But it was Madam Calvé’s words that kept returning. Not those about her chateau and the alchemist. But what she’d said about Mathieu. My heart seized up thinking about him.
There were certainly others alone that night on the Croisette, but I only noticed couples strolling arm in arm or sitting on benches, stealing kisses. Mathieu had been my one chance at love. No matter where I fled, that truth would forever follow me.
I realized I was even more lonely at home in Cannes than I had been in New York. I missed my routine, my lovely studio, and the Tenth Street crowd. I missed painting. And family dinners with Clifford. Most of all, I missed the distance that separated Mathieu and me. It was the only thing I had to keep him safe.
Chapter 16
Book of Hours
June 16, 1920
As I lie here under the maroon satin covers in Grand-mère’s mansion, I’m swooning, both amazed and confused by what transpired during my afternoon with Mathieu. How is it possible to feel such a deep connection with a man I hardly know?
Today we met at the bar of La Rotonde on rue Montparnasse at five o’clock after my last class. Mathieu was waiting for me. I’d never been before, and the restaurant’s decor delighted me.
“Just look at all of these paintings and drawings!” I exclaimed, as I examined the walls covered with works by so many of the artists I knew of through my mother—Picasso, Modigliani, Braque.
Although I had never visited before, I had heard of this legendary café. It is said that when an artist doesn’t have money to pay for his meal, the owner, Victor Libion, accepts artwork in exchange. He’s always letting artists sit for hours nursing a ten-centime cup of coffee and pretends not to see when they take the ends of the baguette from the basket. He claims that one day, he will have one of the best museums in Paris. And I don’t doubt it.
Mathieu ordered pastis for both of us and showed me how to add water to it and turn the liqueur cloudy. It tasted of licorice but not as sweet.
He gave me another gift today, the third from this man who seems to know so much about me and how to move me and touch me, even though we’ve only just recently met. I never before allowed myself to think of anything like this happening to me. It was enough that I had my magick thanks to Maman and my life thanks to Sebastian saving me. But love? I never imagined anything like it—this overpowering exultation, this exaggerated sense of experiencing every moment, every taste, every scent.
I examined his present. Mathieu had salvaged some of my drawings from the ruined sketchbook and carefully pressed them out and bound them together in a simple black leather folio with a silver design on the front.
“You saw all my poor, pathetic attempts and silly notes.” I was embarrassed. I wanted him to think of me not as young and inexperienced but as an able partner.
“I saw your talent and sensitivity.” He smiled and touched the tip of my nose with his forefinger. “You’re far too hard on yourself. Why is that?”
I wasn’t sure I liked how he was talking to me. “Even though I’m five years younger than you, you don’t have to treat me like a little girl.”
“Oh, I know you aren’t a little girl.”
He leaned forward and kissed me, full on the lips. A long kiss that tasted of the pastis and passion.
“And that should prove it.”
I felt the heat flush my cheeks.
“Do you believe you are a good artist?”
“Good, yes. But not great. And I want to be great. I want to try new things, but I don’t have the tools. When I look at one of my mother’s paintings, I see—”
“But your mother has been painting for so much longer than you have. How can you compare?”
“I’ve seen her work from when she was just starting out. She was exceptional from the very beginning. Almost unnaturally so.”
Mathieu tilted his head. “Isn’t that the answer?”
“You know the story?”
“My uncle told me he aided your mother in her search for the truth about her ancestor La Lune. And then he helped her accept the spirit of the long-dead witch. Your mother’s paintings are the result of three hundred years of talent, aren’t they?”
I nodded.
“Then why are you so impatient?” he asked.
“That’s what my teachers ask me.”
“And what’s the answer?”
“I want to show in the Salon d’Automne.”
“But you’re only in your first year at L’école.”
I shrugged. “Do you think that’s a good enough reason to stop me?”
He laughed. “No. Does this mean there is a problem?”
“No, not really. It’s just that I’m so busy.” I told him about Sebastian being my business partner and how he’d encouraged me to use my second sight to create the shadow portraits and the commissions that he was bringing me that were eating away at my time.
“Are you sure you want to be doing them?”
“Yes, of course. Why?”
“Every artist should be free to forge her own path. It sounds as if he’s pushing you onto a road that works best for him.”
“No. It’s what’s best for both of us,” I insisted. “Sebastian has no gifts himself, but, like our father, he supports our mother and sisters in ways even more admirable, because he doesn’t have our magick to rely on. He makes things happen through his own natural strength, intelligence, and determination.”
“Are you sure he’s not taking advantage of you?” Mathieu asked.
I was surprised and hurt that he would think that of my twin.
“Of course not. I want to do this. I help people with my portraits, help them come to terms with loss or find deeper truths that have remained elusive to them. And not all of my portraits are dark or depressing. Not everyone has such secrets—some are mere embarrassments, others memories that are lovely and amazing. My ability gives people the chance to see them in living color and mount them on their walls to enjoy. Some portraits provide hope, some give warnings of danger to come.”
“And what happens when they don’t? When they are secrets that shouldn’t be exposed?”
“That’s not happened. Besides, Sebastian has vowed to destroy any that my sitters find too disturbing. That’s a strict part of our deal.”
The expression on his face still suggested disapproval. We were having our first disagreement, but I wasn’t ready to concede. Impatience wasn’t my only character flaw. Maman accused me of stubbornness, too.
“You know, if you consider my shadow portraits evidence of Sebastian’s exploitation, what do you have to say about virtually everything you and your uncle sell in your shop? Aren’t you exploiting your knowledge of the occult for monetary gain? How is what I’m doing any different?”
“We are very selective with our clientele and the items we put on display. As you know, the Librairie is meant to serve as a safe haven and discussion place for those truly interested in the esoteric.”
He gently took my hand and held it. His touch was so potent that for a moment I forgot what we were even discussing.