Spectacle(87)

“My guess is someone connected to either a victim or a near-victim,” said Simone, tucking her blond curls behind her ears. “Think about it. Maybe someone escaped and her husband or father tracked him down.”

Nathalie hadn’t considered the latter. Did anyone elude the Dark Artist? Surely it would have been in the newspaper. Then again, her own encounter in the Catacombs was kept from the public. Were there others, perhaps even that Christophe or M. Patenaude didn’t know about or didn’t tell her about?

They turned the corner and side-stepped an eager squirrel. “I thought it might be out of revenge, too, but now I don’t know. The letter and the piece of silk? It’s almost like someone wants the notoriety he had. Someone who’s proud of himself for defeating the great Dark Artist.”

Simone hooked her arm around Nathalie’s elbow. “With any luck, we’ll get an answer tomorrow night.”



* * *



Simone and Louis arrived smartly dressed, she in a white lace blouse and poppy-red skirt, he in a dark gray suit with a lighter gray, check-patterned ascot tie. Maman, having never met Louis before, was not at all immune to his charms (he was particularly effervescent). She responded with a coquettish grin as he admired her fabric creations, unfinished though they were, that hung in the parlor. He gave Papa, who’d spent most of the day in bed with a fever and headache, a hearty handshake. The three of them made congenial conversation as Simone helped Nathalie finish pinning up her hair.

Nathalie didn’t say they were attending a séance but rather a social gathering. This was half the truth, because Simone said there would be food served and a party beforehand. Maman herself was setting out soon for vespers at Notre-Dame. To pray, she’d said, for Papa’s safe arrival home, his swift recovery from healing her and Céleste, and for the blessings his healing ability bestowed.

After bidding her parents good-bye, Nathalie stepped into the hall, sparkling with anticipation. “Where to?” she asked.

They walked down the stairwell. “We are going to the home of one Madame Zoe Klampert.” Louis announced it like he was presenting a stage act. “I have no doubt she will astonish and astound.”

“If she can bring us the ghosts of Agnès and Damien Salvage,” Nathalie said, “I’ll sing her praises to London and back. Where does she live?”

“In Louis’s neighborhood,” Simone said, pointing in that general direction. “Near the Université.”

Simone had, with Nathalie’s permission, told Louis about the visions after their reunion in the aftermath of Agnès’s death. He was sworn to secrecy but had been intrigued from afar. This was the first time he’d had a chance to talk to Nathalie since then.

“What’s it like?” asked Louis. “That very moment. Is it like a dream? Or like you closed your eyes and ended up in another room?”

“Both,” she said, impressed with how he seemed to understand. He peppered her with other questions; the more she spoke, the more comfortable she was sharing her experiences. A measure of pride flowed through her veins like her magic-infused familial blood.

“What about the day you found a jar of blood in your bag?”

She frowned. That was a grim day, right after the fight with Simone, and she regretted spilling out the blood. It was a day she wished she could live over again. “I—I never sorted that out. Even now I wonder, every time I reach inside my satchel, if another one will be there.”

Simone nudged Louis. “You’ve asked enough questions. Leave her alone.”

Soon they arrived at Mme. Klampert’s apartment building. Grayish white with flowerboxes on every balcony, it seemed too bright and modern for a séance. Somehow Nathalie had always pictured them taking place in dirty Gothic buildings recessed in the shadow of overgrown trees.

When they stepped inside, Louis led the way to the second floor. It was unusually quiet, and when they approached Mme. Klampert’s door, the only sounds were their own footsteps. Nathalie had expected half a dozen voices from within, the jubilant noises of a party. Perhaps they were the first to arrive.

Instead of knocking on the door, Louis pulled out a key. He unlocked the door and gestured for Nathalie and Simone to enter. He followed them in and closed the door, locking it.

And then it was immediately obvious.

No one else was in the apartment.

As she watched Louis tuck the key in his pocket, unconcerned, the sick realization overtook her.

There was no séance, and there was never going to be.

It was all a trick.





41


The room they stood in resembled both a parlor and a laboratory.

Striped wallpaper, tapestry sofa and chair, kerosene lamps, a sun-faded rug, a bookshelf. No vases or trinkets or flowers. Only a candelabra on the bookshelf across the room.

And hundreds of jars.

Shelf after shelf of them lined the walls. Filled with liquid, they were all arranged by color. Black, brown, red, purple.

Blood. At least some of them. Nathalie was sure of it.

Her lungs emptied entirely, as if she’d taken a slow-moving cannonball to the stomach. She stole a glance at Simone, who seemed equally as stunned.

“Louis,” Simone began, voice brewing with alarm, “what is this? Where are we?”

“Madame Klampert’s apartment, as I said.” He leaned against the door and eyed them both.