The same went for Laure. I felt rotten for abandoning her. After the horrors of yesterday, she deserved better, but I could not— would not—risk Jie’s life waiting for both girls to arrive. Perhaps I would see them in Marseille.
And now it was time for me to go.
My feet padded lightly on the steps into the garden. A breeze licked through the chestnuts and sent the balloon floating toward me. It strained against its leashes, a creaking melody to the rustling leaves and curious voices of passers-by. Even at this early an hour, a crowd had gathered to watch the airship.
To think that none of these people knew what had happened in the night while they slept. What had happened beneath their homes. What we had saved them from or how much it had cost us.
To think that, for them, it was just other day.
It annoyed me. Angered me, even. Philadelphia had been the same as Paris—so much work and so many tears, and all for what? So people could simply get on with their lives.
“And so,” I whispered to myself, pausing on the final step, “the wheel is come full circle.” But
Shakespeare quotes held no comfort for me today, no matter how true they were. I had too many unanswered questions.
For one, where was the compulsion spell—the one built from les Morts? It had sounded as if
Marcus was using the seventy-three sacrifices to build a long-lasting spell, so did he take it with him when he left Paris? Madame Marineaux had said nothing about the amulet’s final destination or final purpose.
For two, what had happened to the Marquis? Had Marcus been the one to kill him? I would have to press Oliver for more information on this black magic that was even darker than necromancy—as soon as the demon was willing to speak to me again.
And the ivory fist—what was it? My fingers slid into my pocket, where it rested. It was not an amulet, yet Madame Marineaux had claimed it was special, powerful. And for whatever reason, she had wanted me to have it. Oddly enough, its fingers had started to loosen—only slightly, but enough for me to notice that the fist was unfurling. . . .
With a yawn, I withdrew my hand and rubbed at my stinging eyes. I would find answers to my questions soon enough.
Then, my hair whipping in my face, I sent my gaze flying out over the small crowd of airship-
viewers. Over their top hats and feathered bonnets. Over the flowers and maple trees. Over the burned-
out palace and the Rue de Rivoli, with its neat, beige buildings and endless gray rooftops.
I sent my gaze out over Paris.
And I let the faintest smile pull at my lips. Seeing this perfect, perfect morning was exactly what I needed. The reminder to dig deeper until . . . until . . .
Until I found it, hiding within my heart and wrapped beneath layers of anger and grief. It was wound up so tightly in hollow regret that I would never have found it if I had not searched.
But there it was: a tiny flame—only the faintest glimmer, really, yet a flame nonetheless. A hope in the darkness.
“Eleanor?”
I turned and met Daniel’s face, peering at me from the top of the steps. He was clean-shaven, freshly dressed. The wind pulled at his damp hair, and he looked as sharp as ever . . . yet sad. Worried.
But he did not need to be. I knew what I was doing.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
I reached into my pocket and slid my fingers around the ivory fist. Then I grinned. “Yes, Daniel. I am ready.”