A Darkness Strange and Lovely

haven’t even thanked you for this dress yet. It is so nice to have something new to wear.”

Her lips quirked up happily. “I fear the brown is not the prettiest of colors, but I promise”—she tilted almost conspiratorially toward me—“you will have something far more magnificent for the ball.”

“Th-thank you.” I fidgeted with my gloves. “I don’t know how I can ever repay you.”

“By telling me stories.” She clapped her hands. “I love hearing about other parts of the world. Tell me about Philadelphia—oh, or, I know, tell me how you met the Spirit-Hunters.”

“Oh, um . . .” My forehead puckered. I didn’t want to tell her how I had met the Spirit-Hunters, for that would mean telling her about their criminal status back in Philadelphia—about my own unsavory status. Instead, I opted to change the subject. “It amazes me how popular they are here.”

She nodded. “They are the city’s favorites—though how much longer that will last, I do not know.”

I blinked. “What do you mean?”

“Only that it is . . . difficult to keep the city entertained. As odd as it may sound, the less they work and the more parties they attend, the higher their favor.”

“That is odd.” I tugged at my ear. “Would the people not want them to stop les Morts?”

“Of course! But they also want to see the Spirit-Hunters out and about, living a glamorous life.

And you cannot forget that everyone loves the macabre. The newspapers benefit by having stories to tell, the Marquis benefits by protecting the city, and the Spirit-Hunters benefit by being showered with love.” She laid her hands in her lap, grinning slightly. “Do not frown like that, Mademoiselle. It is merely something to consider.”

Right then, a maid—not the hysterical woman from earlier—bustled into the parlor with a tray of champagne. The crystal flutes rattled, and the woman’s face was pinched, clearly indicating that she was not fully recovered from the afternoon’s drama.

Just as she finished pouring the sweet drink and handed one to me, Madame Marineaux exclaimed, “Non, non! Look what you have done!” She glowered at the maid. “You have dirtied her glass with your finger! Please, take my drink, Mademoiselle.” She extended her flute toward me, her face lined with annoyance. “And accept my apology for this foolish maid.”

“That’s all right.” I smiled reassuringly at the maid. “I do not mind.”

“No,” the Madame insisted. “I cannot have you drinking out of a tarnished glass. Think what people will say of me!” She pushed her glass at me once more, so I accepted it—and was instantly rewarded with one of her beautiful smiles. Then, after donning another, quick scowl, Madame

Marineaux sent her maid away and waited for me to drink.

I sipped it—the added syrup was far too sweet for my taste—but since the Madame was clearly waiting for a reaction of approval, I forced myself to tip back the whole thing.

When I was done, she picked up our earlier conversation. “So you see, Mademoiselle, as long as les Morts continue, the Spirit- Hunters will remain popular. It is quite the . . . conundrum.”

I nodded, although I suddenly found it quite difficult to focus—and I was too warm and relaxed even to mind. It would seem the alcohol had gone straight to my head.

And, hours later, when I returned to the Hotel Le Meurice, I found that not only could I not recall a single word from the evening, but I had completely forgotten to bring the butler’s corpse with me.

Or to find Joseph.

But most worrying of all, I realized none of this until the next day.

I awoke exhausted, throbbing with hunger and so befuddled, I questioned my own sanity. How can one forget an entire evening and night?

Unless it’s the necromancy.

I heaved the absurd thought aside and replaced it with visions of a hot bath and copious amounts of fresh bread. In all likelihood, I had imbibed too much champagne. I could deal with my necromancy later. Deal with the Dead and Oliver and everything else in the world later.

But of course, none of my plans came to fruition. Just as I heaved up my foot for the final step through the restaurant doorway, someone shouted my name.

“Mademoiselle Fitt! Eleanor!”

With a monumental amount of effort, I turned myself back around. And instantly beamed, for it was none other than Laure Primeau.

She bustled toward me, her face split with a grin and her dark sapphire dress cinched tightly around her waist. How she got her corset so small, I couldn’t imagine, but she certainly made it look effortless. And she certainly wore that magnificent color effortlessly as well.

“What are you doing here?” I strode toward her, my hands outstretched to clasp hers. “I thought you were bound for Marseille.”

“And I decided to take a detour. I ’ave friends in Paris whom I ’ave been meaning to see. I thought

I would come visit you on the way.” Her lips quirked up. “Especially when I heard you are companions with the famous Spirit-Hunters. C’est vrai?”

“Yes. It’s true.”

Her eyes crinkled—partly with pleasure, but mostly with mischief. “I suppose that explains how you got a new hand, non?”

I yanked my hand back, heat bursting on my face. “Yes. That’s . . . that’s it.”

“Oh, I did not intend to make you uncomfortable.” She hooked her arm in mine and gave me a wide—and very genuine—smile. “I ’ave hunger and would very much like a treat in the ’otel’s famous restaurant.”

I laughed. “You had me at the word ‘hunger.’ Come—it is my treat this time.”

We were halfway through our second round of pastries (though how the devil she fit three chocolate croissants and all that coffee inside her corset, I haven’t the faintest idea), when a flurry of noise began outside. People trickled past, one by one . . . until there were suddenly many people—all of them rushing and all of them headed for the street. A quick glance out the window showed people pushing onto the Rue de Rivoli. Traffic was almost at a halt.

But most curious of all was that every person’s face was lifted up.

Laure dabbed at her mouth with a napkin. “What do you suppose it is?” She did not wait for an answer before waving over the nearest server. After a quick conversation in French, her eyebrows jumped high, and she twisted back to me. “He says it is a giant balloon over the city.”

Now my eyebrows jumped high. Then, without another word, we both bounded to our feet and scrambled for the door. “A giant balloon?” I repeated as we hurried through the crowded front hall.

“Are you sure you understood right?”

“Oui!” She began with a glare, but she didn’t finish speaking, for now we had left the hotel and had a full view of the sky.

And both our jaws were sagging.

Floating over the city, exactly as the server had described, was an enormous white balloon. It was like the war balloons from the Civil War but much, much larger. And shaped like an egg.

No wonder the whole city was outside! The balloon floated closer and closer, faster than any bird or carriage, and as I ogled with the rest of Paris, all my earlier concerns dropped away. I wanted to see this balloon up close, wanted to see what sort of machine could navigate the skies.

“Come,” Laure urged. “Everyone is going into the gardens.” I let her drag me along and we wound our way around stopped carriages, huffing horses, and wide-eyed spectators until we reached the fence surrounding the Tuileries.

“Mon Dieu!” she cried. “Look! It is landing!” She tugged me toward the gardens’ entrance. We darted and wove and twisted until we were both coated in sweat, yet no one seemed to mind our unladylike comportment—not even when Laure started stabbing people with her parasol