Die Once More by Amy Plum Page B

and lead her up the winding front staircase, down the hallway past the library, and up the second set of stairs.
    â€œAre we going to your room?” she asks.
    â€œNo. Better,” I say, and passing my door, climb a few more steps and push open the trapdoor to the roof. It’s pitch dark. I breathe a sigh of relief—no one else has had this idea—and I help her step out onto the dark roof before switching on the fairy lights.
    â€œOh, Jules!” she breathes, and raises her hands to her mouth, gazing around in wonder. Paris lies before us, lit up in all its nighttime magical glory. I smile. She’s happy. I’m happy. If only it could last.
    I open a cupboard near the door, pull out a few cushions and a blanket, and carry them over to a couch positioned at the edge of the roof that has the best view. “Milady?” I say, holding a hand out to her.
    Speechless, she settles onto the couch, and I drape the blanket around her shoulders and sit down next to her.
    â€œSo . . . you were saying?”
    She laughs, and takes a moment to reorganize her thoughts. “Right. Okay. I was saying . . . you seem so good here. Your kindred want you here. Are you sure you want to go back to New York tomorrow?”
    â€œYes, and I’m going to tell you why.”
    Ava watches me, head cocked to one side, waiting to hear what I have to say. My heartbeat accelerates under the scrutiny of her gaze. Should I? Shouldn’t I? Should I . . . oh hell . . .
    â€œI have a reason. You see, there’s this girl.”
    â€œGirl?”
    â€œWoman, rather, who I’m just getting to know. Who I would like to know better.”
    â€œWhat’s she like?” Ava asks, a broad smile spreading across her lips.
    â€œYou’re fishing!” I say, pointing at her and narrowing my eyes.
    â€œInnocent curiosity, I swear.” She makes the smile disappear and tries to look serious.
    â€œWell, for one thing, she’s drop-dead gorgeous and has the most interesting, unique look. A look that makes you want to keep on looking. Like your eyes are glued to her, and you can’t rip them away.”
    â€œRipping glued eyes, got it,” she says.
    â€œBut I’m not the kind of guy who thinks that beauty’s skin-deep. There’s a lot more to her than meets the eye. You see, this girl’s damaged”—Ava recoils slightly, and I put my hand up—“like most people who have lived through traumatic events. But she’s taken that pain and done something beautiful with it. She let it make her stronger. And people love her for that.”
    Ava just sits there, eyes wide, like she can’t believe what she’s hearing.
    I drape my arm across the back of the couch and lean toward her. Here goes nothing. “Ava, I need you to know that this is very uncharacteristic of me . . . being this straightforward. But you have suffered in the past from someone deceiving you, so I am making it a point to be honest. Painfully so. The pain being allmine, I assure you.” I exhale and massage my temples with my fingertips.
    Ava shakes her head in awe. “I thought I knew you, before I even knew you . . . and it turns out I didn’t know you at all.”
    â€œI’m not the same person I was before,” I say, and I mean it. “I’ve changed.”
    Her gaze drops. “A broken heart can do that.”
    â€œHearts mend,” I say. “Especially when they have a good reason to.”
    Ava looks up and studies my face like it’s one of her art books, like she’s trying to see me from every possible angle, through all the layers into my core. Finally she tips her head and asks, “Are you saying that you like me, Jules Marchenoir?”
    â€œI am saying that I like you very much indeed, Ava Whitefoot.”
    With a delighted grin, she crosses her arms and looks out over Paris.
    I wait.
    Are my palms