by Amy Plum
“But whatever our origin, everyone agrees that revenants are all born equal: human with a latency to become a revenant. Whether they become bardia or numa all depends on their actions during their human life. And if they are never cast into a situation where they save or betray, they just live out the rest of their lives clueless that they were different from anyone else.”
“So a human’s not born a numa or bardia?”
“Not unless you believe in the Calvinistic doctrine of predestination.” And once again, she sounds four times her age, I thought. “But we are not talking theology here. We are talking about human nature. In which case the only answer can be, ‘Who knows?’ What I do know is that the numa and bardia did not used to be the enemies they are today.”
“Yeah, Jean-Baptiste said that there used to be a lot more of both in Paris.”
Violette nodded and called the waiter to bring us some coffees. “As with most wars, during World War Two many revenants of both ilk were created. And since many held personal grudges against each other from their human lives, there was a massive war of vengeance between the numa and bardia. That all came to an end, though, a decade or so later. And there has been a type of cease-fire ever since.”
“Why?” I asked, intrigued by this new information.
She shrugged. “I have no idea. Like I said, Arthur and I have been holed up in our castle in the Loire. I have stayed away from Parisian politics.”
“Well, from what I hear, you’re the go-to person for anything revenant or numa related,” I said. “If anyone would know, it would be you.”
“Touché,” she said, laughing. “I do pride myself on having the inside information on pretty much everything. But I also pride myself on being able to keep a secret. So if I do not tell you something, there is probably a good reason.”
“So if I asked you what Vincent was up to . . . ?” I asked with a sly smile.
“I would say, ‘Well, whatever do you mean!’” she responded with an equally sly grin.
I had hoped my new friend would be more open with me. Although I knew that if she had, I would have felt bad for going behind Vincent’s back to get the information. Her small white hand reached out and touched my own.
“Don’t worry about Vincent, Kate. He can take care of himself.”
Then it’s something dangerous, I thought. Even if she hadn’t meant to, she had told me something I didn’t know. Now, more than ever, I was determined to find another solution.
A week and a half ago at the ballet, Vincent had said he needed six weeks to see if his experiment had the potential to work. And if it did, I could only imagine that he would continue with it. Which meant I had just over a month to find an answer to an impossible situation. I just hoped that nothing bad would happen to Vincent before I did.
I jumped as the study door opened, positioning myself in front of the open box on Papy’s desk.
“It’s just me,” Georgia said as she walked into the room, closing the door quietly behind her.
I exhaled, relieved that I wouldn’t have to lie to Papy about why I was trolling through his library. He would be overjoyed that I was using it. But knowing his enthusiasm for books, he would be too interested in exactly what I was looking for.
“So what treasure of Papy’s deserves a full body block?” she asked, her eyes flitting to the book behind me. I stepped aside to let her see.
“You’re reading something in German?” she asked, surprised, as she flipped through a couple of pages.
“I’m not actually sure it’s even German,” I said, tapping the German dictionary sitting next to it. “Unless it’s an old form. It could be a Bavarian dialect, for all I know.”
Georgia looked confused. “It’s sunny out—for once—and you’re spending your free time indoors reading an ancient Bavarian book because . . .” She turned another page to a hand-drawn illustration of a devil-like beast: red skin, horns, and claws. “Ah . . . monsters. May I guess that this has something to do with the particularly hot undead guy you suck face with on a regular basis?”
I leaned tiredly against the desk and nodded. “This is the last book. I’ve gone through everything in Papy’s library that could have something to do with revenants, and found only one that mentioned them. And it didn’t tell me anything I didn’t already know.”
“What are you looking for?” Georgia asked, as I carefully put the book back in its box and slid it into the empty space in the bookcase.
“Honestly? If it were possible, I’d love to find a way to turn Vincent back into a human again. But since it’s not, I’ll settle for any information that might make things easier for us.”
“Hmm,” Georgia said pensively. “Normally I’d tease you for talking about magic, except for the fact that we’re referring to a reanimated dead guy here, so—hey—I guess anything is possible. Seriously, what exactly are you hoping to find?”
“Vincent told me that the time he resisted dying for a few years—when he got his law degree—he tried yoga and meditation to help ease the symptoms. Gaspard had read in some Tibetan revenant manuscript that that could help. Except it didn’t. So I figure I might as well see if I could find something Gaspard didn’t already know about. Like an herb or potion or something.”
“Hmm,” said Georgia, looking off into some invisible dreamworld. “Or maybe bathing naked in the Seine under the light of the full moon”—she glanced up quickly—“in which case, definitely tell me when and where your voodoo’s going down!”
I laughed. “Hey, you’ve got Sebastien! I’m sure you could persuade him to skinny-dip in the Seine if you tried hard enough.”
“Of course I could,” she said with faux haughtiness. “But who wants a boyfriend with ringworm?”
Georgia was working her big-sister charm on me again. When we were younger, if there was ever anything I needed help with that was beyond her capabilities, she tried the next best thing: distracting me.
“Speaking of boyfriends, we should go out together some night. Vincent hasn’t even met Sebastien. And you’ve been spending all your girl time with zombie Marie Antoinette.” My sister made a face. Once she disliked someone, nothing would make her change her mind.
“She’s actually really nice,” I said, defending Violette.
“She called me an ‘ungrateful human,’” Georgia countered. “That kind of says it all, as far as I’m concerned.”
“She’s just old-school,” I said, remembering what Jeanne had told me. “She’s not used to seeing revenants mix with us.”
“Racist,” Georgia insisted, crossing her arms.
“So where should we go with the guys?” I asked, changing the subject.
“Seb’s got a concert in a week and a half—two Saturdays from now.”
“That sounds perfect,” I said. “I’m sure Vincent can come. I mean, he’s dormant this weekend, so by then he’ll be in good enough shape to go out.”
“I can’t believe you just said that,” Georgia said, shaking her head. “It’s just so . . . weird.” She gave me a hug and started out of the room, before stopping on the threshold. “Hey, you should check Papy’s gallery. He’s got a ton of books there.”
“Oh my God, I hadn’t thought about that!” I exclaimed, my frustration instantly replaced by a little flame of hope.
“Who’s lookin’ out for ya, baby?” my sister said in a gangster moll accent. Then she gave me an exaggerated wink and closed the door.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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FOURTEEN
I AWOKE THE NEXT MORNING, EAGER, FOR ONCE, to jump out of bed and head to the breakfast table. My Papy was there, eating a fresh croissant and drinking coffee from a bowl—which is what hot breakfast drinks are usually served in. Not mugs. Bowls that you hold with both hands as you drink your hot chocolate or coffee. Unless you’re drinking an espresso. And then it’s in a ridiculous
ly tiny cup.
Grabbing my own bowl, I poured it half-full with coffee and half with the hot milk that Mamie kept in a pan on the stove, and sat down across from my grandfather. “Papy, if you ever need someone to gallery-sit, in case you have a meeting or something, I’d be happy to.”
I tried to say it as nonchalantly as possible, but my grandfather eyed me worriedly. “Isn’t your allowance enough, ma princesse?” I cringed. That was my dad’s nickname for me. It had been over a year since he had died, but whenever Papy called me that, it gave my heart a little stab.
Papy noticed. “Sorry, dear.”
“It’s okay. And I wasn’t offering because I want you to pay me. I just thought it would be fun. And I could bring my homework.”
Papy lifted his eyebrows. “Well! I’d never get an offer like that from your sister. But coming from an art lover like yourself, I know you’re not just trying to be helpful!” He smiled. “In fact, I have a meeting this afternoon—an appraisal of some Greek statuary at a collector’s house on the Île Saint-Louis. I was planning on closing the gallery, but if you wanted to come after school . . .”
He didn’t even have to finish his statement. “I’ll be there!” I said enthusiastically.
Papy’s smile was still quizzical, but I could tell he liked the idea. “See you then,” he said, rising and patting me fondly on the shoulder. He put on his coat and headed upstairs to say good-bye to Mamie, who had gotten an early start in her restoration studio on our building’s top floor.
I smiled to myself as I bit the end off a croissant, humming with pleasure as I did. I had probably eaten hundreds of croissants in my life, having spent every summer here as a kid. And, even so, every time I ate one it was like a pastry revelation. I pulled off a flaky strip and popped it into my mouth and then chased it with a sip of steaming café crème.
The fifteen minutes it took for Papy to show me what I needed to know about the gallery seemed to last for hours. But finally he was stepping through the front door into the bright sunlight and giving a good-bye salute with his old-man hat as he disappeared down the street.
As soon as he was out of view, I left the hushed semidarkness of the gallery for the brightly lit office space behind. Visitors had to ring the doorbell to be buzzed through the front door, so I reasoned I wasn’t being negligent if I spent a little time away from the desk.
It didn’t take long for me to work my way through Papy’s gallery library. Most of the books were auction catalogues or twentieth-century scholarly books on art and architecture through the ages. With my recently gained research experience, I could tell they wouldn’t contain anything about revenants.
I popped back to the front of the gallery to make sure no one was waiting outside the door, and then made my way to the other side of the space, where Papy had his private viewing room. Switching on the spotlights in the tiny, sumptuous space, I cast around for anything that might be of interest. A few ancient volumes sat on a side table with gloves and a magnifying glass positioned next to them. I slipped the gloves on and opened one of the books. It was a historical document, with lists of goods and dates next to them—it seemed to be a king’s or lord’s account of tributes paid to him. I turned a couple more pages. More of the same. And neither of the other books had anything of interest.
I stood and thought for a moment. Since Papy dealt only with artifacts, sculpture, and metalwork, when he bought entire estates he often passed the most valuable books and manuscripts to his book dealer friends to sell for him. But during his busy buying seasons, there was often a stash of inventory he hadn’t had time to go through, especially the books and prints he would be handing off. I made my way to his stock closet in the back hallway and turned the handle. Locked.
Papy always carried his keys with him, but maybe he kept spares somewhere in the gallery. I returned to the front desk, dug through a couple of drawers, and found a small key taped to the side of one of them, near the back. Carefully unpeeling it, I returned to the closet and breathed a sigh of relief as it slipped easily into the lock.
