“Thanks so much!” I called back.
Well, I had two days to wait. And only an hour or two before Vincent was going to be off walking duty. I hope he doesn’t mind hanging out in my room, I thought. After my busy weekend, I was going to have to spend the whole evening doing homework.
TWENTY
MY PHONE RANG ON TUESDAY MORNING AT THE exact second my alarm went off. I checked the caller’s name and then answered. “So, Mr. Punctual, how are you feeling?” I asked.
“Alive. Again. And I’ve been waiting for an hour to call. Didn’t want to wake you before your alarm.” His voice was like a long, cool drink of water to my affection-parched soul.
I smiled. “I don’t have time to stop by before school. And you’re probably too weak to move. In fact, are you feeling better?”
“Yeah, I haven’t gotten out of bed yet. But I looked in a mirror, and I look normal again.”
“Well, that’s a huge relief.”
“I know, but it doesn’t mean I can’t stop. Just four more weeks to go, Kate. So I was calling to say . . . I won’t be able to see you tonight.” My heart dropped. After Sunday’s heartfelt conversation, I so wanted to see him in the flesh. To know that what we had talked about hadn’t just been a dream.
“Can’t you do whatever it is tomorrow?”
“I’m sorry, Kate. It’s really important that I get to it as soon as I’m able.”
I was starting to feel at the end of my rope with this whole project. “What do you want me to say?” I snapped, and then sighed. “Please try to be safe, whatever you do.”
“Thanks for understanding.” Vincent’s voice was apologetic.
“I don’t understand, Vincent.”
“You will soon. Everything’s going to be fine—I swear.”
Yeah. It will. Because I’m going to find another way.
My mood remained dark for the entire school day, and as soon as my last class was over, I booked it to the flea market. It took me a full hour, counting the bus, and the two Métro changes, but finally I was there, standing in front of the little green shop, which was . . . closed.
I had looked it up on the internet, and there was no listing for anything called Le Corbeau. I even Google-mapped it, sifting through the businesses listed in the area near its address. I could see the front of the building on the street view, but there was no mention of the store. It didn’t show up in Yellow Pages searches for religious items. There was no trace of it online.
I had wanted to call ahead of time to make sure they were open—always a good thing to do in France. Shop owners are capricious, opening and closing at their whim. There had been many occasions when I’d schlepped halfway across town only to find locked doors and a sign reading, Temporarily closed. Or no sign at all. Like now.
However, the lights were on in the vintage clothes store. An old-fashioned bell jingled above my head as I opened the door, and I got a whoosh of air in the face that smelled like the inside of old suitcases. “Bonjour, mademoiselle,” came a voice from behind a rack of crinolines. The woman who’d been outside smoking the other day stuck her head over the rack and peered at me expectantly.
“Hi. I was just wondering if you knew about the shop next door—Le Corbeau or whatever it’s called. When will they be open?”
The woman stepped from behind the rack and rolled her eyes. “Them? Oh, you never know. When they’re supposed to be open and when they’re actually open are two very different things. They asked me to keep an eye on the place while they’re gone. They left yesterday—for a couple of weeks, they said. Maybe more.”
Two weeks? I didn’t want to wait that long. But what choice did I have? “Do they have a phone? I could call before I come next time.”
“Nope. Nothing listed, at least.”
I sighed. This trip had been a massive waste of time. Or . . . had it? “So who are the owners?” I asked, determined to learn something. Anything.
The woman put her hands on her h*ps authoritatively, in a pose that practically screamed Gossip Queen. “It’s a man and his elderly mother. They’re kind of . . .” She circled her index finger around her temple in the universal gesture for “crazy.”
“Are they . . . guérisseurs?” I asked hesitantly.
She straightened and raised her eyebrows as comprehension dawned. “So that’s why you’re so eager to find them! What . . . you’ve got migraines? Or warts?”
“Excuse me?”
