Sensational

by Jodie Lynn Zdrok

  “I don’t know if good is the word. I’m a reluctant Insightful,” said Gabrielle with a bitter frown. She pushed her plate away. “I think it’s unnatural. We have no right to endow ourselves with magic, regardless of the ‘cost.’ I’d end every ability today if I could, beginning with my own. I despise it.”

  Nathalie’s skin prickled. Her cautious interest in Gabrielle retreated a step. Although she didn’t know that many Insightfuls, those she knew or knew of had conflicting feelings about their power. Few grew outright enamored with it, and few detested it. Regret or resignation, perhaps, but not ardent disdain. She didn’t expect such sharp words from an unassuming young woman whose demeanor until now had seemed subdued, if not timid. A glance at Christophe suggested he thought the same.

  Jules had heard from someone once that there was an Insightful who helped other Insightfuls obtain new identities and brewed concoctions to remove their powers. Or was it a potion that changed the negative effects of the ability? It was so wrapped up in mythology that Jules was skeptical. When she’d asked M. Patenaude about it, he’d said he’d heard the stories as well. The alleged Insightful was either a secret apprentice to Dr. Henard, chosen to protect his secrets, or a mind reader who stole Henard’s knowledge of blood transfusions and magic. Such were the rumors.

  Nathalie wished she knew for sure that this Insightful apprentice or mind reader existed, because she’d send Gabrielle right to him. If anyone desired to be rid of her power, it was the young woman before her.

  “Why use your ability at all, then? Or admit to still having it?” Nathalie asked with trepidation. “If you don’t make an effort to use it, it will be like you don’t have it at all.”

  “Latent power is power all the same. As to why I’m using it, why I agreed to the summons when the Prefect of Police inquired and my father insisted?” Gabrielle’s thumb pressed firmly into the crucifix ring. “Redemption.”

  Nathalie furrowed her brow. This was a much weightier conversation than she expected today. “For what?”

  “The sins of my parents. And my own guilt.” She shook her head. “I already told my father I’m not going to do this continuously, like you.”

  Was that an insult? Or simply a declaration of her own limits?

  “Nathalie has other responsibilities that bring her to the morgue frequently,” said Christophe, tactful enough not to mention the newspaper. “She’s an invaluable adviser to us.”

  Modesty might have been her response under other conditions, but at the moment, Nathalie found herself sitting up straighter.

  “Oh, well that’s understandable,” said Gabrielle, as if Nathalie needed her approval. Her expression softened. “It’s not something I could do in a sustained fashion. I’ve agreed to aid on this case, as best as I’m able. If I have to be cursed, I’d rather use my ability, obscure and otherwise useless as it is, for good.”

  “Most Insightfuls do, thankfully.” She couldn’t bring herself to say us with Gabrielle, not with the discussion going this way. “My father is a healer.”

  Gabrielle started to say something and then stopped herself. She turned to Christophe. “I have another engagement, as I mentioned before, before going to work at the library. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to perceive anything of great importance today. It’s been a while, so perhaps my power has weakened. You’ll send for me if there are … others?”

  He assured Gabrielle he would, adding that he was grateful for her help. She left money for her portion and bid them farewell, cordially to Nathalie and (in Nathalie’s opinion) more warmly to Christophe.

  She was barely out of earshot when Nathalie spoke. “What did she see? With her tracing?”

  Christophe dabbed his mouth with a napkin. “The victim leaving an establishment—restaurant, café, tavern—and crossing a street. Possibly Quai d’Orsay. Then a bridge that could be either Invalides or l’Alma. No clues to the murder, but at least we can make inquiries at the local hotels, see if a guest matching this description disappeared without paying.”

  “Good. I’m happy she could help.” Nathalie spied the empty chair—Agnès’s seat. “But I dislike her.”

  14

  Jean came from behind Nathalie to clear their plates, startling her. For a moment she thought it was Gabrielle returning to the table just in time to overhear what she’d so candidly uttered.

