Mad, Bad & Dangerous to Know - Samira Ahmed Page 0,24
one way to put it.”
“So your dad is blasé about the whole being related to a famous writer and having art from his famous friends on your wall.”
“He’s French; of course he’s blasé. It’s a requirement for nationality.” He gives me his easy, whole-rogue half-grin. But for the first time, it strikes me that his smile is disarming enough to easily hide the truth.
I laugh. “Well, I’m French also, and you don’t see me being all blasé about the Delacroix in my house. Besides, being sentimental is pretty damn French, too.”
“It’s possible to be both at the same time, I guess? About the same thing? Perhaps there is something or someone in your life like that, no?”
I swear, Alexandre’s been reading my diary. If I had one. I wish I could be blasé about Zaid’s friendly cameos in various Instagram feeds. It’s a scandal, but only in my mind, because it’s not exactly shocking that a cute, single eighteen-year-old boy is snapping selfies with gorgeous girls the summer before he leaves for college. A bitter taste coats my tongue as I imagine the pictures, which I absolutely should not have been looking for. I’m a glutton for punishment. This would be the exact right moment for me to be as French and c’est la vie as possible. But the emotional side of me, the one I try to hide, won’t let me let go.
Clearing my throat, I nod to the thick folder in his hand. “What did you want to show me?”
Alexandre guides me over to the sofa and places the folder on the coffee table, then pops into the kitchen. I allow myself to relax into the pillows. A million thoughts race through my mind, but this stunning, perfect light streams across my body in wide slants. I let my eyes close for a second. I sink deeper into the couch. I feel like a cat stretching out, ready for a delicious nap.
“You look like a painting.” Alexandre stands above me with two bottles of Orangina that he places on the table. No coasters. Water rings be damned. Maybe that’s why all the furniture feels worn. Alexandre’s dad is blasé about being a Dumas, and Alexandre is blasé about wrecking old furniture.
I straighten, and our arms and thighs brush while he settles in next to me, the temperature on the couch rising as the heat pours off me in waves. Alexandre grazes my knee as he reaches over to grab the folder from the table. I suck in my breath. Focus, Khayyam. There’s a reason you’re here. And it’s research, not romance.
Alexandre leans into me as he fingers the file. I feel a little flutter in my stomach, only it’s not the kind indicating several orders of magnitude of vomiting. It’s worse. It’s the kind that suggests I’m about to make things extremely complicated for myself. I let Zaid distract me to the point of failure when I was researching my paper for the Art Institute. I can’t make that same mistake again. No matter how much I may want to.
Alexandre unsheathes a letter and reads to me: “Chère Madame aux cheveux raven.” He stops and looks at me.
“I’m listening,” I assure him.
“Have you noticed he uses the English word raven? Like Delacroix did.”
“He should say, ‘cheveux noirs.’ Black hair. Right? Or ‘corbeau,’ if he wanted to use ravenlike as a more poetic descriptor.” It’s odd. Odd is good. Odd can mean a clue.
“Absolutely. It could mean he heard that somewhere or—”
“Or that the raven-haired lady could be English. Read the rest of it.” I’m intrigued, impatient. A teensy part of me wants to forget the letter so I can kiss this swoony boy right now. But I can’t let that distract me from what I need. Digging up old buried secrets might be the one way I can fix my life.
But the way Alexandre keeps glancing up at me through the tousled brown hair that falls over his eyes isn’t helping me focus.
He continues:
October 3, 1844
Chère Madame aux cheveux raven,
I am in agony.
Please relieve me from this despair and grace me with