“You—you what?” Mickie stood, as angry as I’d ever seen her. “Will? You went back to UC Merced?” She ground fists against her hips, elbows flaring.
Will crossed his arms. “Yeah, so deal with it already.”
“Deal with it? Deal with it?” Her voice rose in an awful crescendo. “What were you thinking about? I can’t believe this!” She turned to me, her face blotched red with anger. “And you—how could you do this to us?”
I felt my face warming.
“These people are killers, Sam,” said Mickie.
“She knows that, Mick.” Will’s low voice cut across her frantic one.
“But she obviously doesn’t get it, does she?” Mickie shot back at her brother. “They killed Professor Pfeffer!”
My throat shrunk tight.
“That’s enough, Mick. She gets it.”
Mickie ignored the angry edge in her brother’s voice. “Do you think they’d hesitate to do the same to you, or to me and my brother?”
“I said enough, Mick!” Will spoke with authority as he locked eyes with his sister.
Finally I found my voice. “You’re not the only person in the room who lost someone to those murderers,” I said, my voice shaking.
Mickie made an angry, exasperated noise and rose. She headed for the hotel suite door, kicked over a small side table in her way, and slammed the door behind her so hard that the pictures on the wall rattled.
I looked at Will. His face was turned from me in profile. Without even blinking, he stared at the carpet. He avoided looking at me. I saw the tension in his hands, balled into fists, and in the throbbing vein at his temple. “I’ll work on damage control.” He didn’t sound angry; he sounded cold as ice and a million miles away from me.
Chapter Twenty–Two
SHAM–SUNDAR
Without once looking at me, Will exhaled noisily and exited the room following his sister.
Tears rushed to fill my eyes. For several minutes Sir Walter and I sat in the room without speaking. When he stood, I assumed he planned to leave me as well, but he surprised me by returning with a box of tissues. He handed them to me without a word, and I began drying my face.
At last Sir Walter spoke. “I do not pretend to understand your motivation, nor will I insist that you explain yourself to me now. What is done is done.”
I sobbed, wondering how badly I’d damaged my friendship with Will. His earlier warnings rattled around inside my head: My sister can never know about this, okay?
“However,” continued Sir Walter, “I am less inclined to see this as the dangerous step that Mademoiselle Baker believes it to be. You are all alive, and what is more, unlikely ever to return so close to Helga’s lair.”
I stared at him. “What do you mean, unlikely to return so close?”
“Of course you cannot return to your home,” he said.
“I have to go home.”
He raised an eyebrow and looked at me, puzzled.
“I’m not leaving my family,” I said. “It would kill Dad to lose me.” As I spoke the words aloud, I realized the awful choice before me. I might not be able to leave Las Abs, but Will would almost certainly not return. The thought of a future without him left a hollow feeling where my stomach should be.
“Well, we have several days remaining to us during which we can discuss what would be best,” said Sir Walter.
“There’s something else,” I said. I felt a cold determination building inside of me. I was done with keeping secrets. “I have good reason to believe that Deuxième survived the collapsed chamber because of me.”
“Indeed?” Sir Walter looked surprised.
I explained how I’d called for assistance, adding that Deuxième held himself in my debt.
“This is most interesting. Most interesting, indeed.” He tugged at his tiny beard a few times and sighed. “And now, if you will excuse me, my dear, I should like to ree–pill. I find I do my best thinking when my flesh makes no demands upon me.”
“Of course,” I said.
He stepped over and gently placed a hand upon my shoulder. “All will be well,” he said. “We know Helga’s wishes more clearly because Deuxième believed himself to be in your debt. All will be well.” He smiled, patted my shoulder, and vanished.
I shut myself in my room and lay upon the narrow bed. After kicking my shoes off, I curled into a tight ball. Outside the sky remained a flat grey that couldn’t clear and wouldn’t snow. I felt cold and dull within. When I thought of the chill in Will’s voice as he left, I ached as though we’d already parted forever.
