“For Madeleine’s sake?” I ask. “Don’t you mean for Marie-Anne’s sake?”
Chrétien shakes his head. “The queen loved Madeleine, who was her first … how do you say, petite enfante.”
“Her first grandchild,” I say, my voice soft.
“Indeed,” Chrétien says with a small bow. “And so you see how it is impossible I should believe these slanders against Her Majesty, Queen Anne.” He bows and walks away.
I close the window on the computer. My face feels hot and I want to apologize all over again.
Chrétien occupies himself poking at the fire, convincing the half-burned logs to flame a bit brighter. I am trying to figure out how to proceed in the “Cheer Chrétien Up” department when Pfeffer pops into existence out of thin air, along with Mickie.
“Knock much?” I mutter to myself.
“Waldhart,” Pfeffer says, addressing Sir Walter by a name none of the rest of us use, “We may have a problem.”
“With some of Helmann’s ‘sleepers,’” says Mickie.
Chapter Sixteen
CIVIL RIGHTS
One of über bad guy’s kids is causing problems? There’s a big surprise.
“Where’s Will?” Mickie demands, looking around the room.
“Out walking with Sam,” I say.
Mickie nods and the worry leaves her face.
“I received a call from Martina,” says Pfeffer.
I recognize the name. She’s one of the first group of five sleeping ripplers woken by Sir Walter with Helmann’s secret pass phrase.
“Martina says Georg and Hansel didn’t show up at the clinic today,” says Mickie.
“Why is that bad?” I whisper to Chrétien.
“Mademoiselle Mackenzie and Monsieur Pfeffer have made it possible for the ‘sleepers’ to work as volunteers in Montpellier,” he replies. “If they have disappeared … it doesn’t bode well.”
Pfeffer continues. “Martina says the two have been making disparaging remarks about the work to which they are relegated, and she is afraid they may have left for good.”
“So?” I ask. It doesn’t sound that bad to me. “If there’s one thing I know about volunteering, it’s that you don’t want people who don’t want to be there in the first place.”
“If they go rogue,” Mickie says, “who’s to say what they might get involved with. They can turn invisible.”
“No,” says Pfeffer. “That is, not at first, at least.”
“Oh,” says Mick. “That’s true.”
“Why can’t they ripple?” I ask.
“Pfeff’s been dosing them with Neuroprine,” Mickie explains. “The drug invented to suppress rippling over the long term, as opposed to Neuroplex, the drug which instantly but temporarily stops rippling.”
I frown. “Is that legal? Because it sure sounds like a violation of civil rights to me.”
Mickie scowls at me. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned about Mickie-scowls, they show up when she knows you have a point.
Sir Walter speaks. “It may be, Mademoiselle Gwyn. We are treading upon dangerous ground no matter what we do. If we leave les anges, the Angels, to sleep, are we not culpable? If we release them unto the world to choose their own way and they choose to do evil, are we then culpable? With great difficulty, Pfeffer and I have agreed it would be best to learn more of them, as individual souls, before allowing them to exercise their power.”
“Well, maybe they didn’t like that, and that’s why they took off,” I mutter, my arms crossed.
“Oh,” says Mickie, softly, covering her mouth with one hand.
We all stare at her.
“What if they didn’t take off at all?” she whispers.
“Mademoiselle?” asks Sir Walter.
“What if Fritz kidnapped them because he wasn’t getting anywhere by asking you to swap the journals?”
Sir Walter frowns.
I wrap my arms tightly around my torso.
Chrétien whispers to me, “Are you unwell?”
“Just a little sensitive about anything kidnapping-related,” I reply.
“How badly do we think Fritz wants that black book of Helmann’s?” asks Mickie. “Bad enough to kidnap someone?”
“If Fritz has, indeed, surmised his father’s pass phrase is hidden in one of the journals, he might do worse than kidnapping,” says Pfeffer. “He is a coward, but he is as ruthless as any of his siblings.”
