Another soft knock.
Nothing.
She tried the doorknob. Locked.
Odd. She put her ear against the rough-hewn, overly varnished door. Other than a distant “mew” from one of the kittens, not a sound carried through.
Nathalie went to the end of the hall and peered out a mildly dirty window that overlooked the boulevard. Louis should be here any moment, too. Perhaps Simone was out running an errand.
When the clock on a building across the way struck half past, she gave up.
Did I make a mistake? She’d written it down and hadn’t had any memory gaps of late, not that she was aware of, anyway. Were they supposed to meet somewhere else?
Or maybe it was Simone who’d misunderstood. She and Louis might be at the Telephone Pavilion waiting for her.
She made her way to the Exposition as swiftly as her feet and public transportation would take her. The exhibit was at the front of the Tour Eiffel and to the left, so she didn’t have much ground to cover. Even if she was late, she could catch up to them quickly.
She slipped inside, oblivious to the people around her as she searched for Louis’s red locks and Simone’s blond curls.
Nathalie wrapped her long arms around herself. Where were they? Had she gotten the day wrong?
One last effort. She made her way to the restaurant where they were going to have dinner. Again the search ended in futility. Both disappointed and annoyed, she traipsed the grounds for a while, smelling a variety of sweet and savory foods and watching Guide Bleu–bearing visitors pass by. After one last return to the pavilion, she went home. Simone would be at her parents’ apartment in the morning to spend time with Céleste, so she’d stop by then.
She truly hoped the mistake was on Simone’s end. Not because she needed to be right or even cared all that much about the time spent chasing apparitions at the Exposition. She was worried that somehow, despite her certainty as to the time and place, she’d gotten it wrong. No, that her mind had gotten it wrong. That her sense of chronology had become erroneous and wasn’t to be trusted.
After dinner, she sat at her desk and took out a sheet of stationery. Her pen hovered over the inkwell as she composed her thoughts, then she began to write.
Dear Dr. Delacroix,
Thank you for your kindness, both in visiting me and in your gracious offer. You’ll be pleased to know that I’m doing very well, surprisingly so, following my convalescence.
My mind was hazy when you came by, so forgive me if this letter repeats something I’ve already shared or if I’m speaking to something you don’t know. I’m left with the feeling that we discussed much, so I’ll proceed on that assumption.
Gabrielle Thayer and I had an enlightening conversation. It was incredibly thoughtful of her to establish this connection, and I’m grateful for her intervention. I respect and admire the work she says you are doing.
Some Insightful questions have long resided in my mind, yes. I recognize that you may not have the answer to all of them, but any insight (I jest) you might provide would be of value.
As I believe you know, I discovered my ability in the morgue. Did I always have it, or did it merely emerge when I matured to a certain age? Did something bring it on? Would I have found out some other way, or would it have remained latent? Are there other “natural” Insightfuls who never see a manifestation of their power?
I did notice one strange difference in a recent vision. (It was perhaps premature to use my gift, I admit. I am pleased to share the subsequent memory loss was minimal.) I might have told you that when I first discovered my Insightful ability, my visions were in reverse. That changed when I witnessed the murder of my friend Agnès. It has remained that way ever since, except for the other day. Although I know one incident doesn’t constitute a pattern, I’m interested to see if it continues. Might it signify anything?
One other anomaly remains to be seen. Today I was to go out with two friends. I’m certain I had the day and time correct, but they were nowhere to be found. While I don’t know the source of the misunderstanding, there’s a small part of me that’s wondering if my memory is flawed. I’ll have this sorted out by the time you receive this, and I’m sure it’s nothing of concern. I am mentioning it here in the unlikely event that it is.
I have taken up enough of your time, I’m sure. Much appreciation, again, for welcoming this correspondence.
With kind regards, I remain sincerely yours,
Nathalie Baudin
Nathalie slept later than usual the next morning. Following a leisurely breakfast with Papa, she stopped at the Marchands’. Céleste, who was a nine-year-old Simone in appearance and in vigor, answered the door. She had a book of fairy tales in her hands.
