A Darkness Strangeand Lovely

by Susan Dennard

  “She does.” I nodded warmly. “She likes it very much.”

  “I am glad.” She motioned me to a pair of rose-colored armchairs beside the fireplace. “Let us sit. We will have an apéritif before our meal.”

  As we crossed to the seats, I noticed a collection of portraits over the fireplace. One was of her, one was of the Marquis, and one was of an auburn-haired woman whom I did not recognize . . . though something about her reminded me of Madame Marineaux.

  “Who is that woman?” I asked, dropping into a chair as she eased into the other. “Your sister, perhaps?”

  For a moment the Madame’s shoulders drooped, and she did not reply. But finally she said, “No. The Marquis’s sister, actually. Her name was Claire.” She gave me a sad smile. “And she was like a sister to me—my closest friend in all the world. But . . . she died almost seven years ago.”

  “Oh, I am so sorry.”

  “Do not be. We must lose everyone we love at some point or another. C’est la vie.” She clasped her hands in her lap. “Now tell me, what do you think of Paris? What have you seen so far?”

  “Not much, but what I have visited is truly beautiful.”

  “You shall have to see more then! I will steal you away as soon as you are free and show you my favorite places.”

  “Oh, Madame, I would love that! But you’ve already done so much for me. Why, I haven’t even thanked you for this dress yet. It is so nice to have something new to wear.”

  Her lips quirked up happily. “I fear the brown is not the prettiest of colors, but I promise”—she tilted almost conspiratorially toward me—“you will have something far more magnificent for the ball.”

  “Th-thank you.” I fidgeted with my gloves. “I don’t know how I can ever repay you.”

  “By telling me stories.” She clapped her hands. “I love hearing about other parts of the world. Tell me about Philadelphia—oh, or, I know, tell me how you met the Spirit-Hunters.”

  “Oh, um . . .” My forehead puckered. I didn’t want to tell her how I had met the Spirit-Hunters, for that would mean telling her about their criminal status back in Philadelphia—about my own unsavory status. Instead, I opted to change the subject. “It amazes me how popular they are here.”

  She nodded. “They are the city’s favorites—though how much longer that will last, I do not know.”

  I blinked. “What do you mean?”

  “Only that it is . . . difficult to keep the city entertained. As odd as it may sound, the less they work and the more parties they attend, the higher their favor.”

  “That is odd.” I tugged at my ear. “Would the people not want them to stop les Morts?”

  “Of course! But they also want to see the Spirit-Hunters out and about, living a glamorous life. And you cannot forget that everyone loves the macabre. The newspapers benefit by having stories to tell, the Marquis benefits by protecting the city, and the Spirit-Hunters benefit by being showered with love.” She laid her hands in her lap, grinning slightly. “Do not frown like that, Mademoiselle. It is merely something to consider.”

  Right then, a maid—not the hysterical woman from earlier—bustled into the parlor with a tray of champagne. The crystal flutes rattled, and the woman’s face was pinched, clearly indicating that she was not fully recovered from the afternoon’s drama.

  Just as she finished pouring the sweet drink and handed one to me, Madame Marineaux exclaimed, “Non, non! Look what you have done!” She glowered at the maid. “You have dirtied her glass with your finger! Please, take my drink, Mademoiselle.” She extended her flute toward me, her face lined with annoyance. “And accept my apology for this foolish maid.”

  “That’s all right.” I smiled reassuringly at the maid. “I do not mind.”

  “No,” the Madame insisted. “I cannot have you drinking out of a tarnished glass. Think what people will say of me!” She pushed her glass at me once more, so I accepted it—and was instantly rewarded with one of her beautiful smiles. Then, after donning another, quick scowl, Madame Marineaux sent her maid away and waited for me to drink.

  I sipped it—the added syrup was far too sweet for my taste—but since the Madame was clearly waiting for a reaction of approval, I forced myself to tip back the whole thing.

  When I was done, she picked up our earlier conversation. “So you see, Mademoiselle, as long as les Morts continue, the Spirit-Hunters will remain popular. It is quite the . . . conundrum.”

