“Well, you won’t learn more from me.” He gestured almost tiredly to the window. “We’re coming into Paris, if you care to see.”
That ended my protests immediately, and I pressed myself as close to the window as I could get. In the distance, cast in pink, was a crowded city with layers that rose up like a cake and crawled with movement. It was like watching the dancers in a ballet, and I felt a sudden, deep urge to write bad poetry.
But the closer we got, the more the charm started to vanish. And the more complex the labyrinth of streets and buildings around us became, the more the filth and soot stood out.
“It’s so . . . so dirty,” I said at last.
“Ha!” Oliver barked. “Isn’t every city?”
“Philadelphia certainly is, but . . . I had this idea of Paris being . . . well . . . perfect.” I gnawed my lip. “Where are all the electric streetlamps? Or the bridges and gardens? The ones you see in the prints?”
“Oh, you’ll see them—just wait until we reach the center of the city. It’s always dirtiest on the edges.”
Soon enough we were zooming through the Paris of which I’d dreamed. All around were the quintessential beige buildings with their iron-fenced windows and dark, shingled rooftops. Chimneys poked up in organized rows, silhouetted by the evening sun.
But what impressed me most was the number of electric lamps that rose up, elegant and iron, to illuminate the streets. City of Light, indeed! It was like a fairy world twinkling at sunset, and I could honestly say I had never seen or imagined anything like it.
“Tell me what everything is,” I ordered, my face smashed against the window.
Oliver scooted beside me and pointed. “There’s a house, there’s a house . . . that looks like a boulangerie, and over there’s another house.”
I glared at him. “I mean the famous places. The Arc de Triomphe or the Louvre or Notre Dame or
—”
“All the places that aren’t beside the train tracks.” He snorted. “Patience, El. You will see them in good time. But look.” He pointed to the hill with its jagged rooftops and crooked, ever-rising angles.
“That hill is Montmartre, the home of the bohemians: the artists and Gypsies who don’t want to live in the city.” He grinned as if remembering fond times. Then he pointed again, this time to where the train was aimed. “And that, up ahead, is our train depot.” He turned toward me, opening his hands wide. “Et voilà Paris, Mademoiselle. ”
The interior of Gare Saint Lazare was disappointingly foul—especially after the glamour of the city’s streets. We pulled into the triangular-roofed station built of exposed metal and wood and were soon filing off the train—only to be greeted by row after row of locomotives. With so much smoke billowing from each, it was a wonder the high skylights of the depot weren’t any blacker.
Oliver, my carpetbag in his hand, strode toward red archways marked SORTIE. I scurried after, and in moments we reached a set of steps heading down to tall-windowed exits.
“Where do you want to go?” Oliver yelled to be heard over the noise of the trains and people. An old couple swerved around us, glaring at our sudden stop, and a gust of perfume ran up my nose.
I coughed into gloved hands. “So many people!”
“Welcome to Paris, El.” Oliver smiled. “Do you want to find the Spirit-Hunters’ hotel now?”
“Only if you agree to meet them.”
“Absolutely not.”
“You must see them at some point,” I insisted, though secretly I was relieved. I wasn’t sure I was ready to face the Spirit-Hunters with my new necromancy, much less with a demon in tow. Joseph had made it plain enough how he felt about necromancy, so until I could find a way to prove I wasn’t doing anything wicked, it seemed best to simply pretend it had never happened. Why darken my easy friendship with the Spirit-Hunters with something over which I had no control?
Oliver closed his eyes, his head cocking to one side. When he opened them again, they flashed blue.
I started. “Wh-what was that? I thought you couldn’t do magic without my command.”
“I can’t.” He shook his head. “I was merely testing our bond. In case . . . well, in case we get separated. You can find our bond too. You simply . . . feel for it.”
I mimicked the movement he had made, closing my eyes and angling my head. Sure enough, now that I searched, I could sense the slightest thread winding its way around my heart.
I opened my eyes. “I feel it, but what do you mean by ‘get separated’?”
He flashed his eyebrows. “Your friend is here.”
“Eleanor!” shrieked a high voice.
My heart swelled, and I spun toward the sound. There was Jie, bounding over a bench, skidding around a pile of luggage, and then throwing her arms around me. “You’re here!”
“I am!” My voice came out as a squeal; and after squeezing me so hard I choked, Jie pushed me back for inspection.
“You look tired—it doesn’t suit you.” She poked me in the belly. “Though you’re lace-free, yeah?