A Drop of Night

by Stefan Bachmann

  “They think I’m in Azerbaijan. I left a note.”

  “Can I ask you a question?”

  “No.”

  “What’s wrong with your parents?”

  “Look, Jules? You’re nice and everything, but you need to mind your own business.”

  The Mercedes rumbles through some road construction. Bright cones flicker past like little lighthouses, gone in an instant. My chest feels tight. I don’t look, but Jules’s expression is probably bordering on disgust by now.

  “Well, you certainly look like you’ve had a rough life,” he says. “Malnourishment. Constant threat of war. No clothes but what you could scrounge out of the charity bin. How did you ever make it this far . . .”

  “What?”

  “Nothing. D’you think it’s strange they’re letting teenagers into a find like this? I mean, they could have gotten some veterans. Famous art historians or something. Doesn’t it strike you as odd?”

  I squint at him. “There are going to be famous art historians and veterans. Dorf’s here. And anyway, we worked for this. We have qualifications. I’m sorry you have such a low opinion of your skills, but I feel like I’ve earned this.”

  I don’t. I don’t feel like I’ve earned anything.

  “You’re saying you’re right up there with the greats and they couldn’t have gotten anyone better if they tried?”

  “I’m saying, no one’s been down there yet,” I snap. “I’m saying there haven’t been many tests or age verifications, and no one knows anything until we get down there and start combing the place. So until then, yeah, teenagers are a great option. Good night.”

  I curl myself into the corner, and I feel empty, straight-up miserable. Four chances of friendship down, zero to go. Good job, Ooky. Diligent as ever.

  There’s this special talent humans have that they can be unhappy no matter where they are. No matter who they’re with and what they have. Or maybe that’s just my talent.

  I pretend to fall asleep. Jules isn’t talking to me anymore anyway.

  Aurélie du Bessancourt—October 6, 1789

  The market women marched on Versailles yesterday. They killed two guards, relieved them of their heads, and mounted their grisly trophies on pikes. “Like apples on a spit,” Guillaume told the servants gathered around him in the front hall, and a gasp went up, a frantic chorus of rustling aprons and whispered oaths.

  We were not supposed to hear, my sisters and I, but we stood at the crack in the music room’s doors and listened.

  Guillaume had been at Versailles, waiting to deliver a message from Father, when news came of the market women’s approach. He claimed to have seen the queen herself running for the hall of mirrors with the young dauphin. He said that the royal family had fled to Paris, that Louis XVI was as good as headless already.

  My sleeves stick uncomfortably to my wrists. My mouth is dry. I hurry my sisters out the other side of the music room, and I try to distract them with fumbled card tricks, but I cannot focus and I drop the deck. Father has already left the château, gone down to the Palais du Papillon. Again a casket was sent to Mama, an invitation asking her to join him in the depths. Again I intercepted it:

  My darling, it said, the writing splattered and uneven, ink beads on an ink thread, as if Father paused many times during the forming of each letter to consider the next.

  It is no longer safe to remain in the château. I have heard whispers, received letters. A storm brews in Paris that will rain blood and ruin on France as it has not seen in a hundred years. Soon there will be looting and death and chaos. The king will be beheaded and his wife as well. A wave of human filth will flow across the land. But you have nothing to fear, ma chérie. For such a catastrophe as this I built the Palais du Papillon: so that no matter what terrors befall the world, our way of life shall go on, the beauty and tranquillity of our grand culture preserved forever. I promise you, you shall have every comfort in the palace. You will be safe, my treasure. You will be cared for.

  Your husband,

  Frédéric du Bessancourt

  But Mama would not go. I had heard her pleading with the guards he had sent for her, heard her anguished sobs, so desperate and grating, I could hardly imagine them coming from one so small.

  “Why?” I asked her again this morning when I caught her alone in the upstairs gallery. “Mama, why will we not go to the palace? We will only be there a short while, surely. What has frightened you?”

  She answered me this time, taking my hands and squeezing them until I thought my fingers might snap. “The servants,” she said. “They have such dreadful faces.”

  She might as well have held her tongue for all that helped me.

