He sat down beside me. “Do you have a fever?”
“No, quite the opposite. I was freezing cold.” I shook my head, trying to get rid of the residual feeling, the way a dog shakes off water.
“Can you come back downstairs?”
“Sebastian, I think we should leave the chateau,” I said.
“There’s too much at stake.”
“What’s at stake?”
“Well, there’s the money she’s promised if you find the treasure. We need it.”
“Why do we need it? You keep saying that. But the gallery is doing so well. You have a stable of such good artists.”
Sebastian was holding something back.
When he didn’t answer, I said, “If I could put on my blindfold and draw you, I would.”
Usually, the threat made him smile. But now Sebastian remained as silent as one of the Buddha statues on display downstairs in Madame’s living room.
“Sebastian? If you don’t tell me, I won’t stay.”
When he didn’t say anything, I went to the closet, pulled out my suitcase, and started packing.
He came over to me and took my hands. “Don’t do this.”
“Then tell me.”
“You are being overly dramatic. La Diva must be wearing off on you.” He grinned. “Your reputation can use the infusion of attention. People have stopped talking about you. We can’t let that happen. You need to think about your career.”
My brother’s endless charm, the ease with which he navigated his way out of any unpleasantness, was impressive. But I wasn’t convinced. I wrested my hands away and continued packing.
“Delphine, please.”
“Tell me the truth.”
Sebastian exhaled a deep sigh. Sitting down in the armchair, he turned his head toward the window and looked out at the mountain vista.
“You won’t like this.” His voice was so low I could barely hear him.
“What?”
“Bad debt.”
That was all? I was surprised. “A lot of people have bad debt. Tell Papa, and he’ll get you out of it.”
“He did last time and vowed he won’t again.”
“Last time?”
“I’ve developed a nasty habit of frequenting the casino.” He tried to smile again. This time, the expression failed and turned into a grimace.
The gallery was making enough of a profit for him to cover any normal debts. From the extent of his discomfort and his admission that our father had bailed him out in the past, I surmised that the situation must be dire. I’d known several artists who had suffered addictions. With some, it was opium. With others alcohol. And still others, gambling. I remembered one of our parents’ friends who had been so ruined by the lure of the beautiful Belle époque casino in Monte Carlo that he shot himself.
“It’s quite bad. It could ruin me, Delphine. Or worse.”
“Worse?”
“I borrowed money from some unsavory types who are threatening me.”
“Threatening to kill you?”
I suddenly knew what I’d seen in the puddle outside my little house in Mougins. Why I had to come here to save my brother. I had to find the book and get Madame’s bonus so he could pay off his debt.
“All right. If I stay, if I do this for you, will you get help when we get back to Cannes?”
“What do you mean by help?”
“From Maman. She will know what to do.”
“No, I can’t tell her.”
“But you told Papa.”
Sebastian shook his head. “Not quite. I told him that I’d invested in a group of paintings that didn’t sell.”
“You lied to him?”
My father and Sebastian were the two outliers in our family, the only two without supernatural powers. They had a special father-son bond. The idea of Sebastian breaking that bond and lying to my father disturbed me almost as much as his gambling problem did.
My brother was entangled in a complicated web of duplicity. And I was caught by surprise. I was his twin. I thought I knew him. And yet in just days, I’d discovered the truth about his sexuality and an addiction I couldn’t have even guessed at. He’d grown up while I’d been in New York. And I suppose I had, too. We’d both struggled with love and gotten ourselves into trouble. At least Sebastian had only lost money. Someone had lost his life because of me.
“So what will it be, Delphine?”
“I’ll stay and help if you promise that when we get home, you’ll confess to Maman and ask her to help. Will you?” I asked.
I was holding a folded sweater above the suitcase. About to lay it down.
Sebastian couldn’t meet my gaze. Instead, he took the green sweater out of my hands. I took the garment back and returned it to the closet. Then, leaving the suitcase half-packed, I went to the door.
“Come on, Sebastian, let’s find the book and then get out of here.”
Chapter 32
Book of Hours
August 14, 1920
There are secrets waiting on the Paris streets but none as compelling as those Mathieu and I are discovering about each other’s bodies. For the last week, I’ve stolen as much time as possible from family obligations to spend it with him, making love in his little one-room flat in Montmartre.
Leaving the maison, from under my dress collar I fish out my ring, which is hanging off a gold chain. Not quite ready to share Mathieu yet, I am, of course, keeping our engagement a secret.
Opaline knows something. Once I got over the surprise of his gift, I realized Mathieu had gone to the jewelry shop in the Palais Royal where my sister works and that she’d designed the ring for me.
I would have preferred he’d visited any other jeweler, but then the ring wouldn’t be as perfect. So far, Opaline hasn’t questioned me about it. Probably since she hasn’t seen me wear it, she doesn’t know he’s given it to me yet and hasn’t wanted to ruin his surprise. A few times when we’ve been alone, she’s asked me about him, but I’ve held my enthusiasm in check and told her that while I do like him, I don’t want anything or anyone interfering with my studies just now. I’m not sure she believes me, but she’s not one to pressure or pry, and for that I’m so thankful.
During the carriage ride from our house to Mathieu’s lair—which takes the better part of a half hour—I am in a heightened state of anticipation. The journey has become a ritual for me. I sit straight up in the cab, my gloved hands in my lap, thinking of him waiting for me. Trying to keep the fluttering deep inside me from overwhelming me. I don’t speak to the driver. I try not to breathe in any smells. I try not to touch the seat any more than I have to. I don’t want anything to sully my sensations. I don’t want to feel anything until I can feel Mathieu’s skin under my fingers. I don’t think about school or my paintings. Instead, I imagine what we will do to each other. How it will feel and taste, and just thinking of it makes me breathless.
I, who have never taken a lover before, who have never read romantic novels or had crushes on stage stars, have become as lovesick as any heroine in any melodrama.