Visible (Ripple)

by Cidney Swanson

  And now things happen in fast forward.

  Fritz rushes to where I’ve managed to stand and grabs me again, jabbing the gun into my throat. I hear a tiny click, but I don’t feel dead. Just as Fritz is re-capturing me, Chrétien ripples to invisibility. Sir Walter, seeing the weapon connect to my neck, shouts, “Wait,” to the empty spot where Chrétien used to be. But Chrétien is solid at my side a second later, bashing Fritz’s gun-wielding hand in such a way that the gun is no longer pointed at me.

  It does, however, fire, making it more likely I’ll be learning sign language; I can’t hear anything for several seconds. As I take in my hearing loss, it occurs to me the tiny click was Fritz releasing the gun’s safety. And this just infuriates me.

  I shout at him. “You were actually going to shoot me! How dare you!” I slam my heel into his instep and he grunts in a way I find quite satisfying. The sound also tells me I’m not permanently deaf.

  I’m about to aim one at his cojones, but Chrétien does a neat little twist that lands Fritz face first with both arms behind him onto the hood and windshield of Sir Walter’s blue Alfa Romeo Giulietta.

  Chapter Six

  THE CASTLE IS MINE

  “What do you think you’re doing here?” demands Sir Walter.

  “Me? What am I doing here?” replies Fritz.

  “I heard my question the first time I asked it,” says Sir Walter. “Did you?”

  Fritz sputters, maybe curses under his breath. “I have every right to be here. So far as I know, you do not. You will allow me to pass and enter at once.”

  “That will not be possible,” says Chrétien. His voice is velvet-y and dangerous, the voice of a predator.

  I take calming breaths and force myself to stand straight and tall. Well, as tall as sixty-one inches gets you. My hands form fists at my side and I run through Sandra Bullock’s self-defense moves in my mind.

  “What do you mean ‘that will not be possible’?” demands Fritz.

  “Your repetition of things already spoken grows wearisome,” says Sir Walter.

  “Do you know who I am?” asks Fritz.

  “Of course, cousin,” says Sir Walter. “Perhaps you have forgotten me, however?” He indicates with a movement of his head that Chrétien should allow Fritz to stand upright.

  As soon as Chrétien loosens his hold on Fritz, Fritz reaches in his coat for something—another weapon? But in a flash Sir Walter ripples and reappears with one arm around the intruder’s neck, the other forcing his arm into what looks like a super uncomfortable position. I make a mental note to learn that move. Minus the rippling part, anyway.

  “Chrétien?” Sir Walter calls calmly. “Would you be so kind?”

  Chrétien injects Fritz in the neck with a syringe.

  I gasp and then cover my mouth. I don’t like Fritz, but I really don’t care to watch someone die in front of my eyes, either. Chrétien hears my gasp and his eyes find mine. He nods reassuringly. The injection wasn’t lethal. I know somehow. In fact, it doesn’t appear to be affecting Fritz in any way whatsoever.

  “I believe you are familiar with the drug Neuroplex?” Sir Walter asks Fritz.

  “This man was the inventor of the anti-rippling tonic, mon père,” says Chrétien. “You are Dr. Fritz Gottlieb, are you not?”

  “How dare you inject me with Neuroplex?” wheezes Fritz.

  Sir Walter eases off on the neck-lock.

  “I have dared a great deal more these past weeks,” replies Sir Walter. “Chrétien, remove from this person any further weapons.”

  “And car keys,” I say. “Is that your black sedan at the entrance of the drive?”

  “I’ll report you for theft,” snaps Fritz.

  “My dear cousin,” says Sir Walter. “I have no interest in stealing your car. I merely wish to prevent you from leaving by a conventional means until we have had a civilized conversation.”

  Fritz rubs the injection spot on his neck as Chrétien pats him down for further weapons. An ugly knife and a pair of syringes join the revolver, now in Chrétien’s care.

  Eyeing one of the syringes with longing, Fritz says, “I have more of the Neuroplex antidote where that came from.”

  “A reverse anti-serum? Fascinating,” says Sir Walter. “Now, then, you may stand beside my vehicle while we conclude our conversation. I should advise against further attacks. You are outnumbered, cousin.”