  6

  Our convoy pulls into Péronne a little after 11:30 A.M. I peer up at the buildings as we drive down the main street, at the ivy climbing the brick facades, the boulangeries and pâtisseries and fleurists. Freezing rain drips off every mansard roof and verdigris-touched gutter. A woman in a vivid red head scarf turns to watch our convoy’s approach, then looks away quickly. It’s so quiet.

  I expect us to park at the tiny hotel, but we don’t. The cars continue down the street, gliding silently. We leave Péronne behind. After about twenty minutes, we turn through a pair of tall iron gates and down a country road. Security cameras swivel as we pass. I look back and see the gates closing behind us.

  I tap the glass that separates us from the driver and Dorf. No answer. I look at Jules. He’s fallen asleep, knees pulled up to his chin.

  I watch the trees slide by, bare and wintry. The road is long and utterly straight. Our convoy slices down it, sleek black cars reflecting the branches and the sky.

  We’re approaching something: a wide white house squatting at the end of the avenue. It’s a château, stark against the muddy greens and grays of the countryside.

  I nudge Jules with my foot. “I think we’re here,” I mumble.

  He doesn’t wake up.

  The cars pull up in front of the pale château, curling like a fiddlehead around the wide circular driveway. The locks on our doors click open.

  I step out into the cold. Car doors are opening all around, disgorging Red Spikes, the other bodyguards, Will. Miss Sei is clicking toward me.

  “Where are we?” I ask her, looking up at the house. It’s symmetrical, two floors, square windows. Probably mid-nineteenth century. Solid and big and old, like a country stronghold.

  “Château du Bessancourt. It’s part of the Sapani portfolio,” Miss Sei says. It’s the first time I’ve heard her talk. She has a perfect cut-glass English accent. She opens Dorf’s door. Murmurs something into the dim interior. Turns back to me. “They bought it several years ago and began a restoration. That’s why you’re here. Professor Dorf will explain inside.”

  “Wait, we’re staying here?” Jules is climbing out behind me, groggy, his hair sticking up in wet-cat spikes.

  Dorf chuckles and unfolds out of the passenger seat. “Of course!” He stamps twice on the cobbled drive. His leather wingtip shoes are polished to mirrors. “This is our site. One hundred feet below us lies the entrance to the mythical Palais du Papillon. Best be close by, I thought.”

  I stare at the cobbles. Peer up at the house again. Somewhere in the blue folder it was mentioned that the original château burned to the ground during the revolution. This one must be the replacement. It’s weird to think about French people in wigs and stockings running around here a couple centuries ago. That there was another world here before us, people going about their lives with no idea what was coming for them. I look back down the avenue, stretching away, nothing on either side but trees and fields.

  Hayden and Lilly walk up, Lilly jabbering, Hayden glowering straight ahead like he wants to punch something.

  “Everybody?” Dorf says. His voice hangs in the frozen air, dull and muffled. “Listen, please. This will be our base of operations during the expeditions. While the Sapanis are not here at the moment, we will be guests in their home. Be
careful and conscious of that while you are staying in the château. Now. There will be attendants to bring in your luggage. Follow me.”

  Lilly slips back into one of the Mercedes and shoulders her huge backpack.

  “He said leave it,” Jules mutters to her, and I see her look at him like, Over my dead body. We follow Dorf up the steps to the dark, polished doors. They’re carved with hatchets and roses, just like the coat of arms on our documents. We step into the high, echoing hall. Miss Sei and the four bodyguards enter behind us. I’m still not sure why the bodyguards are here. I get that the Sapanis are rich and powerful, but it’s not like there are going to be paparazzi leaping out of the hedges and sticking microphones in our faces.

  The floor is tiled in black-and-white marble. The walls are paneled in dark wood. The air is cold. Damp. The kind of air that comes when no one’s breathing it, when it just sits and stagnates like still water.

  I’m walking right beside Dorf. He leans over. “Anouk,” he says quietly, pleasantly. “It’s really wonderful you could be here. We were worried we wouldn’t fill the last spot, but then, there you were! And with such a fortunate family! We’re so pleased for you.” He spins, and his voice goes up about ten decibels. “Everyone! Miss Sei will take you to your rooms now.”

