Spectacle(84)

He gestured for her to continue, his face a reflection of both compassion and trepidation.

Nathalie spoke carefully at first, measuring her words as if she were only rationed so many. When she sensed Papa’s true understanding and even truer support, her words came out like a waterfall.

She shared with him everything about her visions and how it had all unfolded over the summer, at one point showing him the copy of Enchanted Science or Science Enchanted? during their discussion about the Henard experiments. He gave her his full attention in the way that Papa did, making you think you were the only person not only in the room, but in the world.

Then she asked him a question she could have asked Maman. She’d saved it for him, though. “Maman said she wanted a transfusion because you and Aunt Brigitte had gotten them. Who went to Dr. Henard first? You or Tante?”

“We went together,” said Papa, and Nathalie noticed his shoulders drop, just a little. “It was my idea. She—she was in a very melancholy state, and I thought this would help.”

Silence folded into the space between them for a minute before Nathalie continued in a subdued voice. “Do you regret it? The transfusions, the magic, the consequences…”

Me. My ability. My singularity.

Papa smoothed his mustache with his thumb. He exhaled and sat back, regarding her before responding. “I think of regrets as small, slippery creatures. If you have one you must grasp it securely; it squirms and thrashes about and isn’t comfortable to hold.” He squeezed his fists and winced. “So you have to either hold it more tightly or let it go, yet even if you set it free, it leaves something behind, a stain on your hand.”

Nathalie waited for him to say more but he didn’t. “That’s clever, Papa, but not a proper answer.”

“Because there isn’t one.” He reached for her hand. “After all these years, I still don’t know if acquiring magic is right or wrong. It’s both, maybe. What I do know is that whatever you do with your power, do it for yourself. Not for other people, not for Maman or me or Monsieur Gagnon or anyone else. Having other people tell you how to use your gift…” He shook his head, eyes unfocused. Nathalie supposed a thought or a memory had taken him elsewhere.

“… will never bring me peace. Is that what you wanted to say?”

Papa regarded her once again, smiling. “Yes. Something much like that.”



* * *



The sixth victim, Lisette Bellamy, was identified the next day. Her sister Liberté, with whom she lived, had been on holiday in Ireland. When Liberté came home to find her sister missing, she ultimately made her way to the morgue. Nathalie cringed when Christophe told her about it. She’d always felt something for those who made that soul-shattering discovery; now that “something” bore a tragic context her blackest nightmares couldn’t have portrayed.

The Dark Artist was pulled from display several hours after Lisette. No kin had come forward, but the morgue needed room. The Dark Artist, anonymous on the slab, was unceremoniously dumped into the mass grave because other corpses needed display. Nathalie relished the irony.

She was eager to discuss it with M. Patenaude—and to ask him how long it would be before Le Petit Journal released the story. If they didn’t find Damien Salvage’s killer, then when would Paris learn that the Dark Artist ceased to be?

Sooner than she thought.

M. Patenaude was in a meeting when she submitted her article, so she left it with Arianne. Nathalie wished she could tell her not to worry about the murderer anymore, not to worry about being escorted to and from work. She wondered if M. Patenaude had already told her, sworn her to secrecy perhaps. Or if he let her go on believing, like the rest of Paris, that a throat-slashing killer was among them in the crowds.

Nathalie had many reasons to hate the Dark Artist. One of them was this, the fear that made women panic and look over their shoulders and think twice about every unfamiliar man who shared their footsteps.

She thanked Arianne and was about to leave when Arianne lowered her voice. “I shouldn’t tell you this, but it will be published tomorrow anyway.” She surveyed the room and continued. “The Dark Artist is dead.”

Guilt draped itself on Nathalie’s shoulders. “I—I know,” she said, unable to meet Arianne’s eyes. Sometimes she’d rather proclaim to the world she was an Insightful than keep secrets that were uncomfortable to keep. “I’ve been involved with the case. As … part of my column.”

Again Arianne eyed the room to make sure no one was watching. “We—the newspaper—received a note. Even Monsieur Patenaude doesn’t know about it yet.” She pushed an envelope across the desk to Nathalie, who promptly took out the slip of paper.

The Dark Artist is dead.

I am not.

As Ovid wrote: “He has lived well, he who has lived in obscurity.”



Nathalie grimaced. “What is this?” She reread the handwritten note several times, running her fingers over the ink, like rubbing your eyes after a dream. “I know Ovid was a Roman poet, and the quote is a boast about hiding in plain sight, I assume. Quoting a Roman poet about hiding in plain sight … why? What’s the boast?”

“I don’t understand it at all. Look—look at what else is in there,” Arianne whispered, pointing to the envelope.