  Fritz swears and spits: once at Sir Walter, once at his son. Then he looks up at the second floor windows of the castle. “Where is my father?” he demands.

  “Your father is even now adjusting to his extended stay in purgatory, I should think,” replies Sir Walter. “Assuming he was not sent straight to l’Inferne.”

  Fritz inhales sharply. “You … killed my father?”

  “Between us, his death was accomplished,” says Chrétien.

  “But … but … where are my brothers? What have you done with Hans? With Pfeffer? Where is Franz?” Fritz is scared now. His voice gives him away even though he stands straight as an arrow, his chin and nose aimed high.

  “They are gone as well,” says Sir Walter.

  This isn’t entirely true. Pfeffer’s south of Paris, last I heard.

  “Pfeffer’s alive,” shouts Fritz, pointing his index finger at Sir Walter and Chrétien in turn. “He responded to an email.”

  Sir Walter sighs and rubs his eyes. “I believe he told you to cease your attempts to contact him, did he not?”

  Fritz frowns. He doesn’t deny it.

  “Pfeffer lives, but he is not your ally,” continues Sir Walter. “So long as you pursue your father’s work, we are not your friends, either. Do I make myself clear?”

  Fritz glowers.

  It is silent except for the wind moaning around the château and among the tree tops.

  Fritz speaks again. “Am I to understand Franz and Hans are dead?”

  “They are, God rest their souls,” says Sir Walter, crossing himself.

  Chrétien crosses himself, too.

  “I see,” says Fritz. He brushes his hands along his suit, straightening, tidying.

  “Don’t try it,” warns Sir Walter.

  I look, but I can’t see any sign Fritz was going to do anything.

  “Try what, dear cousin?” asks Fritz, a tiny smile smudging his face. He holds his hands out, demonstrating innocence.

  “We overhear your thoughts,” says Chrétien.

  Fritz swears and his eyes widen. “Father said that was impossible: one of your lies.”

  “It is no lie,” says Sir Walter. “Helmann was a fool about many things.”

  “On that we are agreed,” mutters Fritz.

  “I suggest you depart,” says Sir Walter.

  “If Father is dead, the castle is mine,” says Fritz.

  “But we hold it,” says Chrétien. “Depart, while the opportunity presents itself.”

  “I have questions—”

  “I am not at present inclined to provide answers,” says Sir Walter, cutting Fritz off. “I suggest once more that you leave now.”

  “Or what? You’ll kill me, too?” asks Fritz. “You’re no better than Father was, old man.”

  “We live, all of us, in hope of redemption,” says Sir Walter.

  “Bah!” replies Fritz.

  Sir Walter nods to Chrétien, who tosses the car key back to Fritz. Fritz catches it, straightens his tie, and turns to leave down the drive. His angry steps toss loose gravel as he goes.

  “I do not like his thoughts,” says Sir Walter.

  “Nor do I,” says Chrétien.

  “We must depart as soon as may be,” says Sir Walter. “Let us warn the others.”

  Chapter Seven

  I’M HEARING VOICES

  Chrétien stands to one side of the château’s impressive front doors, allowing me and Sir Walter to enter first. The three of us climb the worn marble stairs. My legs have this jittery feeling like I just competed in cross country. I have a flashback to the first time
I climbed this staircase, when Hans brought me here. And suddenly, I’m glad we’re leaving.

  Beside me, Sir Walter sighs gently. “What heavenly scent is this?”

  It takes me a minute to place what he’s talking about because the smell is one I’m used to breathing pretty much twenty-four seven in Las Abs. It’s the smell of Ma’s chocolate chip cookies—the ones I’m not allowed to eat unless there are leftovers at the end of the day. Which happens, like, never.

  “Ma’s cookies,” I say. “Hey, about telling my mom what just went down, could we maybe … not?”

  Sir Walter pauses on the top step before the oaken door leading into the great hall.

  “Mademoiselle?” he says softly.

  “Just … please don’t mention the … fight. Or the survival of a Hans-sibling to Ma,” I say. “She’ll freak. She’s been through enough already.”

  Honestly, I haven’t been doing anything to help in that area. I shove my hands deep in my pockets and resolve for the gazillionth time to be a better daughter.