  I stare at him, confused. He smiles at me, all conspiratorial like we’re total buddies, and ducks through a low, ornately carved doorway. The door clicks shut.

  What was that about? My heart is beating painfully inside my chest, a tiny mallet against bone.

  “Anouk,” Miss Sei says. I turn. She’s waiting at the foot of the staircase, watching me. “Please rejoin the group.”

  She starts up the stairs, six-inch heels going off like a pair of nail guns. I hurry to catch up with the others.

  “Dinner will be served at five forty-five tonight.” Miss Sei looks straight ahead as she talks, eyes fixed on a point in the middle distance. “Not all the staff has arrived yet. I’m sure you’ll forgive any lapses in hospitality. Please feel free to freshen up and rest in your rooms. Be ready to meet Professor Dorf in the entrance hall at five-thirty. That is all.”

  Jules casts a halfhearted look back down the stairs toward the cars and the luggage. Lilly pats the strap of her backpack and smiles sweetly at him.

  We arrive at the second-story hallway. Miss Sei opens a huge door. “Mr. Maiburgh, Mr. Park, Mr. Makra. This will be your room. Miss Peerenboom and Miss Watts, please follow me.”

  She heads down the hallway again, and I catch a glimpse of her face, like a mask, tense and frozen. If I weren’t so heartless, I’d probably feel bad for her. Babysitting teenagers is a big step down from chief science officer of the Sapani Corporation. I would be seething, too.

  She doesn’t say anything as she opens our door—just stands next to it, watching us with those glimmering eyes. I slide past her into the room. Catch a whiff of something coming off her, bitter lemons and rosemary, like really strong soap. Under it is another smell, duller. Chemical.

  As soon as the door closes and Miss Sei’s footsteps have retreated down the hallway, Lilly shrugs off her backpack. Lets out all her breath. Collapses on the bed like she just ran a marathon. “This is so weird. Did you see this place? It’s like Hogwarts. But bad.”

  I stand stiffly, looking around me. The ceiling is high, fifteen feet at least. Dark green silk covers the walls. Tassels and silver brocade pillows drip off everything. And it’s cold. I can hear the whisper of an air system, but all the heat must be rising to the ceiling, curling under the sumptuous plasterwork. I definitely can’t feel it down here.

  Lilly laughs suddenly and rolls off the bed. “So what do you think of the boyyyys?” She crawls on hands and knees over to her backpack and starts digging around in it. “Hayden’s stuck up, but I think he’s just insecure. Like, he needs friendship.”

  I don’t bother answering. As usual, Lilly doesn’t care. She pulls out a very large, clear plastic toiletry bag and resumes her crawl.

  “I like Jules,” she says. “He’s hilarious.”

  “Of course he’s hilarious, have you seen his face? It’s called overcompensating.”

  Lilly stops crawling. Looks over her shoulder like I just ate a puppy. “That’s not cool, Anouk. It’s not.” She stands and walks the rest of the way to the bathroom, her expression closed up like a box.

  “What?” I say, spreading my arms in a Hey-don’t-shoot-the-messenger stance. “People who are considered less attractive by society have to find other ways to make themselves desirable. It’s science.”

  “It’s mean.” She tugs open the bathroom door and disappears inside. I hear the rush of a faucet. When she speaks again her voice is flat, echoing through the door. “D’you know what was up with the bodyguards?”

  Apparently she’s done discussing boys with me. At least she can take a hint.

  “I was wondering the same thing,” I say. “They don’t want anyone to know what they found here—”

  “But then why invite students?” Lilly appears at the door, rubbing something furiously into the ends of her hair.

  I turn to the window. The light outside is lead gray and flat, like it’s already evening. The trees make a tight square around the property. Jules asked that exact same thing. I brushed him off, but it’s a valid question. What are we doing here? Why Lilly? Why me? Why the others, all of us so completely different from each other? Blue folders in the mail, embossed letterheads, and thick stationery go a long way toward making things seem sensible and official. And I really wanted this to happen, so I told myself it was sensible. Like people who believe in daily horoscopes or pass on chain letters. Like people who do non-sensible things.