“So you think he wants to wake up the sleeper agents?” asks Mickie.
Pfeffer shrugs. “I can’t be certain. Of all Helmann’s children, Fritz was the most secretive. He never opposed his father, but I confess I do not know what his ambitions might be.”
“Does he perhaps seek an army?” asks Chrétien. “The sleepers would present a formidable army, could they be persuaded to follow Fritz.”
“They were raised to value compassion,” says Mickie. “You read the journal. Helmann culled the herd of any who weren’t willing to run into burning buildings to rescue kittens, that sort of thing.”
“He did, indeed,” says Sir Walter, tugging at his goatee.
“But Helmann was able to use those instincts to convince them to do harm,” says Pfeffer. “Fritz is adept at spinning the truth—he could do what his father did.”
We sit in silence for a minute. The fire pops loudly, sending an ember onto the carpet. Chrétien kicks it swiftly back to the hearth, checking for additional sparks.
Sir Walter paces and speaks again. “I am not, on reflection, inclined to suspect Fritz has stolen them away.”
“Why not?” asks Mickie.
“Had he done so, my cousin would be likely to gloat over such an action,” replies Sir Walter. “And, of course, to threaten us with their demise. Yet we have not heard from him.”
Pfeffer nods. “You’re right about the gloating. Fritz can’t resist making the most of instances where he holds the upper hand. Such instances came rarely while his siblings lived.”
“Maybe Fritz didn’t have to kidnap them,” I say.
“What is your meaning, Mademoiselle?” Chrétien asks.
“If you guys are all busy denying their civil rights, maybe Hansel and Gretel decided to join up with Fritz on their own.”
“Georg,” murmurs Chrétien.
“Surely not,” says Sir Walter.
I shrug. It sounds pretty plausible to me.
Pfeffer frowns, rubbing his hand over his mouth.
“Pfeffer?” asks Sir Walter. “You are concerned?”
Dr. Pfeffer returns his hand to his side and chews his lower lip instead.
“Well,” he says after a few seconds, “they knew their ‘Uncle Fritz’ from his frequent visits to deliver their inoculations.” Pfeffer turns to me. “We were not the first to inoculate the sleepers so that they could not disappear. Helmann did so as well, from the time they first demonstrated the ability to ripple until shortly before he placed them in hypnotic sleep. Rippling freely was only allowed a few times a year, and only for training. In addition, had they chosen to run off, they were informed they would perish, as Helmann had made certain they all carried a genetic trait designed to make them ill, should they not return for their ‘medicine.’”
“For real?” I ask.
Pfeffer nods. “They will fall ill without receiving an enzyme they are each unable to produce.”
“Like the dinosaurs in Jurassic Park,” Mickie adds.
I nod. Even though I was too much of a chicken to watch Jurassic Park when I was a kid, I still get the basic idea.
“Well,” says Sir Walter, “If I might make a suggestion, I believe we should not let our minds run wild with fears that may never materialize.”
“Perhaps,” says Pfeffer. “But we must remain vigilant for reports which might indicate the presence of rogue ripplers in …” Pfeffer consults his watch, which must have a calendar on it. “In eight days time.”
“Or less, if they pay a visit to Uncle Fritz,” says Mickie. “Didn’t y
ou say he cooked up an antidote?”
“Yes,” says Sir Walter, frowning. “To counteract Neuroplex.”
Sam and Will push through the front door as Sir Walter finishes speaking. The two of them glance around the room, taking in our serious-looking faces.
“What’s wrong?” asks Will.
Mickie explains quickly.
“Someone needs to go talk to Martina in person,” Will says. “I volunteer.”
“You’re not going anywhere,” snaps Mickie. “Broken leg, much?”
Will shrugs. “Over-protective, much?”
“Someone should go,” Sam says. “Don’t you think, Sir Walter?”