Inside stood a stack of four boxes labeled ESTATE, MARQUIS DE CAMPANA. Papy had scribbled the purchase date on the side of the box: a few days ago. Knowing him, he had probably put the estate’s most important pieces up front and stored the miscellaneous items until he had a chance to research them one by one. I pulled a box out of the closet and opened it. Tiny bundles wrapped in cloth . . . miniature metal god figurines, I saw as I unfolded one. I rewrapped it and quickly replaced it.
The second box was full of tiny plastic zip-lock bags holding bits of ancient jewelry and carved stones—the type that would be set in a ring. Intaglios, I remembered Papy calling them, and picked one up to discover a figure of Hercules wearing the lion skin carved into an oval jade. Although I had been around Papy’s objects since I was a baby, I never failed to feel a frisson of wonder when I held something made over a thousand years ago.
I knew what the third box held before I even reached inside. My heart beat faster as I opened the flaps. The smell of musty paper poofed out, and I looked down to see a collection of old books. More like hand-bound manuscripts. And though the most fragile ones were in plastic bags, a few sturdier volumes lay loose between them.
Books from a Roman antiquities collector . . . now this could be promising. I picked the first one up. It was an old printed book in German, with engravings of Greek and Roman statuary. I placed it carefully on the floor and reached in for a small book with decorative shapes and swirls tooled into the reddish brown leather cover.
It was the size of the illustrated prayer books I had seen in the Louvre, but much thinner, and as I opened it I saw that it was a hand-penned manuscript, written in the gothic handwriting of medieval monks. I remembered reading about illustrated manuscripts. Some monks spent their whole lives copying books and decorating them. Before the printing press, copying was the only way multiple examples of a book could be made.
This wasn’t a masterpiece, like the ones I had seen protected under thick museum glass. It was simple but beautiful, with gold vines and flourishes decorating the edges. The first page was an explosion of leaves and berries, with, at the bottom center, two skulls. Immortal Love, it read in French, and the next page was illustrated with a colorful, naively painted image of a man and a woman in medieval clothing holding hands. And even though the painting was simple, I could tell that the woman was elderly—she was depicted with white hair—and that the man was very young: a teenager.
The image had been painted many centuries ago. Maybe even a millennium. I inspected it carefully, taking in every detail. The woman was old, her posture a little bent. And the man was gleaming with youth and health. I would have thought it was an old lady with her grandson, except for the way they stood hand in hand, their heads slightly inclined toward each other in a gesture of solidarity and affection.
I turned back to the title page. L’amur immortel, I read again, and then saw a subtitle written in spidery letters below. I could hardly make it out; the ink had worn with the centuries, and the old French was difficult to decipher. “A tale . . . love and tragedy . . . a bar . . . and . . . human . . .” My heart caught in my throat. Could the word be bardia? There was just enough space for it to be. And a human?
Oh my God, I had found something. My head spun and then cleared abruptly as the gallery’s doorbell buzzed. I got up, a bit wobbly, and raced into the gallery space. A familiar figure stood behind the glass door, tall enough to take up the whole windowpane. He cupped his eyes with his hands so he could see inside. I pressed the door release under the front desk.
“Vincent!” I exclaimed, feeling a twinge of guilt. “How did you know I was here?”
He strode into the gallery, hands in his pockets and an amused look on his face. After giving me a soft kiss, he released me and glanced curiously around the space. “I have my ways,” he said. Doing a Vincent Price voice and raising an eyebrow, he quipped, “I always know where you are.”
“N
o, really,” I prodded, laughing.
“Well, you see, there’s this thing called a text message,” he said, deadpan. “And I got one from your phone during your lunch break that told me you were gallery-sitting this afternoon.” A hint of a smile curved the corners of his lips.
“Oh, right,” I said, lamely shaking my head. This whole situation with Vincent’s undercover operations was messing with my mind. It was making me paranoid.
“So what are you doing here?” Vincent asked. “This is the first time I’ve seen you in the midst of gainful employ. Not that homework isn’t gainful.”
I was about to open my mouth to tell him the whole thing—to excitedly whip out the book and show it to him—when all of a sudden I hesitated. I didn’t want him to see it . . . yet. Not until I had actually figured out what it meant. Maybe it was my pride holding me back, but I wanted to see his face when I set the finished puzzle in front of him, complete with valuable information he couldn’t have found somewhere else.
“I was just feeling bored. Thought it would be fun to do something different for a change.”
“Bored?” Vincent looked astounded. “In the past week and a half you’ve gone to a total of four movies with Violette, and you and I have hung out . . . well, not as much as I’d have liked.” A flash of guilt crossed his face before he forced it to disappear.
“So what are you up to tonight?” I asked.
“The usual boring revenant stuff,” he replied, visibly squirming, and then he sighed and looked me in the eye. “Kate, you know what I’m doing.”
“Not exactly.” I couldn’t help the trace of bitterness in my voice.
Vincent pulled me close and said, “You want to call it off? You say the word.”
“No.” I shook my head, and Vincent wrapped his arms around me. “I love you, Kate,” he whispered. I closed my eyes and nestled in closer to him.