“Oh! Your sister isn’t here?”
“She was supposed to be here an hour ago,” said Céleste with a shrug. “She probably forgot.”
Nathalie chewed the inside of her cheek. That wasn’t like Simone.
“Well, if she comes by, uh … you know what? Let me write her a note.” Nathalie retrieved her journal and tore out a page.
I went to your apartment yesterday as planned … or maybe didn’t plan? I had it written down, but I doubt that’s foolproof. Much to share. Come visit! If I’m not there, leave a note with Papa.
However, even as she wrote, it felt false. Her gut was telling her there was no misunderstanding. Still, she didn’t want to alarm the Marchands, so it was best to keep the tone blithe.
Where are you, Simone?
Céleste took the note from her and, as Nathalie expected, read it immediately. “I haven’t been to Simone’s apartment in a long time. We’re supposed to go next week to see Max and Lucy. Have you met them?”
“I have,” said Nathalie, grateful for the subject change. Her palms were sweating. “Soft, sweet, and full of tiny mews. You’ll love them.”
Céleste beamed. “I love kitties. My parents said maybe for my tenth birthday I can get one. Give Stanley a hug for me, will you?”
“I most certainly will.”
“And say hello to your papa.”
“I’ll do that, too.” Nathalie’s voice was much more cheerful than she felt. She attempted to tuck away her journal but dropped it instead. After kneeling to pick it up, she made a joke about her clumsiness, put the journal in her satchel on the second try, and said goodbye to Céleste.
Nathalie planned a route for the rest of the day. She’d post her letter to Dr. Delacroix and go to The Quill where Louis worked, as well as his apartment, before the morgue. She could stop at Le Chat Noir after going to Le Petit Journal. Then she’d go to Simone’s apartment again.
Her stop at The Quill was unsatisfying. Louis had been at work two days ago; he had yesterday off and wasn’t scheduled to work again until the afternoon.
She went to his apartment next, knocking so many times, her knuckles hurt. It was then that her heart began to thump with ominous, brooding weight.
Because once the thought entered her mind—the whisper of a thought, really—it was too late. There was no unthinking it.
Like the first raindrop in a storm, where at first you think it’s your imagination or dew from a tree. As soon as you question it, another falls, then another, then more in rapid succession until it’s obvious that it’s raining and you’re soaking wet and now you’re utterly consumed by the rain and focused solely on getting out of it.
What if something … happened to them?
She scolded herself for thinking this way. Too much time at the morgue.
But the rainstorm in her mind had already commenced.
36
At the morgue, there were two new bodies, an older man with dropsy and a woman around Maman’s age who was missing several toes. Nathalie touched the glass to confirm that neither were murder victims, then knocked on the Medusa door.
“Nathalie,” whispered M. Soucy. He came up behind her, last night’s alcohol on his breath. “You seem very upset. Has something happened?”
&n
bsp; She was taken aback, both that he noticed and that he cared. He’d always been pleasant enough, but rarely did he call out to her after the initial hello, much less remark upon her mood. “I—I am concerned about something. I’m sure it will be resolved well enough. Thank you, Monsieur Soucy.”
He gave her a polite bow just as the door opened behind her.
M. Cadoret let her in. “Looking for Monsieur Gagnon?”
Wasn’t she always? “Yes. No murder victims. Something else.”
“He’s rather busy with documents. I’m sure he has a few minutes for you.”
Just then she heard Dr. Nicot shouting from the Autopsy room. Nathalie couldn’t believe it—mild-mannered Dr. Nicot, yelling?
She pointed to the closed door. “Whatever could he be so upset about?”
“His new assistant, the young Monsieur Olivier.” M. Cadoret closed his eyes and shook his head dramatically. “He only started this morning, and it’s not going well.”
“I hear that.”