“Migraines and warts—that’s what the old lady specializes in.”
“Oh,” I said, my heart beating wildly. There was a guérisseur managing the relics shop—I was on the right track! My thoughts raced ahead, and it took a concentrated effort to pull them back to the conversation. “Um, migraines . . . I have migraines.”
“Well, then you come back. She’ll fix you up. I had my aunt go to her. Used to have migraines so bad they had to take her to the hospital three or four times a year. But ever since she saw the old lady, she hasn’t had a one.”
“And the son? Is he a guérisseur too?”
“Well, you know how it works. He’s probably next in line for the gift. When she gets tired of using it, she’ll pass it on to him.”
I thought about what Mamie had told me. “I heard that guérisseurs are becoming rare because the younger generation doesn’t want to take on the gift.”
“Oh, he’ll take it, all right. I guarantee you. Like I said, they’re both kind of . . .” And she made the crazy sign again. “While he’s waiting for her to ‘retire,’ he takes care of the store . . . and his mother. A good son. Unlike mine”—she shook her head in desperation—“who is a total loser. Keeps having run-ins with the police.”
“Ah, thanks for the information,” I said, quickly extricating myself from what threatened to be a long and painful conversation. I waved as I left, and she waved back, calling, “Come back in two weeks. Two and a half, maybe, just to be safe.”
The next Saturday, just after noon, I was lying in Vincent’s room when I got a call from Ambrose. “Guess who I ran into, Katie-Lou? Or who ran into me, rather, and has appropriated my café table until I agree to comply with her wishes.”
I smiled. “Pass Georgia the phone.”
My sister’s voice, complete with fake Southern accent, came across the line. “Hi, little sister. My lunch date bailed, but fortunately I ran into this hunk o’ burnin’ love, and he has gallantly offered to escort me around town today. I hadn’t planned on doing anything really, but I figure it would be a waste not to show him off.”
I could hear Ambrose’s voice from behind her. “I told you I was busy today. No offense, but I have other things to do than take you to an afternoon-long artist-studio tour.”
“Oh shush,” I heard my sister chide. “You know you want to. With all the cute hip art chicks we’ll meet, you’ll be thanking me in a few hours.”
I laughed. “Where are you?”
“At the Café Sainte-Lucie. Oh, and Ambrose said you would all come along to Sebastien’s gig tonight.” Damn. I had totally forgotten to tell Vincent about the concert.
“I did not!” I heard Ambrose’s retort. “I only said I would ask Vincent. . . .”
“Tell Vincent Ambrose wants to go,” Georgia said, ignoring him. “Oh, and tell Jules and Arthur to come too. Seb’s group’s opening for a really good British band. I can get everyone in.”
“Please don’t tell me it’s anywhere near Denfert,” I said, recalling the numa-infested neighborhood where Lucien’s club had been.
“Nope. It’s on rue des Martyrs near all the other live-music venues. Just south of Montmartre,” she responded. “Ambrose wants the phone back.”
“I just want to make it clear that I didn’t commit us to anything,” Ambrose boomed in his baritone voice. My phone beeped as another call came through. It was from Georgia’s number. I put Ambrose on hold.
“I wasn’t through talking.” I heard her giggle as Ambrose grabbed her phone away. “Just make sure you’re there. Nine p.m. Divans du Monde,” she yelled as both her and Ambrose’s numbers disappeared off my screen.
“You think Ambrose is safe in the hands of your force-of-nature sister?” asked Vincent from across the room. I was lying on his couch with a Modern European Society textbook propped on my chest. It was a part of my deal with Papy and Mamie: I could spend most of the weekend at Vincent’s house as long as I got my homework done.
Since I had no clue what I would do after high school, I had forbidden Vincent to bring up the topic. But I assumed it would include some sort of higher education. And now that I had a good reason to stay in Paris, I needed to keep my grades up to have my choice of universities. Even so, a year and a half seemed a lifetime away, and with Vincent nearby, it was hard to stay focused.
