“That explains even more.”
He looks at me, tilting his head, puzzled.
“I just mean, you sound like some dude out of Shakespeare when you talk.”
“Ah,” he says.
“You know, old words, funny word order, that kind of thing.”
Chrétien smiles. “In my time, the words were new. My lord the king bid me often amuse him with a new word of English.”
“Did you have to hide it from the king, how you were a tailor one day and a rich man’s son the next?”
Chrétien looks insulted. “But of course I did not attempt to conceal the truth.”
“I just thought you might get in trouble. You know, for pretending to be something you weren’t.”
“I pretended not.” He draws his brows together. “From that day in the tale until this day, I have uttered no untruths nor taken any vows I did not also fulfill.” Then he smiles. “But indeed, I had no need of concealment at court. My lord the king promoted in my generation many whose origins were humble.”
“Really?”
“I hid neither my origins nor my illegitimacy, and the king held neither against me. In fact, he admired my father for acknowledging me.”
“I guess he must have,” I say. “Seeing as how he acknowledged all his own, um, bastards.” I look over to Chrétien. “Is that word offensive?”
“Words are either offensive or not offensive depending on the intent of the one who utters them,” says Chrétien.
“Huh,” I say. “You may have a point. I don’t mind that my eyes are slanted, but I remember crying when kids in Las Abs called me ‘slanty-eyes.’”
“But your eyes are wondrous,” says Chrétien.
Wondrous?
He catches my gaze and I can’t look away. His eyes are full of passion. For a moment I think he’s maybe feeling something for me, but then I realize he’s probably just angry on my behalf.
I look down and the moment passes. When I glance back at Chrétien, his look is far away.
“I sometimes wonder,” he says, “what would have become of my Madeleine had she lived. She might have been a great princess. Of Spain, perhaps, or of Holland.”
“You can’t do that,” I say.
“What is it I must not attempt?”
“You can’t ask ‘what if.’ It’s like Aslan says: No one is ever told what would have happened.”
“Aslan?”
“Oh, you never had anyone read you the Narnia books, did you?”
Chrétien shakes his head. “I shall remedy the error at the first possible moment.”
I smile. “Good plan.”
“Do you believe what you uttered—that there is futility in imagining what might have been?” asks Chrétien.
I shrug. “I believe in what is. Not what might have been. I mean, I like alternate reality timeline stuff as much as the next person, but it doesn’t really matter in real life. In real life, you have the hand you were dealt and you have to play it the best you can. ‘What if?’ is just a colossal time waster.”
“You are a most wise female,” says Chrétien.
“Girl,” I say. “People don’t say ‘female’ nowadays.”
“Ah,” says Chrétien. “I shall endeavor to remember. My list of to-be-done grows long.”
I laugh, but this time I don’t correct his usage of modern English. It must be hard to always feel like you don’t understand the world you’re living in. And our worlds are so different. A nicer Gwyn, a Gwyn 2.0, would try to make Chrétien feel more at home, to point out the ways things are the same.
And then I think of one.
“Hey,” I say. “Remember when you were telling me King Louis wanted to inspire his people with ballet? To make them feel a part of something larger and more important than their own individual interests?”
“Indeed, Mademoiselle.”
“Well, I was thinking you should see how people do that in the modern world. I mean, one of the ways. Remember how I told you about flash mobs?”
“The flashing mobs,” he says, nodding.
Oh dear. “Um, not flashing mobs, just flash mobs. Flashing means something else.”
Chrétien nods like he’s filing this away with “don’t call girls female.”
Sir Walter’s jet has wifi, so I show Chrétien some of my favorite flash mob videos. The US Air Force at the Smithsonian, a wedding proposal in Moscow, and, of course, Beethoven in the mall where I used to live.
Chrétien’s eyes are streaming tears by the time I’ve run out of favorites, an hour or so later.
“The world is so lovely a place,” he says softly.
Lovely and … other things. I don’t say that out loud, though. Some moments are better not spoiled, and every now and again, I have the sense to see it.
Sir Walter’s eyes open, and he yawns noisily.
“We land shortly,” he says. “It is time to face our enemy.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
NOTHING SAYS BAKED GOODS LIKE A SHARP POKE IN THE ARM
There are no air strips in Las Abuelitas, so we deplane just outside Clovis and travel invisibly from there for speed. The road to Las Abs has never felt longer. I’m terrified by thoughts of what we might find when we get there. Sir Walter asks those of us who still have phones to please not use them. Will suggested we could stop in Fresno to hunt down a burner phone so we could call the bakery, but everyone decided the delay in time wasn’t worth it.
Which means we’re heading to Las Abs blind. And by “heading” I mean speeding along invisibly with me and Sam and Will providing directions to Chrétien, who is at the front of the conga line. We decided to keep everyone connected to everyone else because Chrétien is so much faster moving through the space-time continuum or whatever this is.
We get to the outskirts of town just as the sun is setting, all red and bloated, and quite honestly a bit eerie looking. The inside of Will and Mick’s old cabin gives us the cover we need to appear solid without terrifying the good people of Las Abs. I look around the cabin, noticing Ma must have sent the cleaning people over. It’s one of her rentals.
“Come on,” I say, when Will and Mick start nosing around their former home. “Lives to save here. Let’s go!” I’m sick to my stomach with worry, now that we are solid again. I didn’t experience the nausea while we were invisible, which makes it seems much worse, now.
“I will report back as soon as I can,” says Chrétien.
We picked him to go have an invisible look around, along with Will, before we decide what our next move will be. But I can’t stand staying behind.
“Take me along,” I say. “Please.”
Sir Walter frowns. It’s not what we agreed on. He felt it would be safer for Chrétien and Will if I wasn’t there having a melt down inside Chrétien’s head if, you know, anything bad has happened to my family. Sam’s parents aren’t in Las Abs at the moment, so there’s really only one family Fritz could be targeting.
“I have the right to know,” I say quietly.
“Very well,” says Sir Walter.
Of course, if he’d said no, I would have grabbed onto Chrétien and Will and refused to let go.
We careen along the highway, past the burnt remains of Sam’s old house. Someone’s torn everything down to the foundation. I wait to see if Will is going to write something about this, but he doesn’t. I guess we’re all pretty focused on what we’re going to find when we get to Las ABC.
But what we find is … a normal early evening at the bakery.
It makes no sense, but there’s Ma, smiling at customers and handing them bags of goodies, laughing and putting their tips into the Cat Fund jar. I don’t see the aunties, but it is pretty obvious to me they must be fine or Ma would not be running the till. At least, I don’t think she would. My mom may be a hard-nosed business woman, but even she knows that some things come before business.
We have to pass through the front door, oak on bottom, glass on top, in order to hear what Ma’s sa
ying. As Chrétien aims us for an object I know from repeated daily use to be solid, I cringe a little. This time I really notice the glass as it passes over us. It feels like when you pull your hands out of the tub of warm paraffin at the nail salon. Too bad I’m not in a mood where I can enjoy it.
But as I watch Ma from inside, it is clearer than ever that she is fine. Totally fine. I drift through the café in unspeakable relief. Of course, if the aunties are being harmed or threatened in the kitchen at this exact moment, Ma wouldn’t know.
Through to the kitchen, I say to Chrétien.
I feel two things when we get into the kitchen, one pleasant and one … not so much. They hit me together, like two people trying to have totally separate conversations with you at a noisy party. The unpleasant thing is the memory of the last time I stood in this kitchen, looking for ways to make Hans back off, and how it didn’t work out for me. The pleasant thing is that my aunties are back here, gossiping away in Canton dialect, scooping cookies and torching crème brulées for the end-of-day rush about to hit.
They’re fine, I say to Chrétien. Totally fine.
Chrétien replies. Perhaps Fritz harmed … les chats?
The cats! We better check.
