The sketch artist was a petite woman with deep laugh lines and blond hair that had mostly faded to white. Maximus bowed when we came in, but Jillian didn’t even seem to notice. She was too busy looking around with the same dazzled expression I’d probably had when I first arrived. The library was two stories tall, a spiral staircase leading to the second level and a massive stone fireplace with crimson Louis XV furniture in the center. Thousands of books filled the shelves, some regular-sized, some so enormous that they must weigh thirty pounds each.
“Madame, les voilà,” Maximus said, his gaze lingering on me before he glanced away.
Vlad’s hand rested on my waist. Even through my sweater, I felt his temperature suddenly spike. I glanced over, puzzled, but when he addressed Jillian in the same language, he sounded perfectly relaxed. Must be nothing, I decided.
I smiled at her while thinking that I should’ve studied French instead of Spanish in school. Vlad must have told her not to shake my hand because she didn’t make a move toward me, but smiled back while speaking in heavily accented English.
“Happy to make your meeting, Leila.”
“You too,” I said, getting the gist of what she meant.
Several sentences in French were directed at Maximus while she gestured to the chairs by the fireplace.
“She wants you to be comfortable while you describe who you saw,” Maximus translated. Then he smiled sardonically at Vlad. “And she wants to be paid in gold instead of euros.”
Vlad flicked his fingers as if he could care less. I sat in the place indicated. Then I glanced over at Vlad.
“I’ll describe him better if I’m holding one of the bones.”
“Maximus,” Vlad said, with a nod at the door.
He left. Jillian pulled a large pad and several charcoal pencils out of her satchel, humming to herself. Maximus returned moments later with what looked like a femur. Her brows rose, but Vlad said something to her in French that seemed to pacify her.
“I am ready,” she said to me.
Vlad stood behind my chair, resting his hand on my shoulder. “Speak normally. I’ll translate.”
I took the bone and placed it on my lap. Then I ran my right hand over it, closing my eyes until I found the man who’d ordered the attack.
“He has short dark hair with streaks of gray,” I began, “and a square jaw, kinda like comic book heroes have . . .”
An hour later, Jillian handed me her pad.
“Is him?” she asked.
Staring back at me was a man with ash-streaked hair, wide forehead, generous mouth, and piercing eyes of indeterminate color. All set off by a handsome face with lines that on men were called “character” and on women were considered cause for a Botox appointment.
“That’s pretty close,” I said, pivoting to hand the picture to Vlad. “Well? Do you recognize him?”