Spectacle(52)

“I apologize for surprising you. There was no easy way to start this conversation.”

She looked down. A little bird was at her feet pecking away at crumbs. It reminded her of the first vision, and how she’d come to this café afterward to try to make sense of what had happened. How she’d fed the birds most of her croissant.

“I reacted with polite skepticism when the couple told me,” Christophe added. “So as not to invite any questions.”

Wait. He was protecting her?

Nathalie studied him, with his perfect nose and vigilant blue eyes. Unless he was a magnificent actor, he wasn’t faking it. This friendliness was genuine—yet unexplainable all the same. “Why protect me? And why have you been paying so much attention to me?”

Indelicate, yes. But it redirected the conversation, which was all she wanted at this point.

“I think your privacy, everyone’s privacy, deserves protecting. Whatever happens when you touch the viewing pane, you don’t want others to know. I’ve watched you closely since our first encounter, although truthfully I’d noticed you even before then.” Christophe took a sliver of brie from her plate, as if to confirm his sudden familiarity.

She blushed. “Thank you. It’s nice to know I have a—a friend.”

The crumb-catching bird half flew, half hopped onto the table and picked at a crumb. “I’m glad we could have this conversation,” Christophe said, his eyes on the bird as it flew away.

Whether it was his softened tone or protectiveness or the appeal he held for her, she didn’t know. She should have been upset by his questions. Yet she wasn’t. All she knew was that her instinct told her she could trust him.

“Something happened the other day,” she said, biting her lip. “I didn’t tell anyone. I was angry and frustrated and just wanted it all to go away.”

The expression on his face invited her, warmly, to continue.

And so she told Christophe about the jar of blood, the Inspiration note, and how she had thrown it all into the Seine.

When he responded with understanding rather than a lecture, she decided to tell him about the letter from the Dark Artist as well as the time she thought she was followed.

He listened with intensity, as if everything she said was the most important detail he’d ever heard. Nathalie liked that.

“Thank you for making that so much easier than I expected,” she said, smiling with relief. She finished her coffee and wrapped her hands around the cup.

“You’re welcome. I don’t know how you kept that to yourself for so long. You are brave.” He placed his hand on hers, resting it there a moment before withdrawing it to straighten his collar.

Nathalie flushed at his words and his touch, a soft touch that was there and then gone like a waft of beguiling perfume. She cast her eyes on the pebbles at her feet.

“So,” he said, smoothing his collar, “what does happen when you touch the viewing pane?”

Ah, yes. Ever the interrogator. Hoping he wouldn’t return to his initial curiosity was too lofty a wish.

A plank or two slipped out of the rapport they’d just built. She could lie and he’d know—because he just knew those things, it seemed—or she could tell the truth, which could garner any number of reactions. Nathalie pressed her thumbs into the cup. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“I might. I’ve encountered more than you can imagine.”

Nathalie scoffed. “This is different.”

He glanced to the side. The man sketching the music hall appeared to be listening. In a hushed voice, Christophe continued. “What if I told you that as a police liaison, I’ve met someone who could communicate thoughts to someone kilometers away using animals, and someone else who could see a person’s future by holding his or her hand? And yet another person who could smell blood and death like a hound?”

Nathalie’s flesh tickled inside and out. “I would say those are … very extraordinary people.”

“They are. I suspect you are, too.” He leaned closer. “You can tell me, Nathalie.”

Could she?

She could. He didn’t treat her like a child, or a deranged person, or a storyteller. His honesty and willingness to talk drew her in—a sharp contrast to Maman, who’d tried to hide the truth and then ended the conversation. Christophe had understood everything so far. Maybe he’d understand this, too.

“I—I have a vision whenever I touch the viewing pane. It was an accident the first time, and for a while I didn’t know what to make of it.” Nathalie let go of the coffee cup, pushing it away. After a sigh, she proceeded to tell him about everything from that first vision through the third, including the tip to the police, her recent discovery about the white gloves, and the memory loss she’d been suffering after each vision.

She told him her theory about M. Gloves, too, imperfect though it was. Christophe wasn’t convinced he was a possible suspect, and even though her own suspicions had begun to wane, at least the man represented a possibility. No one else so far had.

Once again he focused on her in a way that made her feel like the most interesting person in the world.

Here she was, telling him about the visions, and she felt normal.

“Those people you mentioned,” she said, emphasizing the word people, “did they get their powers from Dr. Henard’s experiments?”