I had meant it to sound flippant, but my voice cracked and gave me away. My sister’s eyes filled with sympathy. “Oh no, Katie-Bean. What’s going on?”
“It’s something he’s doing to make things easier on us—some kind of test. But he doesn’t want to talk about it because he thinks it will freak me out. Whatever it is, it’s not good for him. He looks worn out. And beat up. I’m just afraid it’s dangerous.”
“Oh, little sister,” Georgia said, and leaning over, took me in her arms. She gave me an affectionate squeeze before sitting back and considering what I had said.
“Well . . . first of all, I hope that your instincts are wrong and that Vincent’s not doing anything stupid. But secondly, I think you’re totally right about striking out on your own, Katie-Bean,” she said, petting my arm consolingly. “You’ve always been the smartest one in the family. If you think you can solve this, then I’m sure you will. And then, when you show up with the answer to all his immortal problems, you’ll knock that dead boy right off his feet.”
I smiled at her, reassured. Nothing like a sister-sister pep talk for comfort.
Georgia and I pulled the book-replacement scheme off brilliantly, with Papy so surprised to see my sister actually in the gallery and acting interested in the antiquities, that I easily excused myself, nabbed the key, and slipped into the back room. I was relieved to see all the boxes were in the closet where I had left them. Papy would never know the book had been gone.
Leaving Papy’s, Georgia and I walked up the rue de Seine, past all the minimalist galleries and crowded antique shops. I glanced over at La Palette, the café where I had spotted Vincent with Geneviève last fall. The terrace was punctuated with tall, treelike gas heaters, and all the tables beneath them were occupied.
My eye was caught by a blond boy sitting at a table, talking to a man standing beside him. The table held several open notebooks: The boy had been interrupted while writing. As we got nearer, I saw it was Arthur.
Georgia noticed him at the same time. “Hey, isn’t that one of Vincent’s friends?” Arthur glanced our way, and he flinched as he registered who we were. “Bonjour! Hello!” he called, after a second’s hesitation.
“Great. Thanks, Georgia. He looks really happy to see us,” I grumbled as we crossed the street to stand in front of his table.
The guy talking to Arthur was a handsome older man, probably around Gaspard’s age. He looked like someone I knew, but I couldn’t quite place him. And there was something weird about him, something just outside my mind’s grasp that didn’t seem right. When he saw Georgia and me heading in their direction, he tucked his newspaper under his arm and walked quickly away.
“Another friendly acquaintance of the oldsters,” I muttered to Georgia, and then I said more loudly, “Hi, Arthur.”
Arthur stood politely to greet us. “Hello, Kate. And Georgia, is it?”
“Georgia it is,” my sister said flirtatiously.
“Yes, well”—Arthur gestured toward his table—“would you like to join me for a coffee?”
“Sure—” Georgia began.
“No,” I said, cutting her off. “Thank you, though. We have things to do. In fact, I’m supposed to be meeting Violette soon.”
“Ah, yes, for one of your movie dates. Well, she’s just up the road shopping.” He indicated the direction with a nod of his head, and then stared silently at me, with an expression that looked almost apologetic.
I stared right back, challenging him to say something. If forgiveness was what he wanted, he wasn’t getting any from me. “See you,” I said after an awkward pause, and, taking Georgia’s arm, led her away.
As soon as we got out of hearing distance, she turned to me. “What is wrong with you?” she asked. “He was trying to be nice.”
“He also got me kicked out of a house meeting for being human.”
Georgia drew her breath in sharply. “He did not!”
“He did,” I confirmed.
“So they’re both racists,” Georgia mused. “But the difference is, he’s cute. Katie-Bean, doesn’t he kind of remind you of . . .”
“Kurt Cobain.”
“Totally!”
We were barely out of view of the café when we saw Violette a half block away, inspecting the display in a shop window. Spotting us heading her way, she smiled broadly and waved. “Hello, Kate! Hello . . .” And then she saw who was with me.
“Oh, wonderful. The evil munchkin herself,” moaned Georgia. “I’m outta here,” she said loudly enough for Violette to hear, and walked off down a side street.
The revenant acted like nothing had happened. “I was about to phone you about our movie.”
“Yeah, me too,” I said, “but we saw Arthur, and he told us where to find you. We weren’t supposed to meet for another hour or two, but if you want, we could go now.”
“Absolutely,” she said. “My only plans were to sit around with that sourpuss at La Palette and wait for you.”