It doesn’t matter. The slightest possibility is enough to warm my heart with hope. I’m going to that rave club . . . even if it means deceiving my friends and all the teachers, even if it means meeting the Phantom alone inside a morgue full of demonic creatures mingling with mankind.
I can no longer fight the dark intuition that I’ll fit right in . . . that it’s where I’ve belonged from the very beginning.
15
MIRRORS
“No one has more thirst for earth, for blood . . . than the creatures who inhabit cold mirrors.”
Alejandra Pizarnik
This morning, when everyone left RoseBlood, I told my friends I’d decided to spend the day with Aunt Charlotte in Versailles. Two reasons: One, I wanted to use the Internet at the library across from the prison for research. The Phantom’s cryptic answer when I asked what I am and how I got that way keeps haunting me:
“You were born into it. It’s in your bloodline. Look back through your family’s history.”
And the second reason I wanted to come with Aunt Charlotte?
I have a plan for sneaking away to that rave club tonight, and it hinges on my friends thinking I’m with my aunt, and her thinking I’m with them in Paris. But the latter part of my plan has to wait until I can make sense of what I’m seeing on the glowing computer screen in front of me.
All it took was searching the Internet with three key words: Germain + France + strange power. So many entries popped up, each one touting the weird and inexplicable immortal life of Comte de Saint-Germain. I knew I was onto something immediately, because Dad’s middle name was Saint, to honor the original hyphenated surname from generations earlier. It’s a family tradition, passed down through the years, for each firstborn son to have the designation.
The clicking of keyboards and shuffle of pages around me become nothing but white noise as I choose an entry and read. Hand gripped around the mouse, I scroll down, afraid to miss anything: Saint-Germain traversed France in the 1700s, and had a reputation for never aging. He adored wine . . . but was only vaguely interested in food. He had a fascination with mirrors . . . insisted they were the portals to other worlds. He knew twelve languages. Managed to out-philosophize the philosopher Voltaire, whom he befriended. He also developed sleight-of-hand tricks beyond what most magicians would even dare conceive to try. And he had the uncanny ability to impress his desires upon people, without them being the wiser. With this talent, he befriended dukes and kings. His closest friend was a Parisian emperor who built and owned the opera house Le Théatre Liminaire. Saint-Germain spent many an evening there, socializing with royalty.
My breath catches on that last detail, locking the scent of carpet and old books inside me. Liminaire . . . the building where I attend classes every day. Where I live. My ancestor used to frequent RoseBlood’s halls when it was an opera house long ago.
I look around the room in search of Aunt Charlotte. She was on the other side of the table earlier, checking the school’s email. I don’t see her now, but my gaze veers back to the computer of its own accord.
Saint-Germain used his many connections to accrue great wealth in the form of gems and jewels. He stashed it away, keeping only what he needed to travel. His life was an unending quest for knowledge. He imbibed it, as if it gave him the energy to stay youthful and sharp-minded. It was said he died in 1784, but there were alleged sightings of him still alive and youthful all the way into the 1900s.
“Rune.” Aunt Charlotte’s voice breaks the silence behind me. I let out a startled yelp and click the X to close the page. I turn and try to hide my trembling hands by tucking them into my tunic’s pockets.
“Pardon! I didn’t mean to frighten you.” She pats the white bun at her nape and nods an apology to the librarian in the corner who’s now glaring at us. “What were you looking at so intently?” Her hazel eyes scan my face, as if they’re digging into my soul.
I swallow hard and study her with equal intensity. “Nothing, really.”
She squints beneath her glasses. “I hope you know, ma douce, you can talk to me about anything. About the music that has plagued you . . . about how it no longer seems to hold you in its thrall. It is wonderful, the strides you’ve made since you’ve been here. But if you are still having trouble, with anything, you can tell me. Or any questions to ask? You can trust me.”