When Maman announced that something had come in the mail for her, she thought—hoped—that it was from Christophe. Not that she’d expected to hear from him, because it would be scandalous if he was on vacation with his betrothed and her family and writing to Nathalie. She’d mentioned a postcard, yes, but it was a begrudging acknowledgment of his departure, not a sincere request. Similar to, as she’d heard at the wake for Agnès, people telling a grieving family to call on them should they need anything. Much was needed, and none of it was what a well-intentioned neighbor or doting family member could provide. Such gestures were heartfelt assurances that one’s emotions mattered, and while appreciated, rarely carried the weight of expectation.
Not that she deserved correspondence from Christophe after how she’d left things, anyway. Or that it made any sense or was good for her spirit to indulge in such reveries.
It had nevertheless been nice to contemplate. More pleasant than reflecting on the end of her courtship with Jules.
Maman handed her the letter then sat at the table, humming to herself as she measured fabric. Nathalie settled onto the sofa.
The letter wasn’t from Christophe or Jules or anyone else whose hand she recognized. The return address was merely Toulouse. No name, no street.
Dear Nathalie,
I am hopeful this letter finds you well—much more so than our last meeting. My understanding is that you’ve made a remarkable and complete recovery. That both pleases and relieves me greatly.
I apologize that I couldn’t be entirely forthcoming during my visit. You might have deduced I am not a medical doctor of the sort affiliated with the hospital. My research is theoretical and dwells in the shadows of a judgmental public (none more judgmental than my fellow scientists). Given our conversation, I suspect you know well the realm within which I work and under whose tutelage I learned.
Your case has been on my mind since our encounter. Dr. Henard’s blood transfusions left us with many unknowns; however, my observational and qualitative analyses in the ensuing years have provided me with a comprehensive body of research. My conclusion is that the consequences of your power were indeed magnified because a relation by blood (i.e., your aunt) provoked the immediate manifestation of your gift. Although rare, several examples exist in which the intersection of Insightful gifts among close relatives has also led to a recalibration of powers for one or both Insightfuls. This is all highly variable, due to the individual nature of abilities, and I suspect even more so given your aunt’s condition and the unfortunate amplification of your consequences with direct contact.
The impermanent effect was your extended memory loss. As to whether there will be effects of lasting duration, I am afraid I do not know. For all the research I have done, this remains a singularity.
Nathalie, I am a recluse by necessity. Although there are many who wish me ill, I communicate with those who would benefit from my knowledge or assistance. While I do not hold a profession situated at the University of Toulouse, should you wish to write to me, address your letter to: General Inquiries, Muséum de Toulouse. I assure you I will receive it.
Sincerely,
Delacroix
Nathalie read the letter a second time, uncertain where to put her feelings about it. First and foremost, Dr. Delacroix—she would still think of him as a doctor—was real. Not a fantasy her then-unreliable mind had fabricated. He wasn’t a mind reader or a thief. He had learned from Dr. Henard. That made her feel better. Most everything else he said did not. He confirmed what she had already supposed, but that wasn’t what bothered her.
“Maman,” she said, waiting until she looked up before continuing. “I have something to show you. That mysterious visitor I had in the hospital wasn’t so mysterious after all. He was exactly who I’d guessed he might be.”
Maman arched her brow. “Is that from him?”
“Yes. Don’t tell Papa—you’ll see why. The part about Aunt Brigitte.” She handed her the letter.
“I can’t believe it,” said Maman. “What is it that brought him to you in that hospital?”
Nathalie lifted her shoulders. “I couldn’t begin to guess.”
When she asked Maman what her interpretation of calibration meant, she didn’t like the answer. Even though it coincided with her own.
Her visions, or the consequences of them, might change.
Or they might not.
The idea of Dr. Delacroix, of this man whose breadth of Insightful knowledge could answer at least some questions, appealed to her. Even if she didn’t truly want to know the answers.
* * *
Nathalie felt very out of sorts in the days that followed. The perpetual rain didn’t help.
