Spectacle(53)

“Yes.”

Her heart danced with anticipation. “I found out recently that my aunt was one of his patients. She would have dreams where someone was about to kill an infant. She’s in the asylum now, because of the transfusion and its effects, I think, so I can’t talk to her about it. And my mother won’t answer any questions.”

Christophe grimaced. “About Henard?”

“About anything,” Nathalie continued. “She refused to talk about it before I could ask a single question. I don’t know for sure, but I’m assuming that I received one of these blood transfusions as a child. How else can this be explained?”

“They had reasons to avoid telling you. To protect you, most likely.” He squinted in concentration. “What year were you born?”

“1871.”

“So you’re sixteen?”

“I am.”

Strange. The hypnotist, too, had asked about her age.

“Nathalie, I don’t know how to tell you this,” he said. He opened and closed his mouth several times, presumably searching for the right words. “You could not have been one of Dr. Henard’s patients. He was murdered in 1870.”





23


Nathalie didn’t speak for a moment. Instead she examined everything around her besides Christophe. The man sketching at the next table, whom Jean the waiter addressed as Walter, and his now-folded-up newspaper. The other patrons in the café, the dishes on their tables. The trees around the perimeter, the scrap-hungry birds.

Everything fit in. Everything had its place.

Except for her.

“Are you sure?” she said, when she could once again look at Christophe.

“I’m afraid so. He was found in his laboratory, poisoned. Some think it might have been a former patient, some posit it was a colleague, others still think it was a lover. Nothing points to one over any other; it was a clean murder, so to speak. A few days later the Germans surrounded Paris, as it were, so the mystery surrounding his death just dissolved into the chaos.”

The war between France and Prussia had been over in nine months or so, as Nathalie recalled from her studies, and the German blockade lasted four of them. One dead doctor, even a famous one, was nothing compared to tens of thousands of starving Parisians.

One girl with unexplainable powers, similar to Henard’s patients yet not one of them, that was something different.

“What does that make me?”

He shook his head in sympathy.

“Ever since this started, I’ve been wondering what I am. Who I am. Then I think maybe, finally, there’s an answer. Or the beginning of an answer.” She waved her hand. “And just as quickly, it vanishes like smoke. I’m a freak.”

“No, you aren’t. You’re smart and resilient, and you have an incredible power. Just because I don’t have an explanation doesn’t mean no one will.” He drummed the table in thought. “Talk to Monsieur Patenaude. He—he knows more than I do about the Henard experiments.”

M. Patenaude? He was pleasant enough, and yes, he’d given her the job. He was also strange; she couldn’t imagine opening up to him, friend of Papa’s or not. “Why?”

Christophe pressed the sides of his coffee cup. “Well … newspaper stories and whatnot. There was no shortage of press about the Insightfuls.”

“They have a name.” She declared it, resentful that it was they. Not we.

“An insulting one, at least initially. Once Henard’s credibility went on a downward spiral, anyone who was part of his experiments became a laughingstock,” he said, flinching as he delivered the last word. “I mean no offense to your aunt. That’s just what happened. It’s interesting how words change, nevertheless. ‘Insightfuls’ was derogatory at first, and over time it became rather neutral. Even Insightfuls themselves use it now.”

A defiant redefinition. Nathalie liked that.

Jean came over with the check. Christophe, who insisted on paying, settled it and stood up. “I must be going. As it is I’ll have to explain my sudden departure from the morgue.”

She smiled, rising from her chair. “Departure.”

He met her smile and pushed in the chair. Walter the sketch artist had gone, leaving Le Petit Journal behind. Nathalie grabbed it and followed Christophe into the street. As they stood outside the entrance, he spotted the newspaper under her arm. “If you choose not to touch the glass anymore, I understand and would not fault you. If you change your mind, please make me aware of anything you see.”

She still wished to be rid of the visions, now more than ever. “I appreciate it.”

“For the sake of the investigation, I’ll classify you as an Insightful. If that’s acceptable to you, that is. I recommend it only because they’re treated as credible witnesses if their power reasonably assists an investigation. Most prefer to keep their magic a secret these days, so they’re granted the option of anonymity. Since we don’t know for sure…”

His voice trailed off. Since we don’t know for sure what you are, we’ll make believe you fit into a category we understand.

What else was there to do? “I suppose that’s a good idea. Practical, anyway.”

“Very good. And one more thing,” he said in a softer tone, stepping closer. “Once before, I told you to be safe. The blood jar, letters, being followed—if anything else happens, come to me. It may or may not be the Dark Artist. But always come to me from now on. Whatever else you choose to do, please promise me this.”