Sir Walter sighs and gives his goatee one final pull. “I shall accompany Dr. Pfeffer,” he says. “Mademoiselle Mackenzie, would you be so good as to come along with us?”
Will gives his sister a hug around one shoulder.
“Stay out of trouble,” she says to him. “Same goes for the rest of you,” she adds, looking at me, Chrétien and Sam.
“You’re turning into one big fluffy marshmallow,” says Will, hugging her tighter.
“Hmmph,” Mickie grunts.
“Might I accompany you as well?” asks Chrétien. “While some of the Angels found my manners strange, I believe Martina trusted me.”
Mickie nods. “That’s true. She did.”
“Chrétien, you should go,” says Sam. “If Martina connected better with you, she might be willing to tell you things she wouldn’t tell Mick or Pfeff. I mean, she’d be ratting on the siblings she grew up with. That takes some trust, right?”
Sir Walter gives his mini-beard a few mini-tugs while staring at me. He looks worried. Because of me. The Muggle.
“Look,” I say. “I don’t need a babysitter.”
“She’ll be fine with me and Will here,” says Sam.
“Who would even know where to find us?” I ask. “No one, right?”
Sir Walter nods and the four of them ripple invisible, leaving us alone in the isolated farmhouse.
Chapter Seventeen
ENSORCELLING
Will yawns loudly. “Okay, that walk did me in. Sam, you mind if I crash in your room?”
“Go ahead,” she says, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek.
For a moment, I expect her to follow him back, but she doesn’t.
“He didn’t sleep well,” Sam says to me. “He wanted to quit taking pain killers, so he tried it last night, but his leg is still pretty sore.”
I nod.
“How are you doing?” she asks me.
“Me? I’m fine.”
She tilts her head and pulls her mouth into a line that says I don’t believe you.
I sink onto the couch beside her, groaning dramatically. “What do you expect? In the last six days I’ve been kidnapped, drugged, held as a criminal trying to flee France without proper documentation, and forced into a closer relationship with the hottest guy to walk the face of the Earth in over three centuries.”
“You forgot about being held at gunpoint with the safety off,” says Sam.
“Right. That, too.”
“Well, when you put it that way,” Sam says, struggling to keep a straight face.
“I know, right?” I try to keep a straight face, too.
We stare at each other and then start busting up, giggling like middle-schoolers. Sam catches herself first, nodding toward the hall.
“Will’s trying to sleep,” she says.
We quiet down and I kick my shoes off, drawing my feet up onto the couch so I can hug my knees.
“Oh, Sam,” I say in a voice just above a whisper.
“What?”
I shake my head.
“Tell me,” she says.
I drop my chin onto my knees and then twist my face around so I can see both Sam and the fire. The fire’s not staring me down with puppy eyes, so I fix my gaze on the bright embers.
“I take it this is about Chrétien?” she asks.
I don’t bother to nod. She’s psychic, after all.
Sam sighs. I sigh.
“You got any more of that color-changing toe polish?” I ask after a few seconds. “The French stuff that predicts your love life depending on color?”
“You want to paint your nails?”
“I want to know if I’m ‘lucky in love’ or just ‘passionate in love,’” I explain.
“Yeah,” says Sam. “It sure would be handy if I had that polish so we could check which one it is.”
“You mock my pain,” I say. “You’re the worst best friend ever.”
Sam grunts out a small laugh. “Probably, given my track record.”
I frown at her. “You’re not still blaming yourself for—”
“No, no, no,” she says, interrupting me. “For once, I wasn’t.”
Neither of us mentions the name of her childhood best friend who was killed by Hans.
“I just meant,” Sam continues, “that because of me, you’ve been put through a lot recently.”
“I have a long way to go to catch up to you.”
“Oh, Gwyn,” says Sam. She brushes a stray hair back off my face.
The simple gesture of kindness does me in, and I groan dramatically.
“You’ve got it bad, girlfriend,” says Sam. She puts her arm around me and scoots closer.
“I’ve just never met anyone like him,” I say.
