“To be honest, sir, I stayed with Miss Chen last night.” I fluttered my lashes in what I hoped was a sweet and helpless way. “I came here quite suddenly and have nowhere else to stay.”
“Then you must take a room here,” said Madame Marineaux, moving to my side. She spoke with a faint accent—though it did not sound French. “The Marquis is friends with the owner, you see, and he is taking care of these amazing Spirit-Hunters. You must allow him the privilege of hosting you as well.” She shot the Marquis a raised eyebrow. “Surely that can be arranged, Monsieur?”
“Mais oui!” The Marquis stomped his cane against the floor. “I will take care of everyzing.”
“Thank you very much.” I gave them both a grateful grin. “Merci beaucoup. ”
Moments later, we entered the restaurant. Pistachio-colored curtains lay over ceiling-high windows, and crystal chandeliers hung like icicles. A navy-uniformed waiter with a rigid posture and even stiffer mustache helped me sit as the Marquis assisted Madame Marineaux. Then, after taking a flurry of orders from the Marquis, the waiter glided off.
The Marquis set his strange cane against the table, allowing me full view of the gnarled ivory fingers, and I could not help but stare. The detail that met my eyes was amazing: the fingers were tipped with long, sharp fingernails, and the lines carved into the palm were astonishingly lifelike. But it was the fingernails that held my attention. They seemed dangerous, yet alluring. Exotic, I thought.
“Ah, you are admiring my cane?” LeJeunes tugged at his mustache, grinning. “It is magnifique, non?”
“Yes,” I said warmly. “I have never seen anything like it. Where did you get it?”
“From me,” Madame Marineaux answered, a pleased flush spotting her cheeks. “I am glad you like it. I found it on my travels. When I was in India, I visited a small village for which this symbol”—she dipped her head to the cane—“is considered good luck. And it has certainly brought the
Marquis luck.” Her gaze landed on LeJeunes with fondness.
“Oui, oui. It has.” He clapped his hands. “Such success in zee Senat elections, and I hope”—he winked in my direction—“I will have the same success in zee presidential elections. All thanks to my
Madame and my . . . what is zee word? Good luck charm.” He placed a gloved hand tenderly over
Madame Marineaux’s.
I shifted in my seat, intrigued by the Madame. “You have done much traveling?”
“Oh yes.” She smiled, her hazel eyes crinkling. “All over the world.” She angled her head to one side. “But surely that is of no interest to a young girl such as yourself.” She gave a tinkling laugh.
“Usually all the girls I meet wish to speak of parties and fashion!”
“Oh no!” I cried, shaking my head. “Your travels sound fascinating. My dream is to do just that, actually—to see the world.”
“You have made a good start!” The Marquis tapped the table, his smile spreading beyond the edges of his mustache. “You are in the City of Light. The best conversation and the finest parties are to be found here. La joie de vivre, Mademoiselle! Society and museums and lovely sights. You must see all of it while you are visiting your friends.”
At that moment our waiter strutted back into the room, pushing a trolley laden with breads, pastries, and richly scented coffee. As he laid out plate after plate, the Marquis motioned for me to serve myself. So I did, grabbing two croissants, a tart drizzled in chocolate, and a generous helping of butter.
After the Marquis had filled his own plate—it would seem he had a fondness for anything with cherries—he turned his eyes to me. “I have an idea, Mademoiselle! We are hosting a ball to celebrate all zee success our Spirit-Hunters have had.”
I froze in the middle of slathering butter on my first croissant. A ball? It seemed a dreadful time for a ball if les Morts roamed the streets.
“You must attend,” the Marquis urged. “Everyone who is anyone will go.”
Somehow, I grew even stiffer. It was bad enough that the Spirit-Hunters would have to take time off to go to the ball, but me as well? I couldn’t possibly attend such a gala when I had only one dress in my possession. Yet before I could protest, Madame Marineaux clapped excitedly. “That is a grand idea, Monsieur!” She turned to me. “You absolutely must come, Mademoiselle Fitt! It is in two nights.”
I set down my croissant and wiped my hands on my napkin. “I-I would love to, but I fear I have brought nothing suitable to wear to such an affair.”
Madame Marineaux clucked her tongue. “Do not be silly. Such a minor inconvenience. Why, I know a dressmaker with premade creations. She can tailor something for your, eh . . .” Her eyes dropped to my ample waist and then to my crammed plate. “For your needs. ”
Heat flooded my face, and I realized that the Madame had nothing more than half—only half— a pastry on her own plate.