Mad, Bad & Dangerous to Know - Samira Ahmed Page 0,25

a private interview, that you may teach me a small part of what you know. I am eternally working, all hours of the day. But you need only raise your hand in summons, and I shall abandon pen and paper for a mere moment in your presence.

All the wisdom I have known as a man is summed up in the words with which I leave you: I wait and hope.

Ever yours,

My fingers curl into my palms. I can’t tell if I’m breathing anymore. I am in agony. Same, Alexandre Dumas, père, same. I’m trying not to stare at my Alexandre’s perfectly pillowy bottom lip.

“Khayyam? What do you think?” Alexandre’s voice pulls me back into the moment. Crap. Did he notice me staring at his lips? At least he can’t read my thoughts.

I sigh and give my head a little shake. “That is some seriously eloquent begging.”

Alexandre chuckles. “Yeah, from a man who could have any woman.”

I tilt my head and raise an eyebrow. “That’s presumptuous, don’t you think? Even if he is your family.”

“I’m sorry, but he was extremely popular with the ladies. Lucky man.”

I’m sure my voice betrays a hint of annoyance. “You sound jealous of his, what, entourage? Harem?”

“Jealous? Not at all.” Alexandre locks eyes with me. “I told you I’m not like him. I prefer to focus my attentions on only one woman.”

I look away for a second, my cheeks burning. When I swivel my head back, he’s still smiling at me. “Um”—I clear my throat—“is that the only clue? A letter from 1844?”

“And the notes from the Delacroix archives.”

“Since we’re not Sherlock Holmes, we’re going to need more than a couple letters and some doodles to solve the great mystery of who the raven-haired lady is, if she even existed. For all we know, that letter could’ve been a draft for part of a novel.”

“She’s definitely real. I feel it in my gut. Dumas was a man with strong desires who could get what he wanted.”

“Maybe this woman didn’t want him or didn’t want to be another one of his conquests.” As the words come out of my mouth, I realize I’m being defensive on behalf of an unnamed, possibly fictional, woman from the nineteenth century. But someone has to defend her honor, and it might as well be me.

“That would make this mystery even more intriguing. The woman who says no to the man who always heard yes.”

Alexandre’s words cut through me. Whoever this raven-haired woman was, I kind of hope she was the woman who said no to Dumas but yes to herself. I feel a sudden urgency to know more about her right now. “There have to be more traces of her in the historical record. She couldn’t have just vanished.”

“People are lost in history all the time.” Alexandre shrugs. “C’est la vie.”

I imagine a life that completely falls through the cracks. A person no one remembers. Unloved. Forgotten. Expendable. Like Alexandre Dumas’s grandmother. Like my own grand-mère. Once I’m dead, no one will have a living memory of her. I think of this raven-haired woman who inspired Dumas’s passion. A woman who doesn’t even get a name of her own. There are literally centuries of women who never got to tell their stories. An invisible hand squeezes my heart for the nameless women history brushed aside. I thought before that maybe Dumas was reaching through time to help me, but it’s not him. It’s this forgotten woman who’s holding her hand out, and I’m not going to let her stay lost. She was a real, live person who walked these streets, and she must’ve left her mark somewhere, even if it’s hidden. Maybe no one else cared enough about her to write her name into history books, but I do.

I take a deep breath and look at Alexandre. “Cherchez la femme, trouvez le trésor. If we find her, we find the treasure. We’re going to raise the dead.”

He smiles. “Les nécromanciens.”

“Dude, I don’t mean black magic. Indians do not play with that.”

This inspires a head-thrown-back laugh from Alexandre. That act is startlingly un-French.