“Georgia’s just manipulated us into going to hear her boyfriend’s band tonight,” I said, settling back into my history book.
“Great idea,” Vincent responded, looking back down at his laptop. “Arthur and Violette need to learn to loosen up.”
I didn’t mention that Georgia had left Violette out of the invitation—purposely, I was sure. Maybe a night out with Georgia would clear things up between the two—if they could both remain civil throughout the evening. I thought of their opposing personalities and squirmed.
“Besides, I haven’t met Georgia’s new man yet,” Vincent continued. “I should have already checked him out by now for numa connections.”
I couldn’t tell whether he was joking or not. “Besides his tragic hipness, he seems pretty harmless,” I said, turning a page in my book. I gave him a playful grin and said, “Come here for a second.”
“Oh no you don’t,” he responded, his lips curving mischievously. “I have to finish this email to Charlotte, and you have to finish your European history.”
“But dating you is like having my own walking, talking history book. I don’t need to study. I didn’t even research my last two papers. I just sat back and listened to you talk.”
“Yeah, well, your teacher might find it a bit suspicious if you dragged me along to feed you answers on the exam.”
“Hey—that’s a really great idea!” I said, meaning it. “What if you’re volant during finals?”
Vincent shook his head in despair and turned back to his screen.
“No, really, come here just for a minute,” I said innocently. “I have a really important question about the Second World War.”
“Okay,” he sighed. He pressed send and closed the laptop, then came over to sit next to me. It had been only a few days since his last dormancy, and already the dark circles were starting to form under his eyes. His fatigue lent an air of fragility to his normally bursting-with-vitality demeanor. It made me want to protect him from whatever was hurting him. As if reading my mind, he eyed me carefully. “So . . . what’s the question?”
Tearing my eyes from his face, I glanced back at the page for inspiration. “So I’m reading about the Resistance fighters who would ride their bikes from Paris out to you guys—the Maquis—in the countryside to pass you orders from the central command.”
Vincent nodded. “It was dangerous. Messengers were sometimes caught. So they chose people who wouldn’t be suspected by the German soldiers. Women and children were often given the job.” He hesitated. “So what’s your question?”
“It’s kind of specific,” I said, playing for time as I searched for something to ask. His proximity was what I wanted, but it sure didn’t help me focus.
Vincent’s eyes narrowed, and a doubtful smile formed on his lips.
“Um, did you Maquis guys ever get lonely while you were hiding out in the forests and planning ambushes on the Germans?” I reached out my hand and began playing with the back of his hair as I slowly pulled his face toward mine.
“What does this have to do with your homework?” he asked skeptically.
“Nothing,” I replied. “I was just wondering what would have happened if I had been this sexy Resistance messenger who came from Paris to meet you in the woods. At night.”
“Kate,” Vincent said, eyes wide with amused bewilderment. “This is the lamest procrastination scheme I have ever heard. It almost counts as entrapment.”
“So, I ride up on my old wartime bike to your camp,” I continued, ignoring his protest. “Keep in mind, you haven’t seen another human for weeks. What do you do, soldier boy?” I said, doing my best Greta Garbo impersonation.
Vincent leapt on me, pushing me backward onto the couch and kissing me enthusiastically all over as I dissolved into a fit of hysterics.
TWENTY-ONE
VIOLETTE AND ARTHUR WERE WAITING FOR US next to the club’s front door. Dressed appropriately for a night out, Arthur, for once, looked his original age. He wore a band T-shirt lent to him by Vincent, over some black jeans. Without his regular button-up shirt and ascot, he was actually pretty hot. Too bad he’s an aristocratic snob, I thought as I saw Georgia look him over appreciatively, managing to completely ignore Violette’s presence as she did.
The little revenant walked up to me and kissed my cheeks. “We haven’t had a movie date in a whole week!” she said, reprimanding me with a joking smile.
