Spectacle(97)

She quivered. Aunt Brigitte was more lucid, more clear-eyed than she’d ever seen her. Not tempestuous or angry.

Authentic.

“This woman,” Nathalie began, fighting the dread that clawed at her throat. “What—what did she look like?”

“Stunning visage, dark braids that sat high on her head. She wore an unusual headpiece, red and gold, that looked like a fan. Height like yours.”

The room spun around Nathalie like a carnival wheel.

Why hadn’t she put it together before? It was all right there. All of it.

Splinters.

Red-and-gold fan.

Red-and-gold prayer card. To a saint whose conversion story involved blood. Of course blood. Always blood.

She’d seen Mme. la Tuerie not once. Not twice. Three times.

And once had been with the Dark Artist.

Nathalie sat down on the floor. She didn’t care if was filthy or smelled like chamber pots. Her legs wouldn’t support her. She hugged her knees as she thought it all through.

The woman who’d talked to her in the morgue about splinters, the day she fainted. My beau gets splinters all the time.

The couple in Père Lachaise, the day she followed M. Gloves. Asking her if she was lost. A handsome clean-shaven man who’d had a beard when he was on the slab at the morgue. That’s why he seemed familiar. She’d seen him. Talked to him. About the lovers statue in the cemetery.

The lovers, like the tarot card. Like the photograph at Medici Fountain that Louis had seen.

But one lover killed the other. She alone killed the Dark Artist. The man in the dream on the blanket. It represented the Dark Artist.

Somewhere on the edges of Nathalie’s mind she heard Tante call her name, but she couldn’t respond.





46


Nathalie trembled and made her way to her feet, using the wall for support.

“Why did you sit on the ground like that?” asked Aunt Brigitte. “There’s a chair in the corner.”

“I just—just needed to for a moment.” Nathalie looked in the hall to see if either of her parents were on their way back yet. “Tante, did the woman kill me?”

“I don’t know. I ran toward her and grabbed her wrist, but my hand slipped on the blood,” Aunt Brigitte said, mimicking an elusive grasp. “You woke up in time to see her coming for you. And then you did the strangest thing.”

She positioned her hand for a handshake. Nathalie tentatively met Tante’s hand with her own.

“After you shook her hand, I woke up.” Aunt Brigitte heaved a sigh as she gently let go of Nathalie’s hand.

Nathalie stared at her own hand, as if it could tell her the rest of the story. “What about the—the demon dog? How was that part of the dream?”

“It wasn’t,” Aunt Brigitte said in a low voice. “That was a dream from days ago. An excuse. I bit my wrist as hard as I could to make this dream go away. To make them all go away. Forever.” She closed her eyes. “I don’t trust the people here. They never understand. No one does. Except your father. Where is he again?”

“With the doctor, remember? He’ll be back soon.” Nathalie stole a look over her shoulder. Should I?

I have to, and I have to now. I should have long ago.

“Tante. I need to tell you something. Quickly,” she said in a soft voice. “Somehow I—I was born with Dr. Henard’s magic. I have visions, too.”

Aunt Brigitte’s eyes shot open. She stared at Nathalie as if terrified of her. She screamed, a powerful bellow from a petite, bony body, and tugged hard on her braid. “No, no. NO! Not you. NOT YOU!”

Moments later the doctor and nurse hurried into the room with Maman and Papa close behind. The nurse asked Aunt Brigitte what was wrong.

“Protect her. Protect that beautiful child. Take care of her, Augustin.”

“I will,” said Papa. He tucked the blanket neatly around his sister. “Please don’t worry yourself, Brigitte.”

“She’s free from danger,” Maman added, brushing back Aunt Brigitte’s unruly hair. She gave Nathalie a questioning glance.

“No. She’s not.” Tante moved her head side to side like a child refusing food. “The woman wants her dead.”

Nathalie started to shake, even though the room was warm. “I’m—I’m well, Tante. Truly,” she said, despite being nothing of the sort. She whispered to her parents that she’d explain later.

The nurse massaged some chamomile oil on Aunt Brigitte’s temples and neck, then left the room. Maman sat on the bed and held Tante’s hands as Aunt Brigitte closed her eyes with a moan.

Nathalie folded her arms to stop the shaking. How long were they going to stay? She needed to go tell Christophe. He might even want to come talk to Aunt Brigitte himself.

Her shaking got even worse. She folded her arms tighter.

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” said the doctor, with a nod to Papa. “Brigitte needs her rest.”

Maman kissed Aunt Brigitte on the forehead and said good-bye; Nathalie and Papa followed suit.

As they walked out, the nurse came back in, carrying restraints and a syringe.



* * *



During her trek to the morgue an hour later with Papa, who was unusually quiet, Nathalie thought through all the visions. Again and again, quicker every time, like a chant to assuage her nerves.