“Take her,” Agatha said. “No one needs to know she doesn’t belong to Hortense.”
Louis did not have a choice if he wanted to have the fortune. If Hortense’s child was dead, the fortune would pass to her aunt and uncle and he would be out on the street again. But he never believed that was the reason he took Marie. He always thought it was love at first sight. And he needed a partner in crime, as he and Marie together perpetuated a grand fraud. He cared as little for the other twin as he did for all his other bastards lurking somewhere in the streets of the Squalid Mile.
And so it was that one of Agatha’s children would have all the wonders money could buy. The other would learn to bake wonderful cakes.
CHAPTER 47
Your Shadow Is on Fire
Marie burned the birth certificate of the twin girls that night. She put her lit cigarette in the center of it. The singed circle spread out like a solar eclipse. She sat up into the late hours. She stared into the fire as though she were staring at the bakery she had ordered to be set on fire. She almost wanted to have a carriage bring her down to the factory so she could witness the destruction. It would be too peculiar that she was there. And that peculiarity would have turned into suspicion.
She had arranged the fire carefully so it would burn only the bakery and none of the surrounding buildings. And certainly not the factory. She was waiting and waiting for the phone call that would inform her the bakery was on fire. When the phone did ring, it startled her. She resented that the ring was able to upset her steely composure. It made her realize she was not nearly as collected as she believed.
“Was there anyone inside?” she asked.
“No, ma’am, thank the Lord. The woman who runs the bakery was inside, but she managed to get out.”
“Thank you,” Marie said.
She should have known she could not kill Mary.
She thought this threat might have done the trick anyhow. Now Mary would know exactly who Marie was and not to mess with her. It was time to put a boot on the heads of these grasping revolutionaries and push them back down the stairs they were trying to climb. Marie was a factory owner. She knew you had to strike terror into the workforce. You had to make an example of people. It was a great kindness, in a way, because it showed the others what would happen to them if they behaved badly.
There was still one log in the fire burning; its flames were like the red hair of Agatha flying behind her as she hurried down the corridor to reach the labyrinth.
* * *
Mary’s face lit up as she stared at her bakery in flames. The snow all around the bakery had melted to wet puddles, as though it had mistaken the fire for the summer sun. Mary’s shadow was monstrous. It kept lunging forward as though it were trying to get its hands around someone’s neck to strangle them. The flames were in her eyes, making them appear red in color. Her dress was covered in soot. It was as though she had been stained by the nighttime. Part of her hair had been singed badly. The sleeve of her dress had been torn off, and her shoulder was bleeding from a gash. A blister on her palm rose, making it look like she was holding a jellyfish. She might have felt physical pain if she wasn’t so consumed by anger. Anger was an analgesic. Anger set fire to all the other feelings and emotions and used them as combustibles. The fire made her face turn red and orange and look as though she had two black eyes. She had been awake making cakes when the building erupted in flames. Had she been sleeping, she would have been dead.
Staring at the fire made her feel like a wolf. The fire was pushing her back out into the wilderness. It wanted her to put her tail between her legs and disappear. She could not die if her reflection was alive and well.
She supposed she ought to be thankful to Marie. Marie Antoine was born to go to extremes. That was clearly what she was doing in this instance. Mary might have become complacent were it not for this. She might have accepted the status quo. She was earning enough money at her bakery that in about ten years she would be middle-class herself. She felt all the rough drafts of possible life plans set themselves on fire in her brain. There was the nasty cackling of fire both inside and outside her head.
Of course Marie must have discovered the truth. She had been waiting for Marie to put two and two together. For her to realize why they looked so much alike. Marie had acknowledged Mary’s power with this attempted murder. Only your enemy can tell you how powerful you are. If they showed fear, it was like putting a knife in your hand. If they showed anger, it was handing you a gun. At that moment, stepping away from the fire, she knew just how dangerous she was. She was a walking stick of dynamite, and Marie had just lit her fuse.
Tears poured down her soot-covered cheeks, and the streaks revealed the colors underneath. Her face resembled a Renaissance painting being restored.
Mary smiled, knowing she had to take this story to its logical conclusion. She felt her missing finger twitching. As though it needed to be put into action. It needed to start in on a new project. There was nothing quite like trauma to stir the creative juices.
* * *
Jeanne-Pauline was behind the counter in her shop. Her hair was wrapped in a braid around her head. It was chilly, so she was wearing her fox stole over her black dress. The fox stole looked as though it were waiting for a moment to bite. Jeanne-Pauline lifted her head up from her book and looked out the window. Mary was standing outside. She was far enough from the door that she could be considered to be in the middle of the street.
With her face bathed and cleaned by tears, she looked more like Marie than ever before. It would have been obvious to anyone who saw them standing side by side that they were twins.
The wind was causing the light snowfall to form into different eddies. They resembled girls hurrying off after they’d been caught naked in the master’s room.
Jeanne-Pauline knew that Mary was coming in to propose a plan to her. She knew exactly what the plan was going to be. She didn’t believe it was appropriate to go to the door and invite or entice the girl in. This was the type of idea someone had to come to on their own without any pressure from anyone else. It had to be motivated by a perfect and clear-headed desire.
Jeanne-Pauline didn’t have to consider whether she wanted to be involved. She didn’t have any need to examine her own motives, or weigh pros against cons. She had been waiting several years for Mary to come to her with this plan. She knew from the first time Mary Robespierre had spoken to her, they had already begun planning this together.
Mary’s curls were jumping up and down in the wind. They were ready to move forward. Her dress blew from behind her. It was also ready to launch into action. Jeanne-Pauline looked back down at her book and didn’t raise her eyes again until she heard the bells on her door jingle loudly.