Well, I had two days to wait. And only an hour or two before Vincent was going to be off walking duty. I hope he doesn’t mind hanging out in my room, I thought. After my busy weekend, I was going to have to spend the whole evening doing homework.
TWENTY
MY PHONE RANG ON TUESDAY MORNING AT THE exact second my alarm went off. I checked the caller’s name and then answered. “So, Mr. Punctual, how are you feeling?” I asked.
“Alive. Again. And I’ve been waiting for an hour to call. Didn’t want to wake you before your alarm.” His voice was like a long, cool drink of water to my affection-parched soul.
I smiled. “I don’t have time to stop by before school. And you’re probably too weak to move. In fact, are you feeling better?”
“Yeah, I haven’t gotten out of bed yet. But I looked in a mirror, and I look normal again.”
“Well, that’s a huge relief.”
“I know, but it doesn’t mean I can’t stop. Just four more weeks to go, Kate. So I was calling to say . . . I won’t be able to see you tonight.” My heart dropped. After Sunday’s heartfelt conversation, I so wanted to see him in the flesh. To know that what we had talked about hadn’t just been a dream.
“Can’t you do whatever it is tomorrow?”
“I’m sorry, Kate. It’s really important that I get to it as soon as I’m able.”
I was starting to feel at the end of my rope with this whole project. “What do you want me to say?” I snapped, and then sighed. “Please try to be safe, whatever you do.”
“Thanks for understanding.” Vincent’s voice was apologetic.
“I don’t understand, Vincent.”
“You will soon. Everything’s going to be fine—I swear.”
Yeah. It will. Because I’m going to find another way.
My mood remained dark for the entire school day, and as soon as my last class was over, I booked it to the flea market. It took me a full hour, counting the bus, and the two Métro changes, but finally I was there, standing in front of the little green shop, which was . . . closed.
I had looked it up on the internet, and there was no listing for anything called Le Corbeau. I even Google-mapped it, sifting through the businesses listed in the area near its address. I could see the front of the building on the street view, but there was no mention of the store. It didn’t show up in Yellow Pages searches for religious items. There was no trace of it online.
I had wanted to call ahead of time to make sure they were open—always a good thing to do in France. Shop owners are capricious, opening and closing at their whim. There had been many occasions when I’d schlepped halfway across town only to find locked doors and a sign reading, Temporarily closed. Or no sign at all. Like now.
However, the lights were on in the vintage clothes store. An old-fashioned bell jingled above my head as I opened the door, and I got a whoosh of air in the face that smelled like the inside of old suitcases. “Bonjour, mademoiselle,” came a voice from behind a rack of crinolines. The woman who’d been outside smoking the other day stuck her head over the rack and peered at me expectantly.
“Hi. I was just wondering if you knew about the shop next door—Le Corbeau or whatever it’s called. When will they be open?”
The woman stepped from behind the rack and rolled her eyes. “Them? Oh, you never know. When they’re supposed to be open and when they’re actually open are two very different things. They asked me to keep an eye on the place while they’re gone. They left yesterday—for a couple of weeks, they said. Maybe more.”
Two weeks? I didn’t want to wait that long. But what choice did I have? “Do they have a phone? I could call before I come next time.”
“Nope. Nothing listed, at least.”
I sighed. This trip had been a massive waste of time. Or . . . had it? “So who are the owners?” I asked, determined to learn something. Anything.
The woman put her hands on her h*ps authoritatively, in a pose that practically screamed Gossip Queen. “It’s a man and his elderly mother. They’re kind of . . .” She circled her index finger around her temple in the universal gesture for “crazy.”
“Are they . . . guérisseurs?” I asked hesitantly.
She straightened and raised her eyebrows as comprehension dawned. “So that’s why you’re so eager to find them! What . . . you’ve got migraines? Or warts?”
“Excuse me?”
“Migraines and warts—that’s what the old lady specializes in.”