So much was out of her control now. Nothing seemed right, or like it could be made right. Or like it could ever be right.
Le Rasoir’s blade had fallen silent. Long enough, Nathalie thought, to lull Paris and its plethora of tourists into the belief that he’d stopped. (“After all,” she’d heard someone say in the morgue viewing room, “Jack the Ripper ceased to be.”)
This killer wasn’t Jack the Ripper, pulsing through the streets of Whitechapel with salacious rage. He was deceptive. He’d gotten to Jules and used newspaper accounts, the police maintained, to validate that the lies were told.
Yet Jules didn’t know him, couldn’t identify him. Someone knew he was an Insightful helping the police, worked two jobs, and was in a state of financial hardship.
M. Patenaude told her this had all been done through typewritten correspondence that arrived at the hat shop. The shop owner, M. Lyons, had been interrogated at length, as had his son, Jacques, other shop personnel, vendors, and frequent customers. Everyone at Rue du Chocolat was interviewed as well.
Jules’s family and neighbors were interrogated. The police themselves were interviewed by their colleagues. Morgue personnel were interviewed, Nathalie included. Christophe, M. Patenaude said, would be spoken to upon his return. Other anonymous Insightfuls helping the police were also questioned.
The volume of interviews was too much for M. Patenaude, between his wavering ability and the number of people involved, so he was only called in for the ones deemed most in need of closer inspection, for one reason or another. Compounding this was the ongoing investigation into people involved in theater throughout Paris.
Too many people, too many interviews, no promising leads, and a killer who, if he hadn’t disappeared, was almost certainly choosing a young woman to be his Princess.
* * *
When Nathalie next went to see Aunt Brigitte at Saint-Mathurin, her aunt was sitting in the courtyard, a quaint space far more serene than any ward of the interior. On the days when Aunt Brigitte went out, it was typically early and long before visiting hours commenced. To be out there together in the sun, especially in the aftermath of so many rainy days, was an inviting rarity.
Nathalie found her aunt caressing the leaves of a flowering bush. “Cornflowers,” Aunt Brigitte said. “Not much scent, but beautiful.”
“Gorgeously blue.”
They had a corner of the courtyard to themselves. Another patient sat with his visitors and moved his hands about in animated fashion. On the opposite side of the courtyard, three women and a man sat at a table, playing cards with an invisible deck. Estelle wandered around, repeating “What’s trump?” and “Who led?”—both of which must have come from the card game. A nurse supervised from a window.
Nathalie carried over a nearby chair. Following some pleasantries, she clasped her hands together and rested them on her lap. “I’ve been thinking of you a lot, Tante. And the … problem you have.”
Aunt Brigitte held a cornflower by the stem. “The one that made my dreams worse?”
“Yes,” Nathalie began, then slowed down to choose her words. “I thought of something, a means of proceeding, that might ultimately bring you peace. A way to approach the … problem.”
“God is mad at me.”
“He forgives.”
&nbs
p; “I don’t know if I forgive myself. I feel very guilty, but sometimes I don’t at all.” Aunt Brigitte let go of the stem. “I need to arrange the words properly.”
Nathalie leaned forward. Aunt Brigitte’s speech was stilted today, the conversation disjointed. “Which words?”
“For my confession.”
It was as if the weight of Saint-Mathurin Asylum itself had been lifted off her back. She had thought for sure she’d have to convince her aunt, to point out to her all the reasons she might wish to confess, either of her own accord or if they questioned her. “I think that’s an admirable choice, Tante. Confessing might be painful, but it’s the right thing do. You are a good person who made a mistake.”
“I did. I am responsible. I have to tell someone. I don’t want God to be mad at me anymore.”
“He isn’t,” said Nathalie. She couldn’t know that. But she could hope it to be true and pray for it.
Aunt Brigitte sank into the chair with a deep sigh and crossed her ankles. Resignation floated about her like the scent of the nearby rosebush. Nathalie felt foolish for wondering if the ethics of right and wrong governed the asylum. Why wouldn’t they? People were people, whether they were having a sandwich at a café or confined to a dingy room with bars over the windows.