  I nodded, although I suddenly found it quite difficult to focus—and I was too warm and relaxed even to mind. It would seem the alcohol had gone straight to my head.

  And, hours later, when I returned to the Hotel Le Meurice, I found that not only could I not recall a single word from the evening, but I had completely forgotten to bring the butler’s corpse with me.

  Or to find Joseph.

  But most worrying of all, I realized none of this until the next day.

  I awoke exhausted, throbbing with hunger and so befuddled, I questioned my own sanity. How can one forget an entire evening and night?

  Unless it’s the necromancy.

  I heaved the absurd thought aside and replaced it with visions of a hot bath and copious amounts of fresh bread. In all likelihood, I had imbibed too much champagne. I could deal with my necromancy later. Deal with the Dead and Oliver and everything else in the world later.

  But of course, none of my plans came to fruition. Just as I heaved up my foot for the final step through the restaurant doorway, someone shouted my name.

  “Mademoiselle Fitt! Eleanor!”

  With a monumental amount of effort, I turned myself back around. And instantly beamed, for it was none other than Laure Primeau.

  She bustled toward me, her face split with a grin and her dark sapphire dress cinched tightly around her waist. How she got her corset so small, I couldn’t imagine, but she certainly made it look effortless. And she certainly wore that magnificent color effortlessly as well.

  “What are you doing here?” I strode toward her, my hands outstretched to clasp hers. “I thought you were bound for Marseille.”

  “And I decided to take a detour. I ’ave friends in Paris whom I ’ave been meaning to see. I thought I would come visit you on the way.” Her lips quirked up. “Especially when I heard you are companions with the famous Spirit-Hunters. C’est vrai?”

  “Yes. It’s true.”

  Her eyes crinkled—partly with pleasure, but mostly with mischief. “I suppose that explains how you got a new hand, non?”

  I yanked my hand back, heat bursting on my face. “Yes. That’s . . . that’s it.”

  “Oh, I did not intend to make you uncomfortable.” She hooked her arm in mine and gave me a wide—and very genuine—smile. “I ’ave hunger and would very much like a treat in the ’otel’s famous restaurant.”

  I laughed. “You had me at the word ‘hunger.’ Come—it is my treat this time.”

  We were halfway through our second round of pastries (though how the devil she fit three chocolate croissants and all that coffee inside her corset, I haven’t the faintest idea), when a flurry of noise began outside. People trickled past, one by one . . . until there were suddenly many people—all of them rushing and all of them headed for the street. A quick glance out the window showed people pushing onto the Rue de Rivoli. Traffic was almost at a halt.

  But most curious of all was that every person’s face was lifted up.

  Laure dabbed at her mouth with a napkin. “What do you suppose it is?” She did not wait for an answer before waving over the nearest server. After a quick conversation in French, her eyebrows jumped high, and she twisted back to me. “He says it is a giant balloon over the city.”

  Now my eyebrows jumped high. Then, without another word, we both bounded to our feet and scrambled for the door. “A giant balloon?” I repeated as we hurried through the crowded front hall. “Are you sure you understood right?”

  “Oui!” She began with a glare, but she didn’t finish speaking,
for now we had left the hotel and had a full view of the sky.

  And both our jaws were sagging.

  Floating over the city, exactly as the server had described, was an enormous white balloon. It was like the war balloons from the Civil War but much, much larger. And shaped like an egg.

  No wonder the whole city was outside! The balloon floated closer and closer, faster than any bird or carriage, and as I ogled with the rest of Paris, all my earlier concerns dropped away. I wanted to see this balloon up close, wanted to see what sort of machine could navigate the skies.

  “Come,” Laure urged. “Everyone is going into the gardens.” I let her drag me along and we wound our way around stopped carriages, huffing horses, and wide-eyed spectators until we reached the fence surrounding the Tuileries.

  “Mon Dieu!” she cried. “Look! It is landing!” She tugged me toward the gardens’ entrance. We darted and wove and twisted until we were both coated in sweat, yet no one seemed to mind our unladylike comportment—not even when Laure started stabbing people with her parasol to get inside the gardens. Everyone else was poking as much as she.

