a music hall, it seemed—and obscured her view.

Jean seated them and brought over menus. Christophe ordered coffee. Nathalie got coffee and a plate of cheese, fruit, and bread even though she craved a sandwich. If for some reason he changed his mind and wanted some food, she could offer him a slice of brie or ham.

“I thought it was time we talked,” he said, his tone much less formal than encounters past. His posture was relaxed, too. It was as if the switch to first names changed his demeanor, put him at ease. He had on a pale blue shirt (which, Nathalie observed, made his eyes even more exquisite) and his light brown hair was uncharacteristically disheveled.