As my bathtub fills with hot water, I fold my arms across my chest, hugging myself as I wander the circumference of the bedroom Vincent has appointed for me. I peer at the collection of precious objects and admire the paintings until I start seeing a pattern.
A painting of the Pont des Arts. A tiny red wooden rowboat set on a bookshelf next to a crystal Eiffel Tower. A pair of antique opera glasses. A vintage postcard from Villefranche-sur-Mer. A matchbook from the restaurant where we ate brunch in New York.
I near a small cubist painting hanging near the window, about the size of a hardcover book. I lean in to admire the tiny refracted scene of a glass sitting on a café table, and when I see the signature, I inhale so sharply that it sends me into a coughing fit: Vincent hung a Picasso in my bedroom.
And then I reach the antique footed bathtub and notice for the first time that there is an enormous vase stuffed with branches of white flowers standing on the floor beside it. And my brain suddenly registers the delicious perfume I’ve been smelling ever since I walked into the room: It is lilac.
FORTY-TWO
“I HEAR WHAT YOU’RE SAYING, BUT I DON’T agree,” Charlotte says.
Vincent cuts in. “According to our sources, dozens of numa have arrived in Paris over the last twenty-four hours. We have no idea where they’re assembling. Our raids on Jean-Baptiste’s rental properties two days ago succeeded in taking out eight numa. But that small victory cost us, since they immediately evacuated his other apartments. Now we have no idea where to find them. So if anyone has a productive suggestion”—he eyes Charlotte, who holds her hands up in surrender—“please feel free to voice it.”
I can’t focus. I have been feeling progressively stronger as the hours pass, and the last thing my body wants to do right now is sit through a long meeting. I’m actually kind of craving a jog around the neighborhood. Which is pretty strange for me.
My eyes stray to the library’s window while Vincent and the others pore over a map of Paris spread across a table. I can’t help strategize anyway. I don’t know anything about Paris’s numa or where they’ve been spotted. After trying to be interested for a half hour, my brain gives up and I let my thoughts wander.
I notice Ambrose sitting to one side, obviously as distracted as me. But his gaze isn’t out the window. Geneviève sits just across the table from us, as alluring as the day I first saw her with Vincent in La Palette: long platinum blond hair, eyes so light they are almost gray.
I look back at Ambrose and follow his line of sight back to the object of his attention: not Geneviève but Charlotte, with her long wheat-blond hair and rosebud cheeks. She bites her lip as she draws a line on the map from one mark to another. And I see him flinch as she glances up at him and then, with equal attention, at each person around the table as she explains the strategy.
I walk over to sit next to him. “You look kind of distracted, Ambrose,” I whisper.
“Yeah, well, I’m not much into planning. I’m mainly here for the muscle,” he responds, managing to rip his gaze away from Charlotte. He flexes a bicep and winks. “They just use me for my body.”
I laugh and want to hug him, but control myself. “So, it’s nice having Geneviève and Charlotte back, isn’t it?”
Ambrose’s eyes shoot back to Charlotte and he nods. “She’s changed, hasn’t she? Charlotte, I mean.”
“Um, besides growing her hair long she doesn’t seem to have changed much to me,” I say, trying not to smile. “Why?”
“It’s just that she seems so . . . in charge. I mean, she’s always had her act together, but ever since she’s been back she’s seemed more confident or something. And now that she’s Vincent’s second . . . I guess I’ve always thought of her as a little sister. You know, the huggable kind you want to take care of. But now that I see her working with him and taking control . . . I mean . . . the girl is fierce.”
Ambrose’s face shines with respect and a sort of curious awe, and I have to restrain myself from jumping up and cheering for the fact that it has finally happened. He has finally noticed what was right under his nose. The question is—does she still feel the same for him?
I lean my head on his shoulder and gaze around the room, feeling a deep sense of joy in knowing my fate is irrevocably tied to these people I love. Once again my attention is caught by a light outside the window. “So is there some kind of neighborhood party or French festival going on?” I ask Ambrose.
His brow creases. “No,” he says. “Not that I can think of. Why?”
“It’s just those red lights that I keep seeing. Like that one right there.” I gesture toward the window.
“I don’t see any lights,” he says, squinting out the glass.
“See, there it is again. There are two.”
He looks skeptical. “Uh, nope.”
“Oh, come on, Ambrose. It’s like two red lasers pointing straight up into the sky, just at the end of the block. Don’t tell me you can’t see them.”