  Lilly goes back into the bathroom. Shouts: “This place is bare. I don’t like it. And there’s only one towel. Did you check for Wi-Fi?”

  I study the massive four-poster. It’s as big as a whole room by itself, but there’s only one. I’ll be sleeping on the couch, I guess.

  “If there is, I doubt they’ll let you use it,” I call back, and wander to the window, digging my phone from my pocket. At least ten Wi-Fi options line up on the screen. All locked.

  I toss my phone onto the nightstand. Lilly comes out of the bathroom holding a cup of amber liquid. She’s clutching it in both hands like it might escape.

  “They have brandy,” she says, awestruck. “In the bathroom.”

  “I thought you said it was bare.”

  “Yeah, but brandy.”

  She takes a sip, makes a face, and sets the cup down on a dresser. It’s going to leave a ring, but I don’t say anything. My head feels heavy. Lilly gets busy pulling chargers and cable tangles from her backpack. I crawl onto the bed. I don’t really plan on sleeping. I just lie there, staring up at the canopy. Drift in and out of consciousness. At some point I pull the covers up over my shoes and jeans. . . .

  I dream I’m floating in a black expanse of water. Only my face and hands break the surface. And slowly something else rises to the top—a girl in a sumptuous dress, only she’s facedown, her back like a velvet island, her cold fingers brushing mine, and I start to thrash, the black water boiling around me—

  7

  I wake up feeling like a slug. This is what happens when you sleep in your clothes—you get that nasty, greasy mixture of chilliness and warmth, and you remember all the times you slept in airports, car seats, on Ellis Winthrope’s cracked-leather couch, braving the smell of rank tennis socks and stale chips because you didn’t want to be home, you really, really didn’t want to be home—

  I blink a few times. Roll onto my back. The room is dark.

  “Lilly?”

  I rub the heels of my palms into my eyes. Kick off my shoes and pad to the bathroom. “Lilly, what time is it?” The bathroom is solid marble. One side of the sink has been taken over by a jumble of bottles and candy-colored makeup tubes. There’s the decanter of brandy Lilly was talking about. It’s mostly full and Lilly is definitely not here.

  I take a
quick, scalding shower and poke my head into the bedroom. Lilly’s backpack looks like it ate an entire wardrobe of jean jackets and tie-dye and feathers and then threw up, which is a pretty understandable reaction. My luggage still isn’t here. I thought Dorf said someone was going to bring it up.

  I look out the window. The light is completely gone now. I scramble out of the bathroom, wrapping up in the lone towel as I run for my phone. Hit the screen. Crap. It’s 5:25.

  I tear back into the bathroom, drag on the same clothes I flew here in. Skinny jeans, chunky-knit gray sweater with a kangaroo pocket, the brogues. Hope dinner isn’t a formal affair. Open the hall door. And almost knee Lilly in the face.

  She’s sitting right outside, cross-legged on the floor. Jules and Hayden are with her. They were talking, but they all stop as soon as I step out and stare up at me with too-round eyes.

  “Hey,” Hayden says after a second. Grins his stupid 1940s movie-star grin.

  I step around them and head for the stairs. “Hey, Blue Eyes,” I say, in a way that I hope also communicates I hate you.

  I don’t know why I’m angry. Big surprise that they didn’t wake me up for their discussion round. What was I expecting after the last twenty-four hours?

  I pass Will as he’s leaving the boys’ room. I start down the stairs. I wonder what they were talking about. Probably me. Something along the lines of Anouk is going to be such a pain, and maybe we should just burn her at the stake right now.

  The hall is empty, the columns forming shadow triangles across the checkerboard floor. I drop into a chair in front of the massive, cold fireplace and lean over the armrest. Rifle through a basket of magazines and newspapers. Will isn’t exactly bursting with friendliness, either, but I bet no one was talking about that.

  Lilly comes down a minute later and sits next to me. Glances over surreptitiously like she’s trying to think of something to say.

  I pick up three newspapers and spread them over my lap. They’re all from today, unwrinkled and unread. The headlines are about car accidents, bombings, a head of state looking constipated about something. I start drafting better headlines in my mind, proper daydream-y screamers: