Spectacle(63)

“He’ll be able to heal your hands.”

“Not completely. He can’t make them perfect again.” She examined her hands, sadness darkening her face. “But he can take the pain away, maybe help me move them better. He can prevent someone from getting too weak, and he can help someone’s body get stronger, healthier. I suppose you could say he helps the body heal itself.”

A surge of pride swelled in Nathalie as she took in what that really meant. Her father helped people, better than a doctor, better than anyone. And he did it even though it temporarily diminished his own health.

She thought of the many times growing up where he’d touch her skinned knee or kiss her forehead when she was sick, telling her he’d make her stronger. She thought that was just the kind of thing fathers said, a playful game, but he really had been helping her. “That sounds like a marvelous gift. I don’t understand why it’s a family secret or a source of shame.”

Maman closed her eyes, then opened them. “Along with Henard’s disgrace came the disgrace of his patients. One time,” she said, shaking her head, “a crowd marched down Champs-élysées saying Henard’s patients were diseased, or unnatural. ‘Henard is not your God,’ they shouted, and ‘You’re less than human, not more,’ and worse.”

Nathalie swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood up. She gave Maman a hug.

She’d held back telling Maman some things, and she had no doubt Maman was doing the same. Maman’s eyes held on to something—reasons, perhaps, and explanations she was too ashamed or uncomfortable to share. She still resented Maman for hiding all of this, but it was the kind of resentment that, she realized for the first time, might become more tepid with mutual understanding. Anger wasn’t going to get her anywhere.

A cautious peace settled around them for the rest of the day, fatigue slipping into the cracks. Nathalie could trust her mother with some, but not all, of her secrets. For now these would have to do.





28


The next morning, on her way to the morgue, Nathalie stopped at the mail box. When she saw Agnès’s fluid penmanship, her insides became gnarled tree roots. Did Agnès forgive her? Surely she’d be understanding. But Nathalie had expected Simone to be understanding, too. What if Agnès was just as lacking in compassion, or worse? Nathalie couldn’t bear another conflict this summer.

She stashed the letter in her bag, opting to read it later. When she was ready.

That decision lasted scarcely a minute.

Biting her lip, she leaned against the wall and retrieved the letter.

Dear Nata,

I confess that my first response was not a very kind one. Upon reading your letter about this ability of yours, I wrote one promptly.

Then I did what Grandmother recommends. I put it to the side and slept on it. When I woke up, I read it again. I tore it up and disposed of it.

It does not matter what I said, because that letter was selfish and impulsive; I only tell you about it out of guilt. These are the words that reflect my thoughts.

I do not hold this against you at all, my beloved friend. A secret such as that is neither easily kept nor easily shared. You have endured more this summer than all of our schoolmates together, and that you can speak of it at all, with any semblance of normality, is stunning. I would be a heap of sorrow and nervousness. You are, even at our age, a pillar of both pluck and resilience.

Hypnotism is not something I believe in—or rather, I didn’t before your letter. Now I am not sure what I think of it. I suppose it may not be the fraudulent parlor trick I assumed it to be.

As for the Dr. Henard experiments, I know only what my parents have said. They are critical of those who partook in them, I’m afraid, and believe only those who fancied themselves better than the rest of us sought to be patients. I do not share their opinion. Do you think your power is related to that somehow?

Our date at Le Canard Curieux still holds. This shall be my last letter of the summer, for by the time you receive this, we’ll be within a day or two of leaving. Aside from packing, I plan to spend my time with my hands in the earth (Papa still insists on it) and in dough—not at the same time, of course.

I very much look forward to our meeting. It is splendid to see your words, but I am eager to hear them in person. Despite the tone of our recent letters, I predict much laughter between us, too. Not all our moments should be solemn, even in the darkest of circumstances, and I know you agree.

Until then.

Bisous,

Agnès



Nathalie sighed audibly. Thank you for understanding, Agnès.

She’d learned so much about herself and the world around her that it was hard to believe a letter sent less than a week ago could be out of date. So many things different, so many new discoveries, already.

She couldn’t wait to share them all with Agnès.



* * *



Nothing new occurred at the morgue; the fourth victim was still on display. When Nathalie took a seat on the steam tram afterward, an abandoned copy of Le Petit Journal lay on the empty seat beside her.

Streetwalker Charlotte Benoit Identified as Fourth Victim



Charlotte Benoit. She had a name, yet her corpse was still on display.

Nathalie didn’t feel the same connection to this victim because she hadn’t touched the glass, and now she felt guilty about it. She hadn’t given as much thought to her as Odette, the nameless second victim, and Mirabelle.