Spectacle(65)

“So those are the things that manifested your power,” she said, intrigued by the conclusion. What did the visions say about her?

A knock at the door interrupted them. “Mail,” called a voice from the other side.

M. Patenaude rose from the desk and opened the door. After a fleeting, somewhat muffled conversation, he came back with some mail. “I asked for your mail, too,” he said, handing her several unimportant pieces before halting. His eyes rested on the envelope a moment before holding it up to show her.

Uncomfortably familiar handwriting. Addressed to the Morgue Reporter with “A Fellow Writer” in the return address.

Her pulse climbed like a frightened cat up a tree.

“May I?” asked M. Patenaude.

“Please do.”

M. Patenaude opened the letter and read it out loud. “‘My Dear Scribe, I see you found my present to be most inspiring. Bravo on this most recent description of my latest exhibit. I am pleased. Be sure to continue.’”

Nathalie felt as if a cool breeze passed over the back of her neck. “He’s disgusting.”

“He is,” said M. Patenaude with a nod, “yet his sentiment, revolting as it is, is also genuine. That makes me think the safest choice remains to comply.”

“I hate it.” It was one thing to read Poe. It was another to write about real people and real crimes to please a killer.

M. Patenaude tucked the letter back into the envelope. “I could assign—”

“Non.” Nathalie pushed her chair back. She took some hairpins out of her trousers, tucked her waves back, and put on her wool felt cap. “I’m a journalist. I’ve already given up the visions for my own well-being. I’m not giving this up, too.”

It wasn’t necessarily a pleasant compromise, but it was one she could accept. For now.



* * *



As the days passed, she found peace in her decision to refrain from touching the glass, and she found strength in her trusty always-in-sight policemen. Regaining some control brought her confidence.

No worries about visions, memory loss, or entwining secrets with her soul. She would just be Nathalie Baudin, anonymous reporter of public morgue displays. Not Nathalie Baudin, odd girl who went into a trance macabre whenever the Dark Artist sent another victim or who felt like she was being watched by the other morgue visitors.

Right?

I feel safe.

I feel normal.

To celebrate the first week of her newly regained sense of freedom, she bought Maman flowers from Mme. Valois. She was pleased to think that this time she’d remember buying them.

Nathalie carried the bouquet of yellow, pink, and white daisies into the morgue. She almost expected fate to jab her with the irony of another victim, but thankfully, no butchered young women lay on top of the concrete blocks. All the unfortunate men and women there, except for the man whose neck and face signified a suicide by hanging, simply appeared to be swollen but asleep. Their deaths were cold, pitiable, and alone—the opposite of dramatic. Forgettable. That was in part why Nathalie found them to be so tragic.

Five days after Charlotte’s body appeared in the morgue, Paris had wondered aloud if the killer had stopped. Although he’d gone more than two weeks between killing his second and third victims, the public appetite had been whetted. He’d teased them, trained them to expect more, cultivated a sense of urgency. You couldn’t pass a tram stop or stand in line at the morgue or sit at a café without hearing someone speculate as to whether or not there would be any more murders. Maybe he was killed. Maybe he left the city. Maybe he’d been found out and was being blackmailed. Le Petit Journal asked, HAS THE DARK ARTIST PUT DOWN HIS KNIFE?

Whether or not the Dark Artist was done, she was.

Nathalie glanced at Christophe, who gave her a courteous nod.

As she daydreamed about meeting with Christophe and discussing subjects other than death and visions and magic, she smiled. She wanted to talk to him, truly talk to him, and was working up the nerve to invite him for coffee and a sweet.

Yes. She’d made the right choice, and she was ready for new and joyous experiences. Life should be—would be—better now.





29


The next afternoon, Nathalie stepped into the shopping arcade and paused to let her eyes adjust. As much as she enjoyed being outside, a stroll through the bustling passage, with its vaulted glass ceiling and granite floor, was equally stimulating. The plethora of shops and restaurants on either side brought the boulevard indoors, which Nathalie thought to be a clever concept.

She made her way along the walkway, passing underneath the decorative wrought-iron signs that arched overhead. Somewhere between the stationer’s shop and a perfumery, she halted. People ambled to and fro, but something didn’t feel right.

Was someone following her?

She turned and saw her policeman the usual distance away. No one loitered or pretended to look away; nothing seemed out of the ordinary. (If anything, people were annoyed that she didn’t keep moving along.) After examining every face in view, she concluded that she’d been mistaken. It must have been the combination of her policeman and this confined, crowded space.

Shaking her head, Nathalie continued along the passage. As she approached Le Canard Curieux, Agnès arrived from the opposite direction. She was tempted to burst into a run and scoop petite Agnès into her arms.