A Darkness Strange and Lovely

thing in common: they were murdered first . . . and their ears and eyes were cut off.”

I shrank back, my stomach coiling. “That’s what you meant by ‘sacrificed’?”

“Yeah, and it’s not nice. They keep showing up reanimated. Or they were. We haven’t seen any in almost three weeks. But listen, Joseph can explain it better. He has some theories, and he can tell you about ’em once he’s back from”—she twirled one hand in the air—“living the tiring but very glamorous life.”

“You sound as if you don’t like the glamorous life.” I pointed at the nearest window. “But a view of Paris? Free clothes and trips to Germany? What is there to dislike?”

“A lot.” She rolled her eyes. “You should see how the women fall over Joseph and Daniel; it’s . . .”

She clamped her mouth shut.

“It’s what?”

“Nothin’.” She rolled onto her back and watched me through half-lowered lids.

“What is that look for?” I demanded.

“This is my I-know-how-you-feel-about-Daniel face.”

“Excuse me?” I hitched up my skirts and stalked to the bed. “How do I feel about him?”

She tipped her head to the side. “You two are like . . . I dunno, like something that’s completely in love but won’t admit it.”

“What? That’s utterly absurd.” I dropped onto the chaise at the foot of the bed.

She crossed her arms. “You seem awful defensive.”

“Honestly.” I moaned. “Why does everyone seem to think this about me? I am not in love with

Daniel Sheridan.”

“Who else thinks it?”

“Oh, um—” I paused, not wanting to mention Oliver. “My maid.” I glanced to the right. “But I’m not. In love, I mean.”

She swung her legs around and leaned back onto the pillows. “Isn’t there some line about protesting the truth too much?”

“The lady doth protest too much, methinks.” I sighed dejectedly. “It’s from Hamlet, and you’re probably right. But listen, I thought . . . well, I thought there was something between us. But when I asked him how he felt, he told me very plainly that he was not in love with me.”

Jie winced.

“Surprise.” I wiggled my fingers halfheartedly in the air. “Now can you please drop these silly notions.”

“But have you considered that maybe it’s a complicated situation because of—”

“Enough,” I cut in. “Please. I do not want to discuss Daniel a moment longer. Please finish what you were saying before. About all the women.”

She nodded slowly and clasped her hands behind her head. “Well . . . the ladies are in love with

Joseph and Daniel, and it’s sickening.” She watched me, clearly waiting for my reaction.

“Don’t worry, Jie.” I gave a tight laugh. “The women can have them both. I have other things to worry about. Les Morts. Marcus.”

“Marcus?” She sat up. “You mentioned him in your telegram, but I didn’t understand.”

“Um . . .” I gulped, searching my brain for any topic that wasn’t Marcus. I only needed a few minutes to get a solid story in order. A story that carefully avoided any mention of Oliver. I cleared my throat. “Can we possibly order dinner first?”

“Right!” She scooted off the bed. “I promised you a baguette. I’ll get you some food, and then you can tell me what’s going on. And then”—she waved to my enormous yawn—“I’d say it’s time for bed.”

I patted my mouth until the yawn passed. “That sounds absolutely perfect.”

She grinned, her eyes crinkling. “I’m glad you’re here, Eleanor.”

I grinned back. “And I’m glad to be here.”

Chapter Ten

The next morning, Jie woke me with her usual finesse.

“Up!” She jabbed my ribs. “The sun has been high for hours, yeah?”

I cracked open an eyelid. “How do you have so much energy?”

“’Cos it’s the middle of the day!” She pushed her face in mine. “Joseph and I have already fought one Dead—”

I bolted upright, almost hitting her chin. “The Dead? Les Morts have returned?” I glanced out the window; the sun was not high. “What time is it?”

“Eight.” Jie snickered at my stricken face. “Early for you, but les Morts wait for no one.”

Jie assisted me with dressing, and as she buttoned my gown, I couldn’t help but wonder where

Oliver might be—though I supposed he had managed this long by himself. One night alone in Paris wouldn’t kill him.

Once Jie and I had pinned up my hair, we marched into the lab. A tall man with skin the color of hazelnuts stood over the middle worktable. He looked as handsome as always—no hair out of place, no wrinkle in sight.

“Joseph!” I leaped toward him.

He spun around, his face splitting with the biggest grin I’d ever seen the Creole wear. “Miss Fitt.”

He swooped into a bow.

“Now, now,” I scolded, “call me Eleanor.”

He lifted, his eyes twinkling. “It is so wonderful to see you, Eleanor. The last time I saw you, you saved my life.” His hand moved to his left cheek, where jagged white scars puckered—scars that could only be the remnants of Marcus’s attack. “I must say you look as lovely as ever.”

Heat flooded my face. “Joseph, I had no idea you could be so charming.”

He spread his hands, laughing. “It is this Paris air. La joie de vivre.” He hooked his foot around a stool and slid it out. “Sit. Talk!”

My stomach twisted hollowly. “As long as I can still eat after . . .”

Jie snorted. “Breakfast’ll still be there.”

I gave her a playful glower, but as I moved to sit, the view outside caught my eye. “Paris!” I darted to the window, my mouth falling open. “Look, it’s Paris! In the sunlight! And oh, it does look exactly like the prints.”

Joseph chuckled and joined me at the window. “We have a lovely view, non? Here”—he unlatched the window and pushed it wide—“lean out and take a look.”

I bent halfway out and gawked at all that lay before me. Directly below was a cobblestone street packed with carriages and carts and people—so many people. Smells of horse and sweat wafted up; and for a moment, like last night, I was briefly struck by how similar it was to a Philadelphia street except . . .

I strained to push myself farther out, to hear the rolling rhythm of the language. It floated over the clopping horses and rattling wheels, and that wasn’t like Philadelphia.

Nor was that breeze whipping over the city and tugging me out. Come, it seemed to say. Come see the city.

Jie stepped beside me. “Those are the gardens I told you about.” She pointed to an iron fence across the street. Beyond its bars were red-tipped maples and chestnuts swaying in that playful wind.

“If you look that way,” she went on, directing me to look left, “you can see all the flowers and hedges, yeah?”

I followed her finger until my eyes met manicured bushes and perfectly organized rows of flowers.