He smiled his blinding white smile. “I try, Katie-Lou.”
Back at La Maison, a group of revenants were assembled for an informational meeting on numas with Violette, and as we arrived everyone gathered around to hear the details about the dramatic rescue. What with the mass inquisition and the large buffet lunch that Jeanne had laid out, it wasn’t until late afternoon that Vincent and I finally got a moment of peace.
We were settled in his room, sprawled on the couch in front of a crackling fire. Vincent’s eyes were closed, and he seemed to be dozing off.
I didn’t want to disturb him, but something had been bothering me ever since the accident that morning. “I know you’re tired, but can we talk?” I asked, brushing his hair off his face with my fingers.
Vincent opened one eye and looked at me warily. “Should I be scared?” he asked, only half joking.
“No,” I began, “it’s just about this morning . . .”
I was interrupted by a polite tapping at the door. Vincent rolled his eyes and roared, “What is it now?”
The door opened, and Arthur leaned in. “My excuses. Violette had just one more question about the beheading of Lucien . . . ,” he began.
“I have already told Violette every single detail of every numa encounter I have ever had,” Vincent said with a groan. “I need one hour alone with Kate. Just one hour, and then I will join you and tell her everything I know. Again. Please, Arthur.”
Arthur nodded, frowning, and closed the door behind him. Vincent looked back at me, began to speak, and then shook his head and stood up. “In five minutes someone else will be back here, bugging us again. Let’s go somewhere else. Put on your coat.”
“Are you feeling strong enough to go out?” I asked as he threw on his coat and scooped some blankets out of a cupboard.
“We’re not going out. We’re going up.” Taking my hand, he led me to the second floor, and then up another, smaller staircase at the far end of the hallway.
“What is this?” I gasped as we stepped through a trapdoor and onto the roof. Vincent lowered the door panel into its place in the floor and flicked a switch near the ground. White Christmas lights snapped on, illuminating a roof patio arranged with outdoor furniture: tables, chairs, and reclining lounge chairs.
“This is where we hang out during the summer. It’s better than the courtyard garden. Less shade. More wind. And a decent view.”
The whole city was spread out around us, the midwinter nightfall settling in early. Even though it was barely five o’clock, the sky was already changing from cotton candy pink into a rash of brilliant red in one of Paris’s spectacular early-winter sunsets. Lights began twinkling from the buildings. “It’s so magical up here,” I sighed, drinking in the view.
I finally tore my eyes from the scene and turned to see Vincent standing just behind me, hands in his pockets. “So what did you want to talk about?” he asked, concern flickering across his face.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, curious. “You look worried.”
“Judging from the past, when you ask if we can talk instead of just going ahead and talking, I know I’m in trouble.”
I smiled, and reached out to take his hand and pull him closer. “Fair enough. Okay, I was just wondering . . . this morning, before you ran for the truck, it looked like you were hesitating. Trying to make a decision. And it seemed like I was a part of that decision.”
Vincent was silent, waiting for me to draw my own conclusion.
“You were going to go for the pedestrians first, to try to throw them out of the way, weren’t you?”
“That was my instinct, yes.” His face was blank. Unreadable.
“And why didn’t you do it?” I asked, a cord of suspicion drawing tight in my stomach.
“Because there was a strong possibility of my own death if I took that route. And I promised you not to die.”
I exhaled, surprised to find I had been holding my breath. “That’s what I was afraid of, Vincent. That hesitation cost you a few seconds. What if that had been too much?”
“But it wasn’t, Kate,” he said, looking uncomfortable.
I put my arm through his and walked with him to sit on the edge of a large wooden sun bed that was pushed up against a low brick wall.
“Vincent, about our deal—you know, your promise to me—all along I’ve been regretting it, because I thought it was going to be too hard on you—”
“I told you, I can stand it,” he interrupted me, frowning.
“And I have total faith in you. But whether or not you can stand it . . . I’ve been feeling like it was wrong of me to ask it of you.”
“You didn’t ask me to do it. I’m the one who offered,” he said defensively.
“I know,” I pleaded. “Just let me talk.”