A Darkness Strange and Lovely

words. Or maybe I was simply desperate to get him away from the hotel before Jie told him the truth. But whatever the reason, the outcome was the same. “Daniel!”

He stopped and looked back.

“I . . . I don’t actually know the way.” I took a step toward him. “So an escort—and bodyguard—

would be welcome.”

And with those words, Daniel’s lips cracked wide in a breathtaking smile.

My heart jolted, and a thousand emotions—emotions I didn’t understand, didn’t want to understand—exploded in my chest. But biggest of all was a hollow ache that seemed to start in my heart and radiate outward.

I jerked around before he could see the horror no doubt lining my face, and as I scurried for the entrance, all I could think was, Why did I just agree to let him join me?

And why, why, why did he have to go and smile?

Chapter Fourteen

Much to my chagrin, Daniel insisted on being a proper escort. Not only did we walk at a painfully slow, ladylike pace, but I was forced to rest my left forearm as lightly as possible in the crook of his elbow.

It was an excruciating walk across the street to the Tuileries, and if he had still been toting that dratted book on etiquette, I’d have commanded that he burn the thing. Thank goodness he had dropped it off with a footman on his way from the hotel. As we trailed the sidewalk beside the gardens, I inhaled deeply. The air tasted crisp—like new beginnings—in the way only an autumn afternoon can.

“Nice day,” Daniel mumbled, guiding me east toward the burned-out palace.

I nodded. It was more than just a nice day. It was a stunning one. I wanted to skip and shout and kick at pebbles and pretend that this moment was nothing more than a September afternoon ripe with opportunity. Pretend there weren’t monsters hiding in the shadows. That there weren’t demons, or binding agreements, or hateful mothers, or best friends I had betrayed . . .

Or Daniel Sheridan holding my arm.

Gritting my teeth, I rammed it all from my mind. I refused to let my roiling emotions for him confuse me right then. Focus on Paris, I ordered myself, turning my face toward the gardens. The river’s breeze caressed my cheeks, cooling the sun’s heat, and though the chestnut trees beyond the fence whispered at me, their rusted-red leaves were too distant to offer any relief from the sun.

“Should I . . . buy you a parasol?” Daniel’s voice shattered my calm.

I huffed out a breath. “Well, seeing as you have already given me one parasol I do not carry, a second would be a total waste, don’t you . . .” I trailed off. His lips were crammed so tightly together, they had turned white. I had hurt him.

I gave a second, even heavier exhale. As much as Daniel had upset me, he wasn’t the one I was angry with. Nor was he the one who was angry with me. So as we ambled past the charred palace, I said as cheerfully as possible, “I like your monocle.”

Daniel blinked, and the monocle popped from his eye. Then, flushing as purple as a turnip, he shoved it back in place. “Thanks.” His voice was gruff. “It was a gift. From Madame Marineaux.”

“Oh!” I perked up. “She has wonderful taste, no?”

“Er . . . I suppose,” he murmured, and we descended back into silence. Soon we were beyond the charred palace and to the Musee du Louvre. It was as the ruined Tuileries Palace would look if it were intact: all elaborate carvings, elegant archways, and lifelike statues beside each window.

I turned to Daniel. “Have you been inside the museum? To see the art?”

“No.” Regret dragged at the word. “We . . . we haven’t had much time for sightseeing. But”—he nodded emphatically, as if promising himself—“I will go in one day. See the art and the architecture that makes Paris, well . . . Paris.”

I gawked at him. There was such passion in his voice—even with his affected manner of speech.

His cheeks flushed, and he glanced down at me. “Sorry. I ain’t . . . I haven’t gotten to see much of the city. Yet.”

“Right. Because you were in Germany?”

He nodded, his eyes brightening. As we crossed into the clamorous Rue de Rivoli and left the

Louvre behind, he said—shouting to be heard over the traffic—“I worked with a general there. Von

Zeppelin. He’s the one who invented that airship.” We reached the opposite sidewalk, and Daniel added in a normal volume, “Von Zeppelin’s a genius, and it was a brilliant idea of the Marquis’s to send me east.”

His brows knit suddenly, and he looked at me. “But here I am talkin’ . . . talking about myself. I should be asking about you. About your mother and Philadelphia.”

With that simple subject change, it felt as if all the white-faced buildings on the street suddenly closed in on me. Their gray roofs blocked out the sun. The rattle and clop of traffic filled every space of my hearing—a drone of meaningless noise to play beneath the single thought running through my brain.

My daughter is now dead to me.

Somehow a response formed in my mouth. “Mama is not well.”

Daniel stopped before an enormous, buzzing intersection and tugged me in front of him. The noise was almost deafening, and it was only the movement of his lips that told me what he said: “Still?”

I looked down and did not answer.

He hunched forward until his mouth was close to my ear. “Do you wish to speak of it?”

I started, suddenly realizing how close he stood. I had managed to avoid all thought of Mama for this long, to avoid all those black memories.

I refused to fall into that pit now.

I grabbed Daniel’s arm, saying loudly, “Let’s resume our walk.”

Daniel frowned but did not argue. He guided me around the carriages and pedestrians until we finally squeezed through the other side of the intersection and into a narrow street. More beige buildings and gray roofs peered down at us. A baker here, a butcher there, and many small hotels.

Eventually we reached a grassy square surrounded by great, old chestnuts. A giant fountain of four bronze women pouring water rippled and churned with fallen red leaves.

“Library’s just there,” Daniel said, pointing to a white stone building across the street. Other than the ornate details around the windows and the letters over the door declaring Biblioteque Nationale, it looked like the rest of Paris.

“Why are all the buildings this same beige stone?” I grumbled. “How does anyone know what building is what?”

“You sound annoyed.” Daniel grinned. “They’re all that same beige limestone because that’s what’s most available. Directly under the city.” He stomped his foot. “There are quarries beneath all of Paris. And it’s all built in the same style because it was all conjured up at the same time and led by one man. Georges Haussmann. He wanted to make Paris cleaner and more manageable.”

I held my breath. The passion was back in his voice. He had been talking like the old Daniel. The real Daniel, and oh, how I wanted him to stay . . .

“So if we wanna get in the library,” he continued, “we have to go ’round the other—” His words broke off, and he cleared his throat. “That is to say, the entrance is on the other side.”

My stomach sank.

“There . . . is a large reading area that is separated from all the books,” he added. “A capital place for studying.”

Capital. I winced. Where had he even picked up that word? Well, I refused to give up hope yet.

Perhaps if I could get him to talk more about architecture or his inventions, he would go back to himself. “What sort of research are you doing, Mr. Sheridan?”