bundle of cloth into them. “Do accept our apologies for barging in, but the rain has quite ruined our trip to the Madeleine and I told the Miss Mortimers that we could just pop over to bring your shawl, and that you had invited us to tea anyway and would not mind in the slightest.” She looked over her shoulder. “See, girls, Miss Tulman doesn’t mind in the slightest!”
I managed a small smile as the two nieces of Mrs. Reynolds came sideways through the door, so as not to crush the dampened frills on their enormous skirts. They gave a small, tandem curtsy, expressions saying clearly that they were the ones who minded this visit if I did not. I wondered if Mrs. Reynolds had mentioned finding me creeping about their bedchamber. And then I saw dark, slicked hair and an impudent smile beneath a thin mustache.
“And of course you remember Mr. Marchand,” said Mrs. Hardcastle.
“Of course,” I mumbled. This one had watched me throw rocks at my own windows. His smile widened at my confusion. My gaze leapt past him to the window and the empty lamppost beyond it, my mind on Mrs. DuPont, the unexpected assemblage in my salon, and the sixty-six stairs that lay between all of this and disaster. Then I realized that we were standing about, and that we were standing about because of me.
“Won’t you sit down?” I said quickly. I discovered my shawl in my hands and tossed it to a table before finding the edge of a brocaded chair, one that afforded a good view of both the street and the stairs, while the others found places to be comfortable. The Miss Mortimers squished their skirts together on the settee to make room for Mr. Marchand, but he selected the chair beside mine instead. Dark whispering commenced behind gloved hands, and I was careful not to look in his direction. I remembered my promise to Mr. Babcock and attempted a pleasant expression.
“Mrs. DuPont will bring us tea,” I ventured, “and some …” I did not finish. I had no idea what else she might bring.
“Well,” said Mrs. Hardcastle heartily, peering through the pince-nez, “you were perfectly correct, Miss Tulman. This is a lovely room. Quite a lovely room after all.”
Generous, I thought, considering I’d practically dragged her in by the heels to look at the dust sheets. But I only smiled and said, “Thank you,” while Mr. Marchand sat quiet, playing with a coin in one hand.
“And where is Mr. Babcock today?” she asked.
“Oh!” said the first Miss Mortimer, the one with the bouncing blonde front curls. “Are we acquainted with Mr. Babcock? I believe Aunt Reynolds knows a family by the name of Babcock in Surrey.” Her round cheeks glowed with interest.
“Mr. Babcock is my solicitor,” I replied. “He traveled with me to Paris.”
Both the Miss Mortimers’ mouths formed silent Os as they exchanged one darting, and yet significant glance. How interesting, I reflected, to watch the seeds of a rumor germinate; I could almost see the story sprouting in their fertile minds right before my eyes. All at once I was quite looking forward to introducing these young ladies to Mr. Babcock. I hoped he would be wearing his flowered waistcoat.
“… quite well, Miss Tulman?” My gaze jerked to the second Miss Mortimer, with the brown frizz sticking out from beneath her blue bonnet. She was frowning at me.
“I am so sorry. What did you say?”
“I was inquiring after your health, Miss Tulman,” she said stiffly. “Aunt Reynolds said you weren’t feeling quite yourself last night.”
Mr. Marchand examined the coin as it flipped across the back of his fingers. “What the young lady wishes to ask and will not, Miss Tulman,” he said, voice slow and lazy, “is what in the name of the Holy Mother you have done to your face?”
I blushed — I could not help it — and only just kept my hand from creeping up to my bruised cheek. Mrs. Hardcastle laughed. “Oh, really, Henri,” she cried. “You are too much, truly!”
I arranged my face and sat a little straighter in my chair. “It’s nothing. I am not yet acquainted with the house, and I’m afraid I just … walked into a door. In the dark. That’s all.”
Mrs. Hardcastle clucked and had begun relating one of her own misadventures when Mr. Marchand leaned close and said, “And I had thought your aim in the dark better than that, Miss Tulman. It seemed so last night. Tell me, is that cut on your neck also from a door?”