In my mind’s eye, I imagine Fritz standing out back snapping the neck of the last of our fourteen rescue cats. But when we get outside, all I see are fat, happy, snoozing cats everywhere I look.
They’re all right, I say to Chrétien. A few of them perk up as we pass by. It’s almost like they see us. Rufus, the escape artist who nearly succumbed to Fritz’s villainy, starts meowing for attention.
That is so wrong, I say.
To what do you refer? asks Chrétien.
ANIMALS SENSE RIPPLERS, Will writes.
Rufus squeezes out of the kennel and starts flopping around at my invisible feet.
WHAT IS HE DOING? Will asks.
I think he’s confused, I reply, writing my answer so Will can see it. Rufus looks ridiculous, and Woody Allen eyes him with utter feline contempt. Rufus is trying to find me, only there’s no me to find.
My cat finally gives up in disgust and wanders toward the alley, in search of someone with an actual pulse, I presume.
WE NEED TO CHECK UPSTAIRS, writes Will. IN CASE FRITZ IS IN HIDING.
Yeah, ‘cause right now what I want more than anything is to find a bad guy hanging in my bedroom.
Will takes the lead, and since I’m attached to Chrétien who is attached to Will, we all proceed straight up the wall. No, I didn’t make that up. Will takes us up in the air and then through the window-slash-paraffin dip.
Will! We have stairs, you know.
MY WAY IS MORE FUN, he responds.
Chrétien insists we perform a very, very thorough search of the upstairs apartment. I learn that Auntie Sally has taken over my bedroom. (Figures.) Auntie Carrie has spread out in our family room. She probably had Ma’s room before Ma came home. But the one thing we can’t find any sign of, at all, is Fritz.
Chrétien makes us stand super still and be quiet for three minutes solid to check for “thought signatures” in the area.
I understand not, says Chrétien.
Maybe he changed his mind, I offer.
WE SHOULD GET SOLID AND TALK TO YOUR MOM, writes Will.
Chrétien does his little check that I don’t have a foot stuck through the floor, and we come solid, us just after Will.
Will heads for the stairs. “See? I know what stairs are for,” he says as he thumps down in his walking cast. “Get your mom to come out back to the kitchen,” he says to me. “You can run the till while we ask her a few questions.”
“No way,” I say, behind him. “I’m not waiting to hear what she says. Auntie Sally can run the till.”
After hugs from my startled aunties, Auntie Sally runs out front to get Ma.
“Gwyn!” cries my mom, as soon as the kitchen door is closed behind her. “You’re back so soon! Why didn’t you call?” Ma asks me about three more questions without waiting for answers. Finally, she shakes her head at me. “If I’d known the French government was going to hurry things up, I could have stayed behind with you.”
I don’t even mind her going on and on. I am so happy to hear her voice—her actual, annoying, berating voice—that I can only stand there grinning.
“I know, Ma,” I say when she is quiet for two seconds straight. “We came without the French government’s permission. There’s another one of those bad guy brothers still alive and kicking, and he’s been making threats, and he was here in Las Abs, and I was so worried I’d never see you again, and—”
Ma interrupts me with the tightest, warmest hug I have ever felt in my life. And I’m wiping a couple of tears off my face and hugging her back. I’m just so relieved everything’s going to be okay.
“Can you close early?” I ask. “Sam and Sir Walter and Mickie and Dr. Pfeffer are all waiting for us to report back. They’ll want to ask you questions.”
“I’m not closing early,” says my mom. “Are you kidding? You should see the daily receipts from the last six days.” She shakes her head and mumbles a few things in Chinese that aren’t exactly complimentary to her big sisters. “You can bring your friends over if you want, but I’m staying open until 6:00 tonight. I should probably get back out there.” She casts a glance over her shoulder like Auntie Sally might be doing something very hazardous to the future of Las ABC.
“Ma,” I say, “your sister will do fine. She taught you everything you know.”
Auntie Carrie clucks in the background, agreeing in Chinese.