  Christophe waited for Jean to leave before continuing. “I knew she wasn’t enthusiastic about the prospect of advising at the morgue. Even so, I wasn’t prepared for her to convey her feelings so strongly. Her father insists she do this, and as you can see, she’s not comfortable. I don’t think she meant to offend with her cynicism.”

  Nathalie wasn’t sure if she did or didn’t, and she wasn’t in the mood to offer a magnanimous take on Gabrielle’s attitude.

  “Now,” Christophe said, his eyes earnest, “I’ve been thinking of you a lot since yesterday. You wouldn’t answer me properly in front of Gabrielle, and now I understand why. Please tell me how you are. I see you’re dressed for something other than a hot, sunny day. How much are you suffering? Is it as debilitating as last time?”

  Her heart flooded with affection for him, as it so often did. For two years he’d shown a tenderness toward her that never wavered. While he might be busy or consumed with work at times, or make a mistake like today’s misunderstanding, Christophe was nevertheless a constant.

  He patted her forearm and jerked back his hand. She knew it was not only the coolness of her skin but also what it signaled. “Oh, Nathalie.”

  “Not as cold as a new arrival at the morgue.” She placed her hand where he’d had his, the ghost of his brief contact lingering long past the touch itself. “Far from normal, nevertheless. And yet, much improved since yesterday. It started on the omnibus.”

  He sat, hands gripping the arms of his chair, as Nathalie gave him a modified version of how she felt. As with Jules the previous day, she presented a braver Nathalie than the one that truly existed. She mentioned last night’s time at Le Chat Noir and how Louis’s news had resulted in a trip to the sewers.

  “You did what?”

  “I’ve only been once before, and I was curious…”

  “To see if you could find a corpse? You don’t see enough at the morgue?” Christophe crossed his arms with a raised brow.

  “I don’t know. The architecture of it all. Clues.” She intertwined her fingers.

  He stared at her expectantly.

  “It’s not much but we did find a few items,” she said, feeling around in her satchel. She presented him with the hat, tool, and parchment.

  His arms were still folded. “The hat of a tourist, a sewerman’s tool, and some university student’s glossary or some such.”

  “You don’t want them?”

  “I don’t have a bag with me, but when we leave, follow me to the office. I’ll put them there for now,” he said, reluctance shading his tone.

  Well, now she certainly would not be telling him they got chased away by a sewerman. “We saw a group of police officers run by on our way out.”

  “I’m amazed you didn’t go right back in.”

  “I wanted to, but Jules—”

  “Was there to talk you out of it, fortunately. I’m not aware of another body yet, but my goodness, Nathalie.” He pinched the bridge of his nose and blinked slowly. “I like your spirit of adventure. I really do. I admire it, even. What I don’t admire are the risks you and your friends take sometimes. Just … be careful, would you?”

  This wasn’t the first time Christophe had scolded her for indulging her investigative side, and that was without even knowing about the excursions they’d taken to abandoned châteaux, forgotten salons, and hidden ruins. It was a familiar patter by now—he gently voicing his concern, she promising to practice vigilance. Nathalie wasn’t about to suppress her inquisitive nature, as it were, and his protective side wasn’t going to abate. And so they continued this dance, and on Nathalie’s side anyway, it wasn’t entirely
unwelcome.

  “I won’t do anything reckless,” she said, acknowledging they might have different interpretations of that term. Besides, if that was the second body the police were running after, she had an inkling about it even before he did. Which, she would never admit to Christophe, was the very thrill that justified these little quests.

  * * *

  She exited the morgue and, seeking shade, made her way to some benches under a linden tree. Despite the proximity of some (needlessly boisterous) young men, Nathalie settled in to write her morgue report. Describing the stocky man who’d been killed in the fight unsettled her, as it always did when she had to report on a victim whose death she witnessed. The sickly woman cultivated her sympathy as well, because it wasn’t right to die in the public domain.