“Consequences,” said Aunt Brigitte in a harsh voice. She reached for the cornflower, looking for a moment as if she was going to snap off the bloom, then paused. She plucked a single petal and let it go, watching it as it glided to the ground.
Nathalie surveyed the courtyard. “What made you decide?”
“Her sisters,” Aunt Brigitte whispered. “I saw their sadness and tried to forget it. But my dreams never permit that.”
Nathalie didn’t know what to say. She put a tender hand on top of Aunt Brigitte’s bony knuckles. They sat quietly like that for a few moments. What would the consequences be—better or worse than Aunt Brigitte feared? Than what Nathalie and Maman feared? Nathalie didn’t want to speculate aloud. She hoped Aunt Brigitte would still be able to have visitors. Surely they wouldn’t deprive her of that? Perhaps her otherwise good behavior toward other patients over the years would mitigate her punishment.
Aunt Brigitte slid her hand away. She picked up the scentless flower petal, resting it on her palm.
A soft, simple gesture from hands that had killed.
Maman always tried to keep Aunt Brigitte’s mood from darkening, if only for a while. As Nathalie observed her aunt, it occurred to her how she could do that, too, right now.
“Tante, I have something nice to share with you,” she said, picking up her satchel. “Close your eyes.”
“Oh?” Aunt Brigitte studied her for a few moments, then snapped her eyes shut.
Nathalie took the jar of musk-and-amber oil out of her bag and unscrewed the lid.
Aunt Brigitte sniffed, then grinned, eyes still closed.
A bee buzzed between them. Nathalie waved it away and tipped the jar until a few drops fell on her fingers. She dabbed the oil on the thin skin of Aunt Brigitte’s slender, once-graceful neck, feeling the delicate bones underneath.
“Can I open my eyes now?”
“Yes,” said Nathalie. “Isn’t that a magnificent scent? I bought it at the Algeria Pavilion at the Exposition. It reminds me of … I don’t know. Elsewhere.”
“I’ve never smelled this kind of perfume. I think I like it.” Aunt Brigitte’s hand went to her throat. She smeared some oil on the back of her wrist, inhaling deeply. “Elsewhere. I’ve never been elsewhere. I’ve never left Paris.”
“Me either,” said Nathalie. “Except through the Exposition. I hope to travel someday.”
“You should.” Aunt Brigitte’s grin diminished. “Before it’s too late.”
Nathalie almost replied that it was never too late. Except that it was, for everyone else in the courtyard. Especially her aunt.
Aunt Brigitte inhaled the scent again and closed her eyes. “Do you have a beau?”
She asked that every now and then. Once, it was when Nathalie and Jules were several weeks into their courtship. She’d been coy in answering, because the idea of having a beau was fresh and exciting and a little fanciful. I might, she’d said with a wink. We’ll see if he behaves well enough for the title to be bestowed for the duration. They laughed, she and Aunt Brigitte and Maman.
Nathalie wasn’t coquettish this time. “Not anymore.” Her tone chiseled the syllables like a pickaxe.
“Oh, I remember now,” said Aunt Brigitte, her brow crinkling in recollection. “He’d gotten you a scent with bergamot.”
Yes, he had. And she’d worn it every day since, until the incident at the morgue. Now she wore only the Algerian oil.
“I knew love. Several times. None of them mattered in the end except one.” Aunt Brigitte’s hand went to her midsection. The dressing gown covered that belly scarred with tiny crosses, a womb that once held the promise of a baby. The child was a stillborn. “It was extraordinary for a time.”
Nathalie studied her aunt. She couldn’t reconcile the two images that came to mind: this scrawny, birdlike woman whose appearance was that of someone two decades older than her years and a youthful, vivacious girl who sought to spend her days at a perfumery.
“Love. It’s here and then it isn’t.” Aunt Brigitte stood and turned away from Nathalie to face the sun. She swayed her hands lightly. “Here and gone. Gone and here.”