“Oh,” I said, my heart beating wildly. There was a guérisseur managing the relics shop—I was on the right track! My thoughts raced ahead, and it took a concentrated effort to pull them back to the conversation. “Um, migraines . . . I have migraines.”
“Well, then you come back. She’ll fix you up. I had my aunt go to her. Used to have migraines so bad they had to take her to the hospital three or four times a year. But ever since she saw the old lady, she hasn’t had a one.”
“And the son? Is he a guérisseur too?”
“Well, you know how it works. He’s probably next in line for the gift. When she gets tired of using it, she’ll pass it on to him.”
I thought about what Mamie had told me. “I heard that guérisseurs are becoming rare because the younger generation doesn’t want to take on the gift.”
“Oh, he’ll take it, all right. I guarantee you. Like I said, they’re both kind of . . .” And she made the crazy sign again. “While he’s waiting for her to ‘retire,’ he takes care of the store . . . and his mother. A good son. Unlike mine”—she shook her head in desperation—“who is a total loser. Keeps having run-ins with the police.”
“Ah, thanks for the information,” I said, quickly extricating myself from what threatened to be a long and painful conversation. I waved as I left, and she waved back, calling, “Come back in two weeks. Two and a half, maybe, just to be safe.”
The next Saturday, just after noon, I was lying in Vincent’s room when I got a call from Ambrose. “Guess who I ran into, Katie-Lou? Or who ran into me, rather, and has appropriated my café table until I agree to comply with her wishes.”
I smiled. “Pass Georgia the phone.”
My sister’s voice, complete with fake Southern accent, came across the line. “Hi, little sister. My lunch date bailed, but fortunately I ran into this hunk o’ burnin’ love, and he has gallantly offered to escort me around town today. I hadn’t planned on doing anything really, but I figure it would be a waste not to show him off.”
I could hear Ambrose’s voice from behind her. “I told you I was busy today. No offense, but I have other things to do than take you to an afternoon-long artist-studio tour.”
“Oh shush,” I heard my sister chide. “You know you want to. With all the cute hip art chicks we’ll meet, you’ll be thanking me in a few hours.”
I laughed. “Where are you?”
“At the Café Sainte-Lucie. Oh, and Ambrose said you would all come along to Sebastien’s gig tonight.” Damn. I had totally forgotten to tell Vincent about the concert.
“I did not!” I heard Ambrose’s retort. “I only said I would ask Vincent. . . .”
“Tell Vincent Ambrose wants to go,” Georgia said, ignoring him. “Oh, and tell Jules and Arthur to come too. Seb’s group’s opening for a really good British band. I can get everyone in.”
“Please don’t tell me it’s anywhere near Denfert,” I said, recalling the numa-infested neighborhood where Lucien’s club had been.
“Nope. It’s on rue des Martyrs near all the other live-music venues. Just south of Montmartre,” she responded. “Ambrose wants the phone back.”
“I just want to make it clear that I didn’t commit us to anything,” Ambrose boomed in his baritone voice. My phone beeped as another call came through. It was from Georgia’s number. I put Ambrose on hold.
“I wasn’t through talking.” I heard her giggle as Ambrose grabbed her phone away. “Just make sure you’re there. Nine p.m. Divans du Monde,” she yelled as both her and Ambrose’s numbers disappeared off my screen.
“You think Ambrose is safe in the hands of your force-of-nature sister?” asked Vincent from across the room. I was lying on his couch with a Modern European Society textbook propped on my chest. It was a part of my deal with Papy and Mamie: I could spend most of the weekend at Vincent’s house as long as I got my homework done.
Since I had no clue what I would do after high school, I had forbidden Vincent to bring up the topic. But I assumed it would include some sort of higher education. And now that I had a good reason to stay in Paris, I needed to keep my grades up to have my choice of universities. Even so, a year and a half seemed a lifetime away, and with Vincent nearby, it was hard to stay focused.