Ma rolls her eyes at me and lowers her voice. “We came that close to losing every customer this past week. If it hadn’t been for the flu shot sale, I think that new Starbuck’s in Oakhurst would have taken all our business.”
I don’t even want to know what a “flu shot sale” is.
“Okay, so who’s going back to get everyone else?” I ask Will and Chrétien.
“Allow me, Mademoiselle,” says Chrétien.
“What’s a ‘flu shot sale’?” Will asks after Chrétien disappears.
“I’m sure we don’t want to know,” I mutter.
“Oh,” says Ma, ignoring my mumblings, “it’s this great idea a visiting physician had for preventing the spread of influenza this winter.”
“Winter’s almost over,” I say.
Ma shoots me a lids-half-lowered glare. It is so familiar, so normal, I could hug her again.
“Anyway,” she says, “there was that shortage of flu vaccine between Thanksgiving and New Year’s, which is when most people are thinking about flu shots, so by the time the pharmaceutical companies got new batches out to the clinics, most people weren’t coming in to get vaccinated.”
I yawn. My mom thinks the most boring things are worth explaining in mind-numbing detail. Will, however, is managing to look very engaged in Ma’s monologue.
“So this doctor came in for coffee and was explaining the problem, and he took one look at the bakery and said, ‘This is the kind of place we need to do flu clinics—where people are already going on their busy days.’ So I said, why didn’t we do a little vaccination clinic here, where you get your flu shot and then get a free cookie. You know, like they do cookies and juice when you donate blood.”
“You gave away juice?” I am shocked because although cookies aren’t cheap, juice is expensive.
“Are you joking?” asks Ma. “The profit margin on juice is already terrible without me giving it away. We gave away cookies. Anyway, it got people coming back in the bakery.” Ma leans in close. “Between you and me, my sisters don’t get that customer service still means everything in a small town. I had to do something to get people coming back.”
“Yeah, Ma, nothing says warm baked goods like a sharp poke in the arm.” My tone is sarcastic, which is something I vowed to cut back on during the flight from France. I flush and then I give Ma a little apology hug.
“Ouch!” she says. “That’s the side I
got my shot.”
“What was the name of the doctor administering the shots?” asks Will.
“I’d have to look. I wrote it down somewhere. Such a nice man. A real humanitarian.”
The rest of our group appears, literally. Auntie Carrie waves the crème brulée torch at them threateningly, sees they are friendly, and switches to muttering curses in Mandarin. Or maybe she’s warding off curses. Hard to tell.
“So nice to see all of you again so soon,” says my mom, beaming. She really does like my little group of friends. Of course, they saved my life, so there’s that.
“Bridget,” says Will, “can I get you to run down the name of that doctor?”
“Sure,” she says, frowning slightly. “It was something German. Or Dutch. Danish, maybe.”
Will says something I don’t catch to Pfeffer, who hands Will his phone. Will pops up one of the Fritz videos.
“Was it this man?”
Ma smiles. “That was him. How are you two acquainted?”
Chapter Twenty-Four
INFECTED
At my mom’s confirmation of the worst news ever, Sam covers her mouth and gasps. Will closes his eyes. Mickie swears.
The air in the room seems to whoosh out and my chest feels like a house just landed on it. I cannot take in a breath.
“Someone catch Gwyn,” shouts Will.
Four pairs of arms reach out to support me. I didn’t even realize my legs had stopped holding me up.
Mickie hands me a paper bag. “Just breathe in and out. I promise it helps.”
I bat the bag away. “Ma!” The word comes out in a child’s howl of pain.
“It’ll be okay,” says Sam. “It’ll be okay.” She turns to Sir Walter, her eyes pleading.
Fritz. I knew it. I knew we wouldn’t get off this easy. I try to suck in a breath, but my lungs refuse to cooperate.
“What is the problem with everyone here?” demands my mom. “You’re scaring my daughter half to death. Hasn’t she been through enough lately?”
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