Aunt Brigitte’s voice softened, and she repeated it again. Here and gone. Gone and here. Again she said it, and again, quieter each time, until Nathalie couldn’t tell whether she was hearing it in the asylum courtyard or in her own mind.
33
If Nathalie took a certain route home from the asylum, she could pass by the tailor shop where Maman worked. She debated what to do until her legs decided for her, and she walked into Hardy Brothers Tailor Shop.
“Caroline, your daughter is here to see you,” called one of the Messieurs Hardy.
The tin-ceilinged shop was cramped with clothes, material, and extensive displays that mirrored Maman’s sartorial works in progress at home. Silks, cottons, wools of every color and quality lined the walls, with bins of buttons, ribbons, lace, and every other accoutrement imaginable. Maman came out from the back room with swift movements. Her eyes darted to the clock as she greeted Nathalie with a taut smile.
Nathalie considered stepping outside but concluded that Maman’s gossipy coworkers would have more to talk about if they sought privacy. She chose to speak in vague terms instead, knowing that Maman (who had taught her this tactic) would understand.
“I’m on my way home from a visit. The matter we discussed … there’s going to be an admission. I went intending to suggest it, but she, uh, came to that decision on her own.”
Maman watched Nathalie intently as she took in the words; after a few moments, her face registered the meaning. “Are you certain? And do you know why?”
“As certain as one can be,” said Nathalie, peering over Maman’s shoulder at a coworker who busied himself taking inventory while pretending not to listen. “The why had to do with the family. I can explain more later. Will you…”
“Tell Papa?”
Nathalie nodded. How did Maman guess?
“He already knows. Concluded it on his own, as I thought he might. We discussed it several days ago. Not a lot. Just enough to … admit to mutual understanding. I also told him about Dr. Delacroix’s letter, now that there’s nothing to hide. One less secret to keep.” Maman’s gaze lingered on her. She lowered her voice. “I’ll tell him about Tante’s decision today.”
Would she?
Or was this part of some larger fiction?
Nathalie didn’t know. She wasn’t even sure if she could believe Maman would tell him, or that, as she’d inferred, he’d guessed that his sister had killed someone. Her parents weren’t necessarily forthcoming about secrets involving Aunt Brigitte. The fact that she’d talked to Papa days ago about these things and hadn’t said anythi
ng until now was proof.
“I suppose this is the best course for all of us,” Nathalie said, staving off the misgivings that nagged at her before the sentence even left her tongue.
* * *
The queue at the morgue the next morning was long, even without a murder victim on display. Based on the conversations she overheard, people were hoping to see Le Rasoir’s latest victim before the newspapers had a chance to report it. The killer’s Princess had yet to be harmed, so it was just another day at the morgue with the same display as the previous. Her column would be brief.
As she left, she passed by a woman distributing broadsides. At first she barely noticed—there was always someone handing out papers, selling wares, announcing a lunch special—until a waft of incense tickled her nose.
“I’ll take one,” she said.
The white-haired woman, eyes boring into Nathalie like a drill, handed her a sheet of paper. “Repent.”
Nathalie read it as she walked away. The biblical quote was on one side; she recognized it from last time because of the final line. Wherever the corpse is, there the vultures will gather.
Last time, Nathalie had seen the woman at the Exposition, after getting off the Decauville train that brought people from one part of the fair to another.
Lurid but fitting to be outside the morgue. Was she here every day now, like the people who took their lunches in sight of the door in case another head showed up?
Nathalie turned over the broadside. A cursory map of the Exposition with crosses where heads had been found, now with the addition of the morgue.
“That’s popular now, it would seem,” said a familiar female voice.
She turned to see Gabrielle, who was wearing such a sizeable hat, Nathalie’s own felt small.
“Death maps,” Gabrielle continued. “That’s the third person I’ve seen handing them out. One showed several prominent murder locations, including those of the Dark Artist. The other had an advertisement for the services of a medium on the reverse.”
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