  That’s how it was, doing the morgue report. Two years of writing about bodies, and still she wondered, from time to time, about the lives behind the corpses everyone came to see with such morbid curiosity. But she didn’t always think about them that way, as people who’d had a life and loved ones. She wasn’t sure if that was good, bad, or something to which facile labels like good and bad simply didn’t apply.

  By the time she was done, the boisterous young men had left. A man around Christophe’s age, freckled and with whitish-blond hair right down to his eyelashes, sat beside her. Lanky with very upright posture, he was reading a book—something on the Revolution of 1789, if the conclusion from her peeks was accurate—and turned the pages far more noisily than pages should be turned.

  Was everyone annoying today, or was she just irritable?

  Before too long the blond page-turner left. He went to the morgue queue, still reading his book. The woman in front of him had a parasol in one hand and a Guide Bleu in the other.

  That reminded her. She’d wanted to count.

  Nathalie took her world map out of her bag. Her map of wishes, as she’d thought of it: wishes for travel, wishes for experiences, stemming from her discoveries at the Exposition. She’d made brief notes on the map and then, in a journal devoted solely to the fair, more extensive entries. Her intent was to visit each of the nations represented (more than thirty of them), then revisit them until the fair concluded, with the aim of learning something new each time.

  Seven nations circled so far. She placed a finger on the two most recent, both so very far from France.

  China: A woman with black hair pinned up in sticks, in alluring fashion, painted a dragon figurine with the most incredible precision.

  Argentina: Here I sampled a sauce so delicious that I would travel there just to enjoy it more. Dulce de leche, it is called. Heated milk and sugar, similar to caramel.

  Thankfully she hadn’t lost them to memory. How much of her time at the Exposition would suffer the consequences of her Insightful power?

  The Palais des Beaux-Arts had, twice already.

  And so, now that her article was written, she aimed to see it again.

  15

  Maybe this time I’ll remember it.

  She strolled in solitude amidst the crowds, in the way one could in a city, being part of everyone or no one. Sketches, drawings, paintings, the Galerie Rapp where the victim had been. And now, she wasn’t even sure which pedestal had held the head.

  It was a strange thing, not only to lose memories but to be cognizant that you might. Long ago, Nathalie had given up trying to guess what would be taken from her and what wouldn’t, trying not to live her life around the unexpected placement of a gap. So she’d always proceeded as if she would never have a lapse. It was either that or sit on her bed and do nothing except wait. Might that have been more pragmatic? Arguably. But this ability had enough power over her, and she exerted what control she could by living no matter what.

  She stepped outside the Palais onto Champ de Mars, deciding where to go next. The Dôme Central called to her. She’d been to the Galerie des Industries Diverses and would be going again to part of it with Jules, Simone, and Louis soon, but there was a clock exhibit she wanted to see.

  As she turned left toward the Dôme Central, a shadow came near her own.

  “So you do go somewhere other than the morgue, the newspaper, the café, and the sewers.”

  She turned to see Christophe, who tipped his hat to her.

  “Well, you know for certain I’ve been to the Exposition before. So that’s five places,” she said with a chuckle. “You didn’t say you were coming here!”

  He shrugged. “Ah, well. You mentioned it in passing as you left, and it’s a beautiful day. I decided to step away for a while and come myself.”

  “I’m glad I could be a favorable influence,” she said, almost certain she was blushing.

  He looked around them at the palaces and pavilions. “What are you going to visit?”

  “Industries Diverses.” She pointed to the opulent Dôme Central. A breeze carried over the scent of his orange blossom cologne, tinged with a pleasing woodsiness. “And you?”

  “I was just going to wander, really.”

  She wanted to ask him if he would like to stroll with her. What if he said no? He was betrothed, after all. Other than Jules, she never went out alone with a gentleman, not even Louis.

  Then again, one only passes through this garden of life once, as Simone often said.