  At last we managed to find a small gap between bodies at the bottom of the stairs. By that point almost everyone had stopped moving, their faces upturned at the now rapidly sinking balloon. So, with our hands as visors, Laure and I turned our own faces upward with the rest of Paris.

  The closer the balloon came, the more detail I could see. It was at least three times the size of a war balloon yet shaped like an ellipse. With a long gondola dangling beneath, it had the look of a boat with enormous white sails.

  And never—not ever—had I seen anything like it. Not even at the Centennial Exhibition back in Philadelphia, which supposedly contained all the world’s wonders. Clearly they had missed this one.

  I couldn’t keep the grin off my lips. The words magnifique and incroyable flew around me, and not once did Laure stop her own exclamations.

  Soon the balloon was low enough that the crowds were forced back, and a space was cleared at the center of the gardens. Blue-uniformed men rushed forward. I squinted and then blinked. One of those servants was the rigidly mustached waiter from the hotel.

  But before I could consider what it might mean, one of the portholes in the gondola popped open. A rope flew out. Then, one by one, each porthole burst wide and ropes came tumbling through. The servants from Le Meurice—for those were who they all were—rushed forward to snatch up the ropes.

  I strained on my tiptoes, trying to glimpse how this monstrosity would be tied down, but then my attention was diverted—the gondola’s door was opening wide.

  A folding ladder dropped down, and onto the first rung stepped a gleaming, black boot.

  Applause rippled throughout the crowd and then finally burst forth in a thunder of clapping hands. And it was as if someone took the clock and locked it in place.

  I felt every brush of wind, every drop of sweat. I heard every whisper and shout around me. Heard Laure’s elated laughter bubbling beneath. My heart grew and grew until I thought it might break free from my chest.

  Perhaps it was the dregs of necromancy or perhaps it was the way the perfect breeze kissed my face, but in that moment, I did not think I had ever seen anything more beautiful in my life. Or inspiring. What kind of person did you have to be to tame the skies?

  I held my breath, waiting for the rest of this unknown pilot to appear.

  A gray-trousered leg came next, followed by a gray coattail, a sandy-blond head . . .

  And then the pilot turned to face the crowd. To face me.

  It was Daniel.

  Chapter Twelve

  My knees buckled.

  Daniel. Daniel Sheridan! Here. Now.

  I swayed into Laure. She looked over, alarmed, and tried to steady me. She shouted something. I didn’t answer—I couldn’t. All I could do was stare stupidly at the balloon, my breath frozen in my lungs.

  Daniel leaned into the gondola, and when he came back out, he popped a top hat on his head. Then he spun around to wave at the crowd. A confident grin split his face.

  And all of Paris cheered—except for me.

  How many times had I tried to forget that blasted smile? The way his forehead relaxed and his green eyes crinkled?

  A growl escaped my throat, and I squeezed my skirts in my fists. When Jie had said he was due back soon, I had not envisioned that his arrival would be quite so grand.

  Laure gazed over at me, worry creasing her forehead. “Are you ill?” she shouted. I nodded and, taking her arm, swiveled about. I had to get away.

  With far more violence than before, I shoved my way toward the garden gates and towed Laure with me. Perhaps if I ate croissants until I was sick, locked myself in my room, and pretended my pillow was Daniel’s face, then this enormous lump closing off my throat would go away.

  Surprisingly, people stepped aside and let us pass. It was as if my misery were a storm cloud to be avoided at all costs.

  And for some reason, this only made me angrier. I stomped on, Laure plying me with concerned questions the entire way.

  We were almost up the stairs when I realized that the crowds really were clearing a path—but it wasn’t Laure and me they were avoiding.

  I halted on the top step, pulling Laure to a stop with me, while ahead the Parisians continued to draw back.

  Laure turned around. “Ah,” she breathed.

  “Ah what?” I asked. But she didn’t have to answer, for footsteps pattered behind and a voice I knew entirely too well called, “Excusez-moi, Mesdemoiselles. Est-ce que je peux vous aider?”

  Laure’s lips puffed into a coy smile, her lashes batting prettily. But she said nothing, and so providing a response fell to me.