  “Indeed,” says Sir Walter. “Let us not alarm your dear mother.” He smiles, puts one hand on goatee-duty. “But I judge it would be best if we departed within the hour.”

  We push through the heavy door. After the chill of the outdoors, it feels like a sauna in here. And the smell of baking brown sugar, butter, and chocolate—Ma’s alchemical equation—is overwhelming.

  “Chocolate chip cookies,” says Will. He’s grinning ear to ear, but then, seeing our expressions, he frowns. “Was there a problem outside?”

  Sir Walter tells Will and Sam about our encounter with Fritz.

  “I’ll tell Ma we’re leaving,” I say.

  “Tell her to pack the cookies,” says Will. “Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve had a chocolate chip cookie?”

  I give him a strained smile. “Sure.”

  Sir Walter leaves to pack up his stuff, and Sam and Will are heading off, too.

  I sigh and walk to the kitchen. From the corner of my eye, I see Chrétien hesitate before the fireplace and then follow me. No idea why, other than the lure of Ma’s cookies. My mind flashes back to the day Chrétien, Sam, and I made cookies at Sam’s house, and Chrétien flipped over the taste. I remember chasing Chrétien around the pool with half a bag of flour. Before Hans burned Sam’s house to the ground.

  It feels like it happened a lifetime ago. To someone else.

  “Hey, Ma,” I say as I walk in.

  “You’re back,” Ma says, inspecting my new jeans, my red shoes. “Those jeans are too tight. You’ll have to take them back.”

  “Can’t,” I say. “They don’t have American refund policies in France.”

  Ma frowns and says a few things in Chinese about my backside attracting more attention than a backside should attract.

  “The cookies smell good,” I say, so Ma stops nattering on about my backside.

  “They’re … different,” she says. “French ingredients, I suppose.”

  I nod and run my index finger through a dusting of flour on the counter, exposing the ancient white marble, veined with gray and black. I’m working up to telling Ma the news in a way that doesn’t scare her.

  “So,” I say, “it turns out we need to leave. Now.”

  “Your passport came already? That’s impossible.”

  “No. Not that kind of leave. I still don’t have my passport. We’re leaving the château, not France.”

  “Oh, are we?” Ma’s face brightens. “How wonderful.” She hugs me, whispering, “Is this your doing? Thank you so much.”

  “Um,” I say, but I don’t add anything else. I guess I can let her think it’s my doing.

  “The cookies, though….” Ma looks a bit distressed. “You know how I feel about leftover dough.”

  “Ruins the crumb. Got it, Ma. We can make more at the new place,” I say.

  A timer sounds on Ma’s phone and she turns swiftly to the oven. At home, burnt cookies mean money down the drain.

  “The kitchen doesn’t have cooling racks,” Ma says, “but the counters are marble, which should cool them fast.”

  I note Chrétien’s focus on the cookies and pass him one. “Have a taste,” I say. Of, you know, the cookies, my lips, whatever.

  I so need to find another dude to crush on. I turn and look away.

  Sir Walter strides in the kitchen just then. “My dear Madame Li, you have quite outdone yourself.”

  Ma makes a phhht noise. “I could make this recipe in my sleep. In fact, I think I have.”

  Sam and Will trail Sir Walter into the kitchen.

  “You guys ready already?” I ask.

  “Mmm-hmm,” says Sam, hastily wiping at a smudge on Will’s cheek.

  Her lip gloss.

  I hate my life.

  Ten minutes later, freshly baked chocolate chip cookies bagged up, we are ready to say au revoir to Château Feu-Froid.

  “How far away is the new place?” Ma asks, yawning widely behind one flour-specked hand. “I could use a nap.”

  “What is our, how do you say, our destination?” Chrétien asks Sir Walter.

  “Destination,” we all (except Ma) say together.

  Chrétien’s high-boned cheeks flush rosy pink. Oh, the moisturizer you could sell with that face. If dudes bought moisturizer.

  “We travel to the south,” Sir Walter says vaguely. “Plenty of time for a cat-nap, Madame Li.”

  “You told Mick and Pfeffer where to find us, right?” asks Will as we make our way to Sir Walter’s car.