“Who has, right?” asks Sam.
“It’s not just his age,” I say. “Or maybe it is. I mean, maybe the seventeenth century was when guys peaked, as a gender.”
“Will’s okay,” says Sam.
“Will’s taken.”
“Oh,” says Sam. “Do you …”
“No,” I say sharply. “God, no!”
“Right,” says Sam. “I knew that.”
“No,” I say. “It’s Chrétien or no one. And someone beat me to him by a long stretch. So I guess that means I’m screwed.”
“Give him some time,” says Sam.
“He’s had three hundred years,” I retort.
“That’s not fair.”
“The whole thing’s not fair,” I say.
“Oh, Gwynnie,” says Sam.
“I … like him … so much.” My voice is wispy and broken.
“I know,” she says. “I know.” She rubs my back.
“And he’s in love with someone who died before the Chinese discovered America. How do I compete with that?”
Sam nods. “It does look pretty bad, when you put it that way.”
I groan again.
“Although,” she says, “we’re going to have to break the news to Will.”
“We are?”
“About the Chinese discovering America,” she says.
“Shut up,” I say. “I meant before the Chinese knew America existed. Obviously.”
“Obviously,” says Sam. “In fairness, Will loves reminding me Columbus didn’t ‘discover’ America, either.”
We lean our heads together.
“What am I going to do, Sam? I’ve never felt like this about anyone before.”
Sam smiles. “Not even one of the guys you ensorcelled?”
“The guys I … what?”
“It’s a new word I got from Chrétien ,” says Sam. “But it describes you perfectly. It means you cast a spell and guys are helpless to resist your powers.”
I laugh, a tiny snort. “Guys in this century don’t stand a chance against my sorcelling.”
“I don’t think ‘sorcelling’ is a word, actually.”
“Shut up,” I say. “Of course it is. To sorcel: verb, transitive. To become ensnared by a member of the species gwynicus minimus.”
Sam laughs.
“But who cares. The only guy I have ever, ever felt this way about doesn’t know I exist.”
“Um … I’d say he knows you exist,” says Sam.
“You know what I mean,” I say.
I don’t know the last time I felt this depressed.
Sa
m hugs me. “I’m so sorry, Gwynnie.”
On the other hand, I don’t know the last time I felt this cared about, either. I hug her back.
“I should go shower,” I say. “Or bathe. Whatever you do in this crazy country.”
“There’s a shower thingy,” says Sam. “It’s a nozzle on a hose. You have to hold it up.”
“Like I said: crazy.”
But I trudge back to the bathroom, shower off, put on make up and clean clothes, and start to feel like life might just be survivable with a thoroughly broken heart.
And that’s when we hear the sound of someone driving up. Someone not driving Sir Walter’s car.
Chapter Eighteen
HANSEL AND GRETEL COME TO CALL
“Will!” Sam whispers loudly as she runs down the short hall. “Will, wake up! Intruders!”
Will snaps to and Sam says, “I’ve got Gwyn. There’s no time to hide the fact people are living here. Go!”
Will waits until Sam grabs my hand and ripples us both away to safety. He disappears half a second after us. It occurs to me to wonder if Sam and I will be able to “talk” or not.
A second later, I see something. Something superimposed over my regular perception of the world around me. It’s a notepad and words are appearing on it. Magic words. Appearing, magically.
Why do I see words on a piece of paper in front of me? I throw the words out there, like I mean for them to be overheard.
A second later, I hear Sam in my head.
You can see that? she asks me.
Yup, I reply.
And you hear me?
No, I answer. You’re totally imagining my voice in your head right now.
Sam is silent for a second. The note pad continues filling with words.
Say something only Gwyn could say. Something in Chinese.
Sam, I say, you’re being a total dweeb.
That works, she says. Will can’t hear me, so we write each other. Because we can each see images from one another’s heads. I don’t know if you’re seeing stuff from Will’s head or my head.
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