“Do you all sleep on mounds of gold?”
She snickered. “Just satin, I’m afraid.” She slid her hands into her pockets and ambled in.
I stepped carefully after her. “And you think the Marquis will pay for me as well?”
“Yeah. I’m sure of it.” She guided me around the paper-strewn tables and toward the corner hall.
“The Marquis has more money than he knows what to do with. He’s paying for Daniel to visit
Germany.”
My heart skittered. “Daniel . . . isn’t here?”
“No. He’s studying with the German army to learn about weapons and flying machines—pretty much anything that might be useful to us.”
“Oh.” Disappointment slashed through me, so sharp, it actually hurt. I bit the inside of my mouth.
“And for how long,” I asked, trying to keep my face passive, “is Daniel away?”
Jie shrugged. “The Marquis offered to send him for a whole month, and Daniel jumped at the chance. . . but I think he decided to stay only two weeks in the end.” She shuffled into the hall, which was really nothing more than a narrow room with a door on each wall. “So that means he should return in a few days.”
My heart stumbled again, but I stoutly avoided thinking about my feelings. The last thing I needed to worry about was a young man—even if he had left me somewhat heartbroken.
I cleared my throat. “So which room is yours, Jie?”
She motioned to the door on the right, and then with a flick of her wrist, she spun the knob and pushed inside.
I moved to follow but instantly stopped again. My jaw went slack. The hardwood floor was covered in an elaborate violet carpet that matched the chaise longue and two armchairs. A huge, plush bed in sky blue stood beneath a draping blue curtain that contrasted perfectly with the maroon-and-
gold window curtains. A writing desk, two bedside stands, and even a full-length mirror stood guard against cream walls.
“Wow,” I said. “Your situation has really changed. To think you were living and working in a closet only a few months ago—to think that Philadelphia still believes you’re to blame for all those deaths and walking corpses.”
She opened her palms. “Like I said, I think that’s why the Marquis makes Joseph go out so much —to counteract the bad gossip. And to help his own presidential campaign. Either way, we’re the only people who can help Paris, and unlike the stupid Centennial Exhibition, no one here expects us to pretend the problem isn’t exactly what is. These sacrificed Dead are walking, yeah? And it’s our job to find who’s behind it all.”
I frowned. “Tell me more about the Dead. What’s happening exactly?”
“We call them les Morts, remember?” She crossed to the bed and flung herself on her stomach.
“The basics are that these Dead show up randomly . . . but they’re the Hungry Dead. Rabid and fast.”
“Is it a necromancer?”
She propped herself on her elbows. “We don’t know. See, all les Morts have one thing in common: they were murdered first . . . and their ears and eyes were cut off.”
I shrank back, my stomach coiling. “That’s what you meant by ‘sacrificed’?”
“Yeah, and it’s not nice. They keep showing up reanimated. Or they were. We haven’t seen any in almost three weeks. But listen, Joseph can explain it better. He has some theories, and he can tell you about ’em once he’s back from”—she twirled one hand in the air—“living the tiring but very glamorous life.”
“You sound as if you don’t like the glamorous life.” I pointed at the nearest window. “But a view of Paris? Free clothes and trips to Germany? What is there to dislike?”
“A lot.” She rolled her eyes. “You should see how the women fall over Joseph and Daniel; it’s . . .”
She clamped her mouth shut.
“It’s what?”
“Nothin’.” She rolled onto her back and watched me through half-lowered lids.
“What is that look for?” I demanded.
“This is my I-know-how-you-feel-about-Daniel face.”
“Excuse me?” I hitched up my skirts and stalked to the bed. “How do I feel about him?”
She tipped her head to the side. “You two are like . . . I dunno, like something that’s completely in love but won’t admit it.”
“What? That’s utterly absurd.” I dropped onto the chaise at the foot of the bed.
She crossed her arms. “You seem awful defensive.”
“Honestly.” I moaned. “Why does everyone seem to think this about me? I am not in love with
Daniel Sheridan.”
“Who else thinks it?”
“Oh, um—” I paused, not wanting to mention Oliver. “My maid.” I glanced to the right. “But I’m not. In love, I mean.”