“You are my friend. I don’t want anything from you.”
“Are you blind?” She shook her head and I saw tears in her eyes. She grabbed at her chin-length curls before taking my face in her hands and kissing me hard on the lips. When she pulled away, she had tears flowing down her face. “I am in love with you, Cecile. Do you not see that? He is wrong for you.”
I was so taken aback by her words—and her kiss—that I felt faint. “Since when have you been in love with me, Sylvie?”
She dismissed me with a wave of her hand and began to walk ahead. “It has been for several months now. I was as surprised by it as you. I’ve been sick just watching you fawn all over him these last few months, especially after what he did to you.”
“Several months?” I stopped dead. “Since the painting?”
She considered this and shrugged, her blond curls bouncing as she moved. “I guess so.”
“Think.” I pointed my finger at her. “When?”
She looked down at the ground. “I suppose it was then. I remember noticing things about you—things that I had seen for years, but they became pronounced. Every time you walked in the room to check on the painting, I found myself holding my breath. At first, I thought it was crazy; we’ve been friends since we were girls. But as you helped him sketch my face on the canvas…” She paused and looked out at the street. “I don’t know; something in me stirred.”
I’d known that Sylvie had a brief dalliance with a socialite she’d met at the Ritz. We’d stopped going there when the woman’s husband relocated to Paris, although the woman had very much wanted to continue to see Sylvie. At that moment, I became aware of everything. The cars going down Boulevard du Montparnasse, the clink of glasses, the smell of men’s sweat as they passed by too close, and Sylvie, the outline of her dress against the sun and the freckles that formed on her full checks as she stood outside. She had the most perfect heart-shaped face, like a cupid’s. Then I recalled that I had signed Sylvie’s painting with the EG. Father’s curse had the subject falling in love with the painter. As far as the enchantment was concerned, the painting was attributed to me.
I closed my eyes. “It isn’t real, Sylvie. It was a curse that Father placed on the paintings.”
Her beautiful face twisted and her gray eyes went wide. “How dare you, Cecile,” she said. “What a horrible thing to say to me. Are you the only one who can feel things?”
Instantly I regretted the callousness of my remark, but it didn’t make it any less true. The enchantment that Father had cast had the subject falling in love with “the painter.” He hadn’t been more specific.
As we ascended the stairs, we met the landlady coming down, her face grave. “I did not know where to find you,” she said. “The doctor is with him now.”
I ran up the stairs to his room. It was dark and the smell—a putrid mixture of sweat and vomit—filled my nostrils. The doctor was opening the two windows, but the stifling summer air didn’t help.
“He says the breeze is too cold for him.” I looked over to see the outlines of Émile’s body. He appeared tiny even though he was covered in thick blankets.
“What is wrong with him?”
The doctor shook his head. “Frankly, I don’t know. It seems like malaria with the sweats, but it is as though he is bleeding somewhere. Yet I can’t find the source of it. He is getting weaker. It could be his kidneys.” The man picked up his bag. “There is nothing I can do. You should see him now. Stay with him and give him comfort, if you can.”
I felt Sylvie’s hand on my back. “I’m so sorry, Cecile.”
I could hardly breathe. “Can you go back and tell Father?”
There was a long silence. Sylvie understood what I meant by this request. I wanted a favor from Father. “Are you sure?” Even with his children, Father didn’t dole out favors freely. Something valuable would need to be claimed in return.
When I didn’t answer, she turned and left the room. She shut the door quietly so as not to disturb him.
I walked toward Émile’s bed. He was sleeping. As I sat down next to him, he began to heave and shake. His face was the color of stone. “I am here, my love.” I stroked his cheek. It had at least a week’s stubble.
He looked up at me, but I wasn’t sure he recognized me—his expression remained blank. I could see him ebbing.
Father arrived within the hour. Well, arrived is an odd choice of words, because he didn’t need to use a door. He just appeared in the room.
“He is dying.” I felt his presence; I didn’t even have to look up.
“It is your sister’s doing.” His voice was grave. “For that, I am sorry.”
Sadly, I knew what his response meant. He wouldn’t undo her spell. Even when we were younger, he wouldn’t reverse our magic against each other, forcing us to come to peace. “Please.” I turned to face him. “This is all your fault. That curse you put on the paintings. You have Sylvie in love with me and Esmé in love with him.” As the words left my mouth, I knew this was the wrong approach with Father. His face changed in front of me to his true form. Had I not been pregnant, I know I would have spent three days in the White Forest.
“I will not cross your sister’s curse.” His voice rumbled, then echoed in the quiet room like a storm.
“Can I reverse it?”
Father looked over at Émile’s form in the bed. “He’s too far gone and your sister is too powerful.” He crossed the room and