“Georgia’s just manipulated us into going to hear her boyfriend’s band tonight,” I said, settling back into my history book.
“Great idea,” Vincent responded, looking back down at his laptop. “Arthur and Violette need to learn to loosen up.”
I didn’t mention that Georgia had left Violette out of the invitation—purposely, I was sure. Maybe a night out with Georgia would clear things up between the two—if they could both remain civil throughout the evening. I thought of their opposing personalities and squirmed.
“Besides, I haven’t met Georgia’s new man yet,” Vincent continued. “I should have already checked him out by now for numa connections.”
I couldn’t tell whether he was joking or not. “Besides his tragic hipness, he seems pretty harmless,” I said, turning a page in my book. I gave him a playful grin and said, “Come here for a second.”
“Oh no you don’t,” he responded, his lips curving mischievously. “I have to finish this email to Charlotte, and you have to finish your European history.”
“But dating you is like having my own walking, talking history book. I don’t need to study. I didn’t even research my last two papers. I just sat back and listened to you talk.”
“Yeah, well, your teacher might find it a bit suspicious if you dragged me along to feed you answers on the exam.”
“Hey—that’s a really great idea!” I said, meaning it. “What if you’re volant during finals?”
Vincent shook his head in despair and turned back to his screen.
“No, really, come here just for a minute,” I said innocently. “I have a really important question about the Second World War.”
“Okay,” he sighed. He pressed send and closed the laptop, then came over to sit next to me. It had been only a few days since his last dormancy, and already the dark circles were starting to form under his eyes. His fatigue lent an air of fragility to his normally bursting-with-vitality demeanor. It made me want to protect him from whatever was hurting him. As if reading my mind, he eyed me carefully. “So . . . what’s the question?”
Tearing my eyes from his face, I glanced back at the page for inspiration. “So I’m reading about the Resistance fighters who would ride their bikes from Paris out to you guys—the Maquis—in the countryside to pass you orders from the central command.”
Vincent nodded. “It was dangerous. Messengers were sometimes caught. So they chose people who wouldn’t be suspected by the German soldiers. Women and children were often given the job.” He hesitated. “So what’s your question?”
“It’s kind of specific,” I said, playing for time as I searched for something to ask. His proximity was what I wanted, but it sure didn’t help me focus.
Vincent’s eyes narrowed, and a doubtful smile formed on his lips.
“Um, did you Maquis guys ever get lonely while you were hiding out in the forests and planning ambushes on the Germans?” I reached out my hand and began playing with the back of his hair as I slowly pulled his face toward mine.
“What does this have to do with your homework?” he asked skeptically.
“Nothing,” I replied. “I was just wondering what would have happened if I had been this sexy Resistance messenger who came from Paris to meet you in the woods. At night.”
“Kate,” Vincent said, eyes wide with amused bewilderment. “This is the lamest procrastination scheme I have ever heard. It almost counts as entrapment.”
“So, I ride up on my old wartime bike to your camp,” I continued, ignoring his protest. “Keep in mind, you haven’t seen another human for weeks. What do you do, soldier boy?” I said, doing my best Greta Garbo impersonation.
Vincent leapt on me, pushing me backward onto the couch and kissing me enthusiastically all over as I dissolved into a fit of hysterics.
TWENTY-ONE
VIOLETTE AND ARTHUR WERE WAITING FOR US next to the club’s front door. Dressed appropriately for a night out, Arthur, for once, looked his original age. He wore a band T-shirt lent to him by Vincent, over some black jeans. Without his regular button-up shirt and ascot, he was actually pretty hot. Too bad he’s an aristocratic snob, I thought as I saw Georgia look him over appreciatively, managing to completely ignore Violette’s presence as she did.
The little revenant walked up to me and kissed my cheeks. “We haven’t had a movie date in a whole week!” she said, reprimanding me with a joking smile.