A shadow moved across the entrance to the salon. “Ah,” I said. “The tea is here.”
The ladies stared, dumbstruck as Mrs. DuPont came with her severe hair and silent tread to set a tray with teapot, cups, sugar, cream, and a plate of wafer-thin biscuits that I was unfamiliar with on the table between us. She slid out the door like the living dead and I began to pour, counting sugar lumps and stirring with spoons, using the opportunity to think. How likely was Mrs. DuPont to keep her mouth closed, and what exactly did she know? How soon would my uncle wake, and what would happen if I was detained when he did? Would he try to leave the attic? I decided to take control of the conversation. Perhaps if I made myself sufficiently obnoxious they would all go away on their own. I set down my spoon.
“Miss Mortimer.” Both the blonde curls and the brown frizz looked around. They had been craning their necks, stealing glances into the foyer. Hoping for a glimpse of Mr. Babcock, I surmised. I said, “The Madeleine is a very fine building, I hear. Perhaps your aunt could recommend a course of study on Parisian architecture during your stay. I’m sure you would find it improving.”
I was pleased by an expression of disgust from one and a look of dismay from the other. “Aunt Reynolds doesn’t care a fig for fine buildings,” the blonde curls sniffed. “She has been very cross and out of sorts of late. I’m sure you must have noticed it at dinner. It makes one wish to visit the seaside or go somewhere else pleasant.”
“Like the emperor’s ball,” sighed the brown frizz.
Mr. Marchand had set down his cup and was playing with his franc again, letting it travel from finger to finger in a way that was rather astonishing. I deliberately kept my gaze away from him as I turned the conversation where it was least wanted. “Is Mrs. Reynolds politically minded, then? I had thought she was perhaps disturbed last night by the dissenting opinions on the war.”
The blonde Miss Mortimer almost snorted while her cousin gaped. Mrs. Hardcastle chuckled.
“Miss Tulman, my dear cousin Reynolds has likely never thought of politics in her life,” she said. “I fear that she is rather undone by the loss of her protege.”
“Ah, the protege!” said Mr. Marchand, snatching the coin from a flip through the air. “I hear of nothing else.”
I looked at them all blankly. “I’m afraid I don’t understand the term.”
“Why, Miss Tulman, having a protege is quite the thing!” said the brown-frizzed Miss Mortimer.
“It shows your dedication to culture and the arts,” explained Mrs. Hardcastle. “My cousin was supporting a painter. …”
“Jean-Michel!” sighed one of the young ladies.
“Yes, Jean-Michel, whom she thought to be quite promising. He lived in a small studio upstairs, where he was developing his talent. But nearly two weeks ago, well … he just disappeared, I’m sorry to say. Left the house one morning and never returned.”
I thought of the room in the upper floor with the covered easels, my eyes darting reflexively toward the window, and when I did I nearly choked on my tea. The slouching man was back at his lamppost, a dripping newspaper held over his head, watching my house in the rain. I cleared my throat and said, “Have the police been consulted, Mrs. Hardcastle?”
“That part was rather thrilling,” confided the brown frizz.
“Don’t be horrible, Jane,” replied the other. “I can hardly think of something terrible happening to Jean- Michel. Such clever fingers when he painted …”
“You perceive my annoyance,” said Mr. Marchand, once again leaning close to my chair. I did not respond, hoping he would perceive mine. I glanced again at the man outside the window. Mr. Marchand began switching the franc from hand to hand so quickly it was difficult to follow with the eyes.
“Paris,” he pronounced, the coin moving back and forth, “is a city full of people.” The coin moved in a blur. “And where there are the people, then … poof!” He spread his hands with a sudden flourish, showing only empty palms. “Things, they disappear. It is the way of the world, is it not?”
Mrs. Hardcastle and the Miss Mortimers set down their cups and clapped, but not with so much amazement as to make me think they had never seen Mr. Marchand’s tricks before. He turned to me and said, “The protege is