Soon, very soon, I would have to give up the one person in my life I couldn’t live without. That was the future I saw now.
But how do you do that?
The sun set early; street–lamps glowed outside my window, and still I didn’t move.
How could I give up the person that provided my life with meaning? How would I survive such a sacrifice day after day once I’d made it? The sky, heavy with cloud–cover, threw down the reflected lights of Annecy so that my room remained in a pewter–colored gloom. I did not rise to draw the curtains. Upon my bed, I coiled fetus–like and cried until my eyes were dry.
When the tears came no more, I felt a heavy quiet settle upon me. Turning my head to the window, I saw the starless sky, and in the lamp–light, snow falling in clumped flakes. Christmas Eve comes tomorrow, I thought.
Quietly, I rose and gazed out the window at a softened world. The snow had begun mounding over benches, bushes, and parked bicycles, resolving sharp angles into rounded forms. A snowfall like this would shut down school back in Las Abuelitas. I wondered how the people of Annecy would manage tomorrow’s whitened world.
Sir Walter’s words in Disneyland floated back to me as if upon the drifting snow: I find myself able to act … for those who do live, but who will not know a tomorrow if I stand by and do nothing. I sighed, letting the words settle deep within me. Feeling sorry for myself, feeling angry at Mickie or wounded by Will’s cold gaze: these were luxuries I could not afford.
This is how you move on, I said to myself. You move on when your heart has broken because moving on is the right thing to do.
I didn’t feel like turning my ten–euro dinner allowance into a trip outside for a meal, so I rummaged through my bag for snacks. Inside, I found butter cookies and a bar of chocolate. When I’d eaten them, I curled up on my bed and fell into a deep sleep.
Much later, I awakened to the sound of Will and Mickie returning to our rooms. One of them knocked gently. I sat up, rose, and opened the door. It was Will.
“You all right?” he whispered.
As I heard the kindness in his voice, I knew I was. Our small fracas earlier? That, I could survive.
“Mick and I,” he gestured over his shoulder to his silent sister, “we just want to apologize for how we responded.”
“Doesn’t matter,” I said. Because I knew what really, truly mattered to me now: doing the right thing and keeping Will safe.
“Come inside,” I said, beckoning to Mickie as well. “There’s more I need to tell you.”
I explained how I’d saved Deuxième’s life, adding Sir Walter’s point that we knew Helga’s plans better because of what I’d done.
Will stood silent, gazing at the snow–covered world outside my window. Finally he spoke. “That impulse you had, to save life instead of destroying it, that’s a good thing, Sam.”
“A tiny bit of beautiful in all this dark mess,” said Mickie, stepping over to squeeze my hand.
In the shadows, I saw Will’s smile.
“Sham–sundar,” he said, uttering the Indian word.
“Sham–whozit?” asked Mickie.
“Sham–sundar. It means the beautiful and the dark together,” said Will.
“Like this,” I added, gesturing to the wintry night scene beyond the window. As we looked upon the silent beauty, flakes began drifting downward.
“Sham–sundar,” murmured Mickie.
; ***
When it was time to split into smaller groups for our home–stay visits, Sir Walter encouraged us with the fact that Helga wasn’t likely to know where we were traveling as he hadn’t discussed it with our teacher, other than to say he’d be hosting us for Christmas. He took it upon himself to purchase First–Class tickets via bullet train. There were definite advantages to traveling with our wealthy friend, not the least of which was we didn’t get lost during our train transfer.
I slept the final leg of the journey, waking only as we pulled into the station at Carcassonne. Sir Walter arranged a taxi and Will, Mickie, and I squashed into the back seat for the short drive in the dark. I could see nothing, but it was plain enough we drove on a narrow and twisting road. We pulled into a gravel drive beside a small dwelling and tumbled out into the cool night air.
I set my bags down in the Barbie–sized bedroom Sir Walter indicated for me, six thousand miles from family and hugs on Christmas Eve. But I was not alone. In the front room, my three companions laughed heartily. A smile grew on my face. My chest feeling lighter, I shut my door, kicked off my boots, and clothes–still–on, crawled shivering into a bed that was soft and warm.