  “They are informed in that regard,” says Sir Walter. “We will be considerably nearer them, as it happens.”

  Sir Walter explains we’re heading for his place in the south of France. At first I’m thinking it’s another castle, but as they discuss who will sleep where, it sounds more like they’re discussing an old farmhouse. Will is offering to sleep invisibly, in the walls.

  This makes Ma shudder and shake her head.

  “No, no, my friend,” says Sir Walter to Will. “You have a broken limb to mend. No time off for you.”

  Sam explains to me and Ma that if Will is invisible, his body goes into a hibernating state where nothing changes, hence, nothing heals. And now all the ripplers are arguing over who gets to sleep invisibly, which, is just … wrong. How is it I got roped into this crowd?

  The topic comes up again when the six of us stare into Sir Walter’s car which only has four seatbelts.

  “In truth,” says Chrétien, “we can travel more comfortably if two do so without substance.”

  “Not me,” says my ma. “Sorry, but I’ve had enough rippling to last a lifetime.”

  “It cannot be myself, as I must drive,” says Sir Walter.

  “I’ll ripple,” says Will. “With Sam.”

  “You’ll stay in the car and heal is what you’ll do,” says Sam.

  “I will travel insubstantially,” says Chrétien.

  “I get carsick,” I say. “Is there any chance that would go away if I was … invisible?” I remember something about Sam saying she’s never cold or hungry when she ripples.

  “You can’t feel carsick when you’re invisible,” says Will.

  Another minute of discussion and it is decided: Chrétien will carry me into ripple-world, and the rest will ride in the car.

  Ma is muttering under her breath.

  “It’s okay, Ma, really,” I say, planting a tiny kiss on one of her cheeks.

  She looks at me, worried, and nods.

  “So how do we do this?” I ask Chrétien.

  His cheeks pop out bright pink spots again as he explains. “I believe I must … enfold you within my grasp.”

  This, it turns out, means we hold hands, which is not nearly as much enfolding as I might have been hoping for. Still, his hand in mine is warm, and in the two perfect seconds it takes Chrétien to disappear, I smell something warm and spicy along with a hint of chocolate chip cookie. And then I don’t smell anything. I’m invisible. Inside a car.<
br />
  “Oh,” says Sam, buckling up just after I disappear. “I came up with the perfect topic for you, Gwyn. For that French paper.”

  Can’t talk right now, Sam. Invisible and all.

  Chrétien laughs.

  Wait. I heard that. I heard Chrétien laughing, I swear.

  Dude, I think, did you just laugh?

  And what do I hear in my head? A spoken “yes,” in Chrétien’s voice.

  Oh, this is great. Just great. I’m hearing voices.

  Chapter Eight

  BALLET IS FOR DUDES

  You are not hearing voices, says Chrétien. You are hearing my voice. Well, and that of your friend Mademoiselle Samantha.

  This is true. Sam is still talking, because apparently she can’t hear Chrétien and moi having our little tête-à-tête.

  “So, you know,” Sam says, “considering how you watch all those dance shows, I think it would be perfect. And Chrétien can tell you all about Louis Quatorze and dancing,” concludes Sam.

  Of what am I to speak to you? asks Chrétien. Of dancing?

  Um, I reply, Sam must be talking about the assignment for French class. I’m supposed to write a four page paper about some aspect of Le Roi-Soleil, Louis the Fourteenth of France.

  Ah, Chrétien responds. And this project can be upon the topic of dancing?

  Yup. So long as it is Louis-related.

  Chrétien laughs again. Do you know, Mademoiselle, under whose reign I passed my youth?

  Will said something about you being born the same year as the Sun King, I say. Is that true?

  Indeed, replies Chrétien. From my fifteenth year, I passed my time as a member of his court.

  Seriously?

  Truly, replies Chrétien. And I can actually feel a tiny bit of his emotion: delight. Enough that I know what the expression on his face would be right now.

  Which brings up a few questions about how we are … communicating.

  Wait a minute, wait a minute, I say, half to Chrétien, half to myself. How come I can hear what you are thinking, but I couldn’t hear what The Hans and Franz Show were thinking?