Our convoy pulls into Péronne a little after 11:30 A.M. I peer up at the buildings as we drive down the main street, at the ivy climbing the brick facades, the boulangeries and patisseries and fleurists. Freezing rain drips off every mansard roof and verdigris-touched gutter. A woman in a vivid red head scarf turns to watch our convoy’s approach. Looks away quickly. It’s so quiet.
I expect us to park at the tiny hotel. We don’t. The cars continue down the street, gliding silently. We leave Péronne behind. After about twenty minutes, we turn through a pair of tall iron gates and down a country road. Security cameras turn to watch us pass. I look back and see the gates closing behind us.
I tap the glass that separates us from the driver and Dorf. They don’t acknowledge me. I look at Jules. He’s fallen asleep, knees pulled up to his chin.
I watch the trees slide by, bare and wintry. The road is long and utterly straight. Our convoy slices down it, sleek black cars reflecting the branches and the sky.
We’re approaching something: a wide white house squatting at the end of the avenue. It’s a chateau, stark against the muddy greens and grays of the countryside.
I nudge Jules with my foot. “I think we’re here,” I mumble.
He doesn’t wake up.
The cars pull up in front of the pale chateau , curling like a fiddlehead around the wide circular driveway. The locks on our doors click open.
I step out into the cold. Car doors are opening all around, disgorging Red Spikes, the other bodyguards, Will. Miss Sei is clicking toward me.
“Where are we?” I ask her, looking up at the house. It’s symmetrical, two floors, square windows. Probably mid-nineteenth century. Solid and big and old, like a country stronghold.
“Chateau du Bessancourt. It’s part of the Sapani portfolio,” Miss Sei says. It’s the first time I’ve heard her talk. She has a perfect cut-glass English accent. She opens Dorf’s door. Murmurs something into the dim interior. Turns back to me. “They bought it several years ago and began a restoration. That’s why you’re here. Professor Dorf will explain inside.”
“Wait, are we staying here?” Jules is climbing out behind me, groggy, his hair sticking up in wet-cat spikes.
Dorf chuckles and unfolds out of the passenger seat. “Where else would we be staying?” He stamps twice on the cobbled drive. His leather wingtip shoes are polished to mirrors. “This is our site. One hundred feet below us lies the entrance to the mythical Palais du Papillon.”
I stare at the cobbles. Peer up at the house again. Somewhere in the blue folder it was mentioned that the original chateau burned to the ground during the revolution. This one must be the replacement. It’s weird to think about French people in wigs and stockings running around this exact spot a couple centuries ago. That there was another world here before us, people going about their lives with no idea what was coming for them. I look back down the avenue, stretching away, nothing on either side but trees and fields.
Hayden and Lilly walk up, Lilly jabbering, Hayden glowering straight ahead like he wants to punch something.
“Everybody?” Dorf says. His voice hangs in the frozen air, dull and muffled. “Listen, please. This will be our base of operations during the expeditions. While the Sapanis are not here at the moment, we will be guests in their home. Be careful and conscious of that while you are here. Now: there will be attendants to bring in your luggage. Follow me.”
Lilly slips back into one of the Mercedes and shoulders her huge backpack.
“He said leave it,” Jules mutters to her, and I see her look at him like, Over my dead body. We follow Dorf up the steps to the dark, polished doors. They’re carved with hatchets and roses, just like the coat of arms on our documents. We step into the high, echoing hall. Miss Sei and the four bodyguards enter behind us. I’m still not sure why the bodyguards are here. I get that the Sapanis are rich and powerful, but it’s not like there are going to be paparazzi leaping out of the hedges and sticking microphones in our faces. We don’t need bodyguards.
The floor is tiled in black-and-white marble. The walls are paneled in dark wood. The air is cold. Damp. The kind of air that comes when no one’s breathing it, when it just sits and stagnates like still water.
I’m walking right beside Dorf. He leans over. “Anouk,” he says quietly, pleasantly. “You know, it’s really wonderful you could be here. We were worried we wouldn’t fill the last spot, but there you were! And with such a fortunate family! We’re so pleased for you.” He spins, and his voice goes up about ten decibels. “Everyone! Miss Sei will take you to your rooms now.”
I stare at him, confused. He smiles at me, all conspiratorial like we’re total buddies, and ducks through a low, ornately carved doorway. The door closes.