Chapter Twenty–Three
THE WELL OF JUNO
“Joyeux Noël! Levez–vous, tout–le–monde! Rise, rise, Happy Christmas!” The deep voice of Sir Walter roused me from dreams of hiking in Yosemite, the sun baking my neck. I kicked back covers that now stifled me. The house had warmed considerably since our late–night arrival.
It was Christmas morning. I smiled.
My skin felt scratchy from sleeping in my clothes, so I threw on clean ones and stumbled out into the main living area.
An inferno blazed in the stone fireplace and above the fire, threatening to drop into it, hung a pair of identical white tube–socks, drooping with odd–shaped items. Stockings? On Christmas morning in France?
I’d beaten Will out of bed, but Mickie was sitting with Sir Walter, drinking coffee and eating croissants. I crept toward the stockings and saw my name, written in Sharpie beside the other sock bearing Will’s name. I grabbed mine and flopped at the table.
“Where’s yours?” I asked Mickie, who was sneezing.
“I don’t think Père Noël leaves them for adults,” she said, blowing her nose.
“Père Noël puts treats in shoes,” I said.
“Yeah, I already got that lecture from the resident expert in all things French.” Mickie sniffled and stirred her coffee glumly.
“You got a cold?”
Mickie sneezed.
“Wow,” I said. “Merry Christmas to you, huh?”
Mickie sneezed again.
“Joyeux Noël!” Sir Walter’s eyes twinkled as he poured a cup of hot chocolate for me, thick as creek–mud.
“Joyeux Noël,” I replied. The cup radiated heat like a tiny midwinter sun in my hands.
“So open it, already,” Mickie said, rattling my stocking upon the table.
I shook it empty. The tube–sock had been stuffed with American candy and French bons–bons and an envelope containing two crisp hundred–euro notes.
“Those are not from me, er, Père Noël,” Mickie said, tapping the bills. “Sylvia and your dad made me bring those, and I’ve been scared silly I’d lose them.” She coughed into her elbow.
I read a card that must have held the money before I dumped everything out.
“I’m supposed to find something wonderful in France for Christmas,” I said.
Will strolled into the room and mussed his sister’s hair. “I’m wonderful. I’m in France.”
I almost choked on my hot chocolate. Will looked like an ad for bed–head. I swallowed back desire and shifted my eyes away from all I wanted for Christmas.
His eyes darted to the fireplace. “Yes!” He grabbed his stocking, dislodged the contents onto a rug in front of the blaze, and began chugging the 330ml can of Dr. Pepper, ignoring the Skittles, Starbursts, Suchards and new toothbrush for the moment.
Then he smiled widely and ripped a phenomenal burp while saying “Merry Christmas” at the same time.
My angst–y feelings scurried and I burst into a fit of giggles.
Mickie said, “Bro, that was deeply disturbing,” and sneezed.
Sir Walter politely ignored the performance.
“Are you sick, Mickie?” asked Will.
“Sick of you,” she said, throwing a small package at him.
He caught and unwrapped the gift—a cell phone—and went over to his sister to give her a hug.
“Hello!” she said, pushing him away. “Major germs here.”
“Thanks, Mick.”
“Yeah, well, don’t fall all over yourself about it. Stupid phone doesn’t work in France, only in America.”
As we sat around the table, Sir Walter explained his plans for the day.
“Tomorrow evening you travel to rejoin your group. Before that, I wish to take you to an important historical site of the region—”
Will grinned. “Sweet.”
Sir Walter smiled and continued, “And then we will return in time for the midnight mass in the old city, followed by la Reveille.”
I’d heard of la Reveille, the tradition of eating a huge feast after Christmas mass. Mickie looked confused, so I explained it to her.