M. Cadoret adjusted his glasses. “I didn’t know Nicot had a temper. Monsieur Soucy, who can usually never hear anything taking place in the back of the morgue, indicated twice already today that he’s heard Nicot yelling. Which means the visitors can, too.”
Who was this assistant, and why was he here? More important, why was Nicot so impatient with him?
M. Cadoret indicated that she could go down the corridor to the office and stepped away with a polite nod.
The door was partly open. “Christophe?”
“Come in.”
She opened the door to see him perusing some papers.
“A few days away and the folders double, eh?” She crossed over to the chair, resting her hands on the back of it.
“Truly.”
He had yet to look up. Maybe he was upset with her, despite their reunion having gone smoothly.
She tapped her fingernails idly on the back of the chair. He lifted his eyes from the document and looked at her expectantly. Had he been sleeping well? He looked fatigued.
“At what point do we consider a person missing?” she blurted.
“What do you mean?” He stood from the desk. “Nathalie, why are you asking me that? Who’s missing?”
“Simone,” Nathalie said, scratching an itch under her collar that wasn’t really there. “Only I don’t know if she’s missing. She wasn’t home yesterday afternoon when we had plans, and she didn’t come to her parents’ this morning. At least she hadn’t when I left.”
Christophe put his fingertips on the desk and pressed his weight on them. “Your concern is understandable, because that’s unlike her.” He paused, pressing harder into the desk. “Nevertheless, I don’t think we have reason to worry at this point. It’s only been what, eighteen hours?”
“About that.”
“Perhaps Simone is at her apartment by now? Or at Louis’s?”
“I stopped by there. He wasn’t home, either. Or at the bookshop.” She swallowed despite a dry mouth and continued, speaking much more rapidly than usual. “After I submit my article, I’ll go to Le Chat Noir, then to her apartment again.”
“I’m sure you’ll find her, or learn about her whereabouts. Likely those of Louis as well.” His blue eyes shone with reassurance. “Please don’t derive grim conclusions. I wouldn’t want you to turn your stomach inside out when it’s much too soon to think that way.”
Nathalie knew, though. She could tell from the look on his face that he was concerned and didn’t want to say so.
She turned to go, then paused. “Who’s this … assistant I heard Dr. Nicot shouting at? Olivier?”
Christophe clasped his hands together. “A young man from the university, not yet a doctor, who would like to be a medical examiner. Dr. Nicot has decided to be his mentor, but … it’s been an arduous beginning, let’s put it that way. I’m not sure if Nicot resents sharing his position or if Monsieur Olivier is making errors or both.”
Had Christophe ever wondered about her resentment of Gabrielle? She wanted him to know that it had dissolved, mostly if not altogether. Gabrielle had an awkward affect at times but wasn’t such a terrible addition after all. And all those smiles she’d directed his way didn’t seem to be returned by anything other than cordiality, so that had helped, too. But today wasn’t the day for that conversation. “Well, I hope the second day is better.”
“I think it will be. Again, please don’t wrap yourself in worry too much.” The reassurance came back to his eyes. “The chances are slim that anything is truly amiss.”
With a half-hearted thank-you, Nathalie departed. Weaving through the crowd, she made her way to the front of Notre-Dame to write her article there, while sitting atop a low wall. She penned it in haste and dropped it off at the newspaper, then hurried over to Le Chat Noir.
The only employees at the club this early in the day were a bartender and the stalwart man with the unkempt beard who’d greeted them at the door the night she and Jules came to the show. His clothes weren’t ill-fitting this time, but he still leered at her; if she could have avoided speaking to him, she would have. Casting her distaste aside, with a passing wonder at how Simone could work in an environment with such people, she asked after Simone. Unfortunately, neither he nor the bartender could attest to Simone’s whereabouts. They suggested she come back after three o’clock when the owner, M. Salis, would be there.
When she left, she practically ran to Simone’s apartment two blocks away.
