am plucking at Christophe’s sleeve, desperate to hear him say that they do.
“Sssh,” he says, “you will need to be calm and lie still on the cart or the shards of glass will travel deep into your flesh and then…” I can tell from his voice and the look on his face that he thinks I might die.
I ought to be mortally afraid, for myself and for the baby. But all I yearn for is a spoonful of sweet, dark, life-giving liquid trickling down my throat. I long for it with a feeling so intense it blots outany other. Except… except… Christophe’s face hovers above me, loving and tender.
I close my eyes and I see only
Nicholas’s
face. Hear only his voice whispering my name. Feel his lips against mine and his fingers caressing the hollow of my throat. I swoon with the pleasure of it. I call out for him, “Nicholas!” and when he does not answer, I struggle and try to sit up.
I thrash about… push Christophe away, my elbow sharp in his chest. But he pinions my arms and crushes me to him. I feel his chin pressing down on the top of my head and he begins to sing to me, a soothing lullaby all in French. “
Dodo ma petite, dodo
…”
The sound resonates down through the bones of my skull and down the length of my collarbone, like the gentle buzzing of a bee in the bell of a foxglove. And I feel deathly tired. Christophe’s voice becomes slurred and distant and I tumble down and down into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Chapter 5
C LAIRE
L ater that evening Jacalyn rang. Claire crossed her fingers it would be news about the house in Paris. Taking a deep breath she answered. “Hi.”
“
Et bien
, you were right about the house. How did you know about it?”
“Um… well the police…” Claire’s voice trailed off. If she sounded evasive it didn’t matter, because Jacalyn wasn’t really listening. She had stuff she wanted to tell Claire.
“
Écoutes-moi!
A ‘Robert Benoit’ was named on the title deeds to the house in 1664! So he was using that name then… in Paris at least. And Robert Benoit is still the registered owner. Interesting,
hein
? So then I just had to go and have a look at the house. It is all shuttered up, but I asked around a bit. The woman in the
boulangerie
says there used to be a man who visited often.Long dark hair; wore a black jacket and trousers with a white shirt. Weary looking. Always had a black leather bag with him. That sounds like Robert,
n’est-ce pas
? And a couple of times he came with a young woman. She remembered her because she was very chic. Not beautiful, but smart, with short dark hair and blue eyes. And they both spoke perfect French. Then the visits stopped and now the house is empty. But she said there was a concierge who lived nearby and she gave me her address.”
“Oh,” Claire fought to keep the disappointment out of her voice. “So you didn’t get to look round then.”
“I spoke to the concierge and said I was a student and doing
un projet
on the architecture of seventeenth-century Paris and that the house was something special. You know, I talked it up. The concierge wasn’t impressed one little bit, but then I offered money and she said, ‘
Okay, mais une visite trés vite
.’”
“And? Did you find anything?” Claire knew she was pushing too hard, but she couldn’t help herself.
“What did you think I might find?” Jacalyn’svoice sounded suddenly sharp. “That Robert is alive and well and living in Paris? He isn’t you know.”
“No! It’s just…”
“But it was as if he
were
there. One room upstairs at the back of the house still had that smell… you know it…
cannelle et fleurs
… cinnamon and flowers. The concierge said that the house has been empty for the last two years, but some property company in London was still paying her salary and all the bills.”
Claire’s heart missed a beat when she heard that.
Surely
Jacalyn would wonder why someone was still paying the bills when the owner, Robert, was supposed to be
“Sssh,” he says, “you will need to be calm and lie still on the cart or the shards of glass will travel deep into your flesh and then…” I can tell from his voice and the look on his face that he thinks I might die.
I ought to be mortally afraid, for myself and for the baby. But all I yearn for is a spoonful of sweet, dark, life-giving liquid trickling down my throat. I long for it with a feeling so intense it blots outany other. Except… except… Christophe’s face hovers above me, loving and tender.
I close my eyes and I see only
Nicholas’s
face. Hear only his voice whispering my name. Feel his lips against mine and his fingers caressing the hollow of my throat. I swoon with the pleasure of it. I call out for him, “Nicholas!” and when he does not answer, I struggle and try to sit up.
I thrash about… push Christophe away, my elbow sharp in his chest. But he pinions my arms and crushes me to him. I feel his chin pressing down on the top of my head and he begins to sing to me, a soothing lullaby all in French. “
Dodo ma petite, dodo
…”
The sound resonates down through the bones of my skull and down the length of my collarbone, like the gentle buzzing of a bee in the bell of a foxglove. And I feel deathly tired. Christophe’s voice becomes slurred and distant and I tumble down and down into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Chapter 5
C LAIRE
L ater that evening Jacalyn rang. Claire crossed her fingers it would be news about the house in Paris. Taking a deep breath she answered. “Hi.”
“
Et bien
, you were right about the house. How did you know about it?”
“Um… well the police…” Claire’s voice trailed off. If she sounded evasive it didn’t matter, because Jacalyn wasn’t really listening. She had stuff she wanted to tell Claire.
“
Écoutes-moi!
A ‘Robert Benoit’ was named on the title deeds to the house in 1664! So he was using that name then… in Paris at least. And Robert Benoit is still the registered owner. Interesting,
hein
? So then I just had to go and have a look at the house. It is all shuttered up, but I asked around a bit. The woman in the
boulangerie
says there used to be a man who visited often.Long dark hair; wore a black jacket and trousers with a white shirt. Weary looking. Always had a black leather bag with him. That sounds like Robert,
n’est-ce pas
? And a couple of times he came with a young woman. She remembered her because she was very chic. Not beautiful, but smart, with short dark hair and blue eyes. And they both spoke perfect French. Then the visits stopped and now the house is empty. But she said there was a concierge who lived nearby and she gave me her address.”
“Oh,” Claire fought to keep the disappointment out of her voice. “So you didn’t get to look round then.”
“I spoke to the concierge and said I was a student and doing
un projet
on the architecture of seventeenth-century Paris and that the house was something special. You know, I talked it up. The concierge wasn’t impressed one little bit, but then I offered money and she said, ‘
Okay, mais une visite trés vite
.’”
“And? Did you find anything?” Claire knew she was pushing too hard, but she couldn’t help herself.
“What did you think I might find?” Jacalyn’svoice sounded suddenly sharp. “That Robert is alive and well and living in Paris? He isn’t you know.”
“No! It’s just…”
“But it was as if he
were
there. One room upstairs at the back of the house still had that smell… you know it…
cannelle et fleurs
… cinnamon and flowers. The concierge said that the house has been empty for the last two years, but some property company in London was still paying her salary and all the bills.”
Claire’s heart missed a beat when she heard that.
Surely
Jacalyn would wonder why someone was still paying the bills when the owner, Robert, was supposed to be
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