“The midnight buffet sounds great,” she said. “But I think I’ve seen enough historically significant things to last me several lifetimes. No offense, Sir Walter, but I’d actually prefer to spend the day nursing my cold by the fire. And maybe I’ll give your translation of the black book another read–through.”
Will crossed to hand his sister a fresh box of tissue and give her a hug. Mickie shoved him away. “Out of my air–space! Go breathe on something … historical.”
After we’d finished breakfast, Will and I piled in a tiny Citroën car that our host had conjured out of an ancient garage.
“Not the front seat,” warned Sir Walter.
Upon inspection, it appeared there was no front passenger seat to speak of. The springs were clearly visible through threads that had once been cloth. Clearly, this had been appropriated for other uses.
“Mice,” said our French friend. “I need to keep a cat, but …”
He didn’t finish the thought as he tried to start the engine a third time. Exiting the vehicle, Sir Walter lifted the hood and fumbled with the engine, crooning to it. He finished, chuckling.
“And no doubt you are thirsty, poor girl!” He opened the gas flap on my side and poured out the contents of a nearby gas can, sloshing a large portion down the side of the car. “Now we can be sure she will make the return trip!”
This time the car started.
“Are you sure this place will be open today? Everything’s closed in America on Christmas Day,” I said as we bounced along a tiny road, the hill–top village of Carcassonne receding behind us.
“It is less a matter of the site being open, and more a matter of knowing how to gain entrance,” replied Sir Walter.
“More breaking and entering,” I muttered to Will. “Terrific.” My flat tone told him I thought it anything but terrific.
Will, however, just grinned.
“What do you know of the presence of ancient Rome in Gaul?” asked Sir Walter.
Will answered. “Not something we study much in America, but if I remember, it seems like Julius Caesar kicked your ancestors’ butts, right?”
Sir Walter grunted, probably in assent. “The ancient Romans came to this region prior to Caesar in order to visit the hot springs. I am taking you to a place they considered quite holy, sacred to Juno. It was believed to be a propitious place for conceiving children—children marked by the blessing of the goddess.”
The Citroën lurched as we turned onto a dirt road full of potholes. The poor car rattled as if bits and pieces would soon fall off, a bread–crumb–trail to help us back home. Sir Walter had to stop the car to open a gate that ran across the road.
“These la
nds were held by my family for seven hundred years,” Sir Walter said.
“As in, this is yours?” Will asked, clearly impressed.
Sir Walter shrugged. “The present government of France does not think so. The land has been redistributed innumerable times in the past two centuries since La Révolution. I am not certain who is considered the present owner.”
“Do you still think of this as your … home?” Will asked.
“Home.” Sir Walter laughed softly to himself.
“Where you live, you know. Do you live here now?” Will asked again.
“My dear boy, I live a great many places now. But I retain no dwelling on a permanent basis. I have no need for it. A dwelling, in my condition, would be superfluous.”
“I counted out that you’ve been staying solid about two and a half hours per day, on average,” Will said.
“Very good,” said Sir Walter. “You are correct.”
It hadn’t occurred to me to do the math on how he’d lived so long. A single happy thought fluttered through my belly: Will and I, together through oncoming centuries. But the thought of Helmann’s plans for a thousand–year reich quickly squelched the dreamy image.
“I find it more convenient to live in dwellings maintained by others,” continued Sir Walter. “Chenonceau, where we first met, is a favorite of mine. Although I also appreciate modern touches from time to time.”
“You just go from place to place?” I asked.
“Quite,” he replied.
“How often do you need to eat and sleep?” Will asked.
“As I now live, I require a good meal twice a week, and I prefer to sleep once every week or so, although it is possible to pass many hours in a state resembling rest whilst one is in chameleon form,” he replied. “This, as I mentioned before, would account for our friend Deuxième’s ability to do without sleep in the conventional sense.”
“Bodyguards that don’t require sleep,” began Will, “No wonder she didn’t follow her brother’s orders to kill them. They’d be invaluable.”
Chameleon (The Ripple Series) Page 14