Nathalie bolted up the worn, creaky stairs to the apartment. After twice knocking and calling Simone’s name, she leaned against the door in frustration. Mews and kitten-scratches came from the other side of the door.
Simone had told her once where the key was hidden. Not above the door (“too obvious,” Simone had said), but rather above the window frame at the end of the hall, the same window she’d stared out of yesterday.
Nathalie regarded the window casing. I have no choice.
She walked over to it and stretched, her fingertips dancing across the top until she found the key. Hurrying back with tremulous hands, she put the key in the lock. The soft click made her flinch. Her stomach seized up so badly, she was afraid she’d throw up as she crossed the threshold.
Max and Lucy, noticeably bigger since the first time she’d seen them, mewed incessantly. She scooped them up and dashed through the two-room apartment. Somewhat messy, as always, with clothes strewn about. Nothing out of place any more than usual. The kittens had food and water. A good sign.
Wasn’t it?
She kissed the kittens on their heads and put them down. Frantically she paced around the apartment one more time, as if Simone would suddenly appear. With shaky hands, she took her journal out of her satchel. For the second time today, she left Simone a note.
I’ve been looking all over for you and Louis. We were supposed to go to the Exposition yesterday, unless I am mistaken. I thought I was in error. The club, home, your parents—no one’s seen you for the last day.
Yes, I let myself in. I am worried.
I need to know as soon as possible that you are safe. Until then, I will fret.
Nathalie positioned the note on the floor near the entrance so Simone couldn’t miss it. She locked up after herself, returned the key to its spot, and ran down the well-worn stairs.
She leaned against the outside of the apartment building, watching the noisy activity of the street, life happening all around her. What now? If she went to Christophe, he’d still tell her not to worry; it had only been a couple hours since their last meeting. She didn’t know what to do with herself.
The rainstorm in her mind was raging with thunder and lightning, because no matter how much she tried to convince herself otherwise, she couldn’t shake the possibility that maybe Simone was Le Rasoir’s Princess, and Louis his Young Prince.
* * *
Blood coursed through Nathalie’s veins like a train hurtling along a track. People everywhere but not the ones she needed to encounter in
order to calm down.
It was too early to go back to The Quill to see if Louis had showed up. Besides, she didn’t want to go in circles again, checking on apartments and workplaces, trapped on a carousel of frustration and angst. Not for another few hours.
Although she doubted anything could hold her attention at the Exposition, she decided to go there anyway. If nothing else, there would be people and noise and sights to see, or tell herself to see, to pass the time.
On the omnibus to Trocadéro, she thought about Agnès. Things could have gone differently. In fact, the odds were that they should have. If one or more variables had played out another way, her sweet friend might still be here.
Wouldn’t she?
Yes, because Nathalie didn’t give much credence to fate.
The source of her anxious conclusions about Simone was guilt over Agnès; she was aware of that, even as she tried to reject it. Being taunted by the past didn’t erase the concerns of the present. It didn’t make the rain stop.
* * *
She wandered the grounds of the Exposition for some time. She’d been to the Rue du Caire, brimming with Egyptian wares, several times already, even taking a donkey ride on a previous visit. (When she’d circled Egypt on her map, she also drew a camel next to it. Some day she hoped to ride one.) The Cairo bazaar had façades on either side representing various kinds of architecture—a part of a mosque, stores, a structure for public water, and a café.
The Turkish coffee from the café smelled delectable. Despite not having the time or inclination to idle at a café and think any more than she had to, she couldn’t resist buying one to enjoy as she walked (really, the Exposition was a delightful place to try new kinds of coffee).
“Mademoiselle?”
One of the merchants called to her, holding up a display of silver rings. She approached him and examined his offerings.
He pointed out several. “Hieroglyphs.”
Nathalie tried on one, then another, then a third. She liked the second one best and asked how much. Jules had told her last time to ask for the price and then propose something lower, then reach a bargain.
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