  “Would you … like to accompany me?” Her mouth suddenly went dry. She wanted to say something else, to make a joke or self-deprecating remark, but her tongue refused to form anything.

  “That would be delightful,” he said, his blue eyes twinkling (either that, she thought, or the perceived twinkle was a trick of the sun).

  As they walked along the parterre, her stomach leapt out of her body, trotting along on the ground ahead of her a few steps until she caught up with it.

  They stepped inside the building’s vestibule, the grand gallery a marvel of iron and glass, with scarcely a pillar, wall, or alcove untouched by elaborate scrollwork.

  The entrance to the horological exhibit was twin pillars capped with clocks. Timepieces of every size, handmade and machine-made from all over the world, were laid out row after row.

  They stopped before an enormous grandfather clock, and Christophe snickered.

  “When I was young—very young, maybe even before school—I thought that if I moved the hands of a clock in the opposite direction, I could reverse time.” He rolled his eyes with a grin. “One afternoon, I’d gotten in some trouble. Knocked over my father’s inkwell after climbing atop his desk and ruined some of his papers. As punishment, I wasn’t allowed to go outside and play. To my young mind on a summer day, that was the equivalent of being confined to a dungeon. So I thought if I could change the time, I might be able to go back to earlier in the day before it had happened.”

  Nathalie laughed. “Clever, even then.”

  “Maybe not that clever,” he said, shrugging. “It didn’t work, that’s for certain.”

  They looked at a few more glass-encased exhibits, many of them involving complicated temperature and pressure readings that she didn’t understand. She sensed Christophe didn’t, either, so she didn’t feel too badly.

  A question danced its way into her mind, and even though she wasn’t sure it was a suitable one to ask, she did. She had a feeling that if she didn’t, the query might dance and dance until she gave it words. “If you could go back in time, what would you change?”

  He kept his eyes on what was apparently a very interesting timepiece, all of a sudden. “My sister died tragically, as you know. I wish I could have prevented that somehow. And so many other crimes, wishing I’d been able to contribute something to catch a criminal or catch him sooner. You?”

  “Agnès, for sure. I wish I could have done something to save her. And like you, I wish I could have helped sooner. My gift has been useful at times, and not as effective as I wish at others.”

  And I wish I’d met you before you were betrothed to another. Now Nathalie found that same timepiece suddenly very interesting.

 
; “How professional and noble of us,” he said, turning to her with a modest smile. “Wishing we could change time for other people. What about ourselves?”

  It had gotten very, very warm in the horological exhibit. Nathalie proceeded to the next glass case, willing her flushed cheeks to unflush.

  “I wish I had … met certain people at other times in my life, made certain choices. The usual.” Did I just say that out loud? Her cheeks had to be scarlet by now. “In general, you know. We’re on the path we’re on, so it all works out well enough. As long as we’re happy with the path.”

  “True,” said Christophe, whose cheeks were also tinged with pink. “Any other path, any other change in time, and we wouldn’t be here, at this moment, in this conversation.”

  Nathalie was tempted to make a joke, add some levity to the moment or dismiss it somehow, but she decided against it. She let his words linger, surrounded by markers of time, hoping this memory was never taken from her and never faded.

  * * *

  When they saw everything there was to see in L’Horlogerie, they left the building, and Nathalie wasn’t sure what to do next. Part ways? Ask him if he wanted to see something else? Say nothing and see what he proposed, if anything?

  Nathalie chose the latter. They walked along the Champ de Mars again as they spoke of the clocks, passing the Fontaine de Coutan and making their way under the Tour Eiffel. As they returned to the entrance of the fair, near the Histoire de l’Habitation Humaine, he paused.

  “There are forty-four buildings here,” he said. “I don’t propose we visit all forty-four, but perhaps we can try some Russian tea from a samovar? I hear it’s very good.”

  The spicy black tea with a hint of strawberry was very good. She’d never had tea from something that resembled a silver vase and certainly never with jam spooned into it. And the sweet, buttery cookies served alongside it were delightful.