  I drew in a ragged breath and forced myself around. Then I looked him square in the eyes and said, “Hello, Daniel. A fine afternoon for an overly dramatic balloon landing, don’t you think?”

  His eyes doubled in size, and his mouth bobbed open like a fish. If the situation wasn’t so awful, I would have laughed at his shock.

  He tried to speak, his usually tan face devoid of all color, but nothing came out.

  Then, as if matters weren’t already uncomfortable enough, they somehow worsened. The entire crowd fell silent. Every single person stopped speaking and waited to see what Daniel would do.

  Life ticked by in painfully slow seconds. My heart pounded in my ears, and I fought to keep my face still.

  Someone coughed. Laure flinched. Then Daniel flinched and stumbled toward me.

  “Miss Fitt,” he said.

  “Do not call me that.” My voice came out surprisingly composed—though I desperately wished the crowds would cease their silence and ignore us. “I’m Eleanor to you, Daniel. You know that.”

  His eyebrows twitched down, and with that, his own composure seemed to return. He swooped off his top hat and bowed. “Eleanor, what a . . . pleasant surprise.” He lifted and motioned to Laure. “Who is your companion?”

  “This is Mademoiselle Laure Primeau,” I said. “Laure, this is Mr. Daniel Sheridan.”

  “How do you do, Mademoiselle?” He gave another elegant bow, and I almost laughed as my discomfort melted away. Jie was right. I didn’t recognize this young man at all. This Daniel Sheridan was not the escaped convict I had fallen in love with three months ago. Whatever that book on manners was that Jie had mentioned in her letter, it had turned Daniel into a perfect copy of every other polite and dull gentleman in the world.

  “You know each other?” Laure asked, her lips twisting up wickedly. “What a magnificent . . . coincidence, non?”

  “He is one of the Spirit-Hunters,” I muttered, grabbing her arm. “Let’s go back to the hotel now, please.”

  Daniel leaned toward me. “The Hotel Le Meurice?”

  I nodded grudgingly, avoiding his eyes. “We were just headed back, were we not, Laure?”

  But she didn’t answer. Her smirk merely deepened. “You are going to the same ’otel, Monsieur?”<
br />
  He tugged at his collar. “Yes.”

  “Parfait,” she murmured under her breath. Then, with an arch smile at me, she said, “Then he must escort us, non? It is his responsibility as a gentleman.”

  I opened my mouth, a hissing retort on my tongue, but Daniel was already leaping up the remaining steps to us. “Allow me,” he said, swooping another graceful bow.

  And it was as if all of France released its breath. That single movement sent a wave of sighs through the entire audience (for crowd they were no longer). Instantly, conversations resumed; the world returned to its natural course.

  Laure’s lips stayed in a smug pucker as she took Daniel’s left arm and I took his right. Then we began an awkward promenade toward the hotel. He was as tall and lanky as ever, and I had to roll back my head to meet his eyes.

  “That was quite an entrance,” I said, lifting my voice over the now-roaring crowds. “You would do well in the circus.”

  “C’est vrai,” Laure chimed. “What was the purpose?”

  He chuckled tightly. “The Marquis asked me to do it. When I returned to Paris, he told me to make it grand. So I did.” He spoke slowly, putting a great deal of emphasis on each word. “What brings you to Paris, Miss Fitt?”

  “And why . . . are you . . . speaking so slowly? Also, do not call me Miss Fitt.”

  “I ain’t—I mean, I’m not talking slow . . . slowly.” His teeth gritted, and I could see Laure bite her lip to keep from laughing. “I’m merely surprised to find you here,” he continued. “And with a . . . lady at your side.”

  I wrinkled up my face. “Merely” was not a word in Daniel’s vocabulary.

  “Eleanor was my roommate,” Laure explained as we walked down the sidewalk beside the busy street. “We were on the same ship to France.”

  Daniel only gave her a cursory grunt, his focus still on me. Laure looked daggers at him—it would seem she wasn’t fond of being ignored.

  But inwardly I grinned. Even in my mud-colored gown and unlaced waist, Daniel wanted to speak to me.