“I’m in the back,” I called, my voice quivering in my panic. I still had the closet key in my hand. How could I get it back into the drawer without Papy noticing? I walked out to the main gallery, and composing myself as much as possible, I gave him a winning smile and asked how his meeting had gone.
“Top-notch property, ma princesse.” He bustled to the back to hang up his coat. “There’s another dealer bidding for it, though, so I’m not sure it’s mine yet,” came his muffled voice from behind the divider. I quickly peeled a piece of tape off the tape dispenser, pressed the key to the sticky side, slipped the desk drawer open, and reattached it to the spot I had found it. Just as I slid the drawer closed, Papy turned the corner.
“Anything exciting happen while I was gone?” he asked, coming to stand next to me behind the desk.
“Let’s see . . . the French president dropped by. Brigitte Bardot. Oh yeah, and then Vanessa Paradis came in with Johnny Depp. They bought a million-euro statue. You know, the usual.”
He shook his head in amusement and began scribbling in his appointment book. I kissed him good-bye and tried not to break into a sprint as I headed for the door.
FIFTEEN
AS SOON AS I GOT HOME, I THREW MY HOMEWORK on a chair and sat down on my bed with the book. In the beginning it was difficult. Like reading Beowulf in English—there were a lot of words I didn’t understand. But gradually, the magic of the story pulled me in, and I felt like I was right there with the characters: Goderic, a nineteen-year-old revenant, and Else, the girl he married just months before he died.
It was Else who was there when Goderic awoke, the day he was to be buried. She gave him food and drink, and he attained his immortality. They learned what he was from a seer who had followed his light.
Else and Goderic became transients, moving every time he died so that the locals wouldn’t become suspicious. As she got older, they had to change their story, claiming to be mother and son. After several years Else became sick. Goderic called a guérisseur to heal her, and the healer recognized what Goderic was by his aura.
Goderic pled with the man to find a way to let him age normally with his beloved—to resist the powerful desire to die. The guérisseur didn’t have that knowledge, but told him of another healer who had great power in the way of the immortals.
The next part was full of words I didn’t understand. It was phrased in a peculiar style—like a prophecy—but I tried to decipher it word by word. Still speaking of the powerful healer, the man told Goderic, “From his family will come the one to see the victor. If anyone holds the key to your plight, it will be the VictorSeer’s clan. He lives in a faraway land, among les A . . . . . . . . . . , and can be found under the Sign of the Cord, selling relics to the pilgrims.”
My heart skipped a beat. There was a word crossed out. An essential word. After the capital A, a thick line of black ink had obscured the rest of the word, making it impossible to know among whom the healer lived. Someone had purposely drawn through it. Someone who didn’t want the healer to be found, I thought.
I forced myself to keep reading, hoping that the word would recur later, but it didn’t. Goderic and Else began traveling north, but she contracted another illness along the way and died in Goderic’s arms. He was so distraught that he traveled to the city and hunted down a numa, who “delivered him from life.”
By the time I finished, it was two in the morning.
Who knew if there was even a grain of truth in the story? But if there was someone who could help me and Vincent, I wouldn’t stop until I found him. However, before I could, I had to locate another copy of the book—a copy that hadn’t been tampered with. And I knew just the place to start.
Although I slept only a few hours, I was wide awake as soon as my alarm sounded. I had set it early so that I could catch Mamie before she went up to her restoration studio and got lost in her work. But when I got to the kitchen, I saw I was too late: Mamie’s breakfast dishes were already in the sink, and the white work apron she wore while restoring paintings was missing from its hook by the door.
I sliced a baguette in half, cut it lengthwise, and then smoothed a chunk of salty butter along my bread. A little dab of homemade jam from the quince tree in my grandparents’ country garden, and I was holding a traditional tartine. Simple but delicious. I wrapped it in a napkin and carried it up the stairs with me.