Until I Die - By Amy Plum Page 0,35

lunch?”

Violette shook her head with an expression of alarm as she realized what she had gotten herself into.

I reached under the table for my book bag, pulled out a worn copy of Pariscope—the weekly guide for Paris events—and flipped back to the cinema section. Scanning the classic film pages, I searched for something that would be worthy of someone’s very first film ever.

A few hours later I squinted in the bright January sun, as Violette and I walked out the doors of a vintage-film cinema. Above us hung a billboard for Alfred Hitchcock’s Notorious.

“So,” I asked, glancing toward her. “What did you think?”

A broad grin—the grin of a fourteen-year-old, for once, instead of a centuries-wizened old woman—spread across Violette’s face. “Oh, Kate. It was amazing.” Her voice was hushed with awe. She grabbed my hand. “When can we do it again?”

TWELVE

VINCENT CALLED THAT NIGHT, APOLOGIZING FOR disappearing for the day. He had already sent a couple of texts, and from their tone, he was obviously feeling guilty about something and trying to make up for it.

“It’s okay, Vincent. I actually spent the whole day with Violette.”

“You did?” Although he sounded tired, I could hear the surprise in his voice.

“Yeah, she was supposed to walk me home, but I took her out for lunch instead. What was up with the numa alert, anyway? Jules said some might be lurking around your neighborhood.”

“Nothing. It was a bad tip, actually. Violette told Jean-Baptiste to call off the alert tonight. Everything’s as it was before: invisible numa ready to jump out when we least expect it.”

“Well, you were right about Violette. She’s actually really nice. It’s just Arthur with the ‘humans suck’ attitude problem. I think I’m just going to avoid him as much as possible.”

“That’s probably a good plan.” Vincent sounded exhausted and distracted. Whatever he had been up to today, it had definitely taken its toll. He didn’t sound like himself.

“Vincent, I’d better go. You sound beat.”

“No, no. I want to talk,” he said quickly. “So tell me: What are you doing, mon ange?”

“Reading.”

“Not surprising,” he laughed, “coming from Paris’s most voracious devourer of books. Is it something I’ve read?”

I flipped to the front of the book. “Well, it was published four years after you were born, but was banned for most of your life—existence. At least in its uncensored version.”

“Written in 1928 but banned for years. Hmm. Does it have a passage about entering the peace on earth, by any chance?”

“Vincent, you skipped straight to the sex scene! Lady Chatterley’s Lover is about a lot more than a tumble in the gamekeeper’s hut, you know!” I chided jokingly.

“Mmm. Tumbling sounds really good about now.”

My heart hiccuped, but I tried to sound calm. “You know, that is one of my favorite daydreams. Tumbling with you, not gamekeepers.” I grinned, wondering what effect my taunting was having on him.

“Are your grandparents home?” he asked after a pause, his voice sounding suspiciously husky.

“Yes.”

He cleared his throat. “Good thing, or I’d have to come over and ravish you on the spot. They do talk about ravishing in that book, don’t they?”

I laughed. “I haven’t gotten to any ravishing parts yet. But ravishing and tumbling … I’m not sure I’m available for that, since I have a date with this hot dead dude tomorrow night.”

“Okay, I get it. A very wise change of subject.” He laughed. “So … you haven’t forgotten?” I could hear his tired smile over the phone line.

“Forget a date to see the Bolshoi Ballet at the Opéra Garnier? In our own private theater box? Uh, no—I don’t think that would be possible.”

“Good,” he said. “Be there at six to pick you up.” These last words were barely audible. It sounded like he was not only tired but in pain. What had he been doing? Now I was past curiosity and entering very concerned territory.

“See you then. Can’t wait …,” I said, and as I hung up I finished the sentence in my mind: to find out what you’re up to. If he was as worn down tomorrow night as he sounded now, I might just be able to convince him to talk.

Vincent stood outside my door dressed in his tux, his black hair pushed back off his face in waves. It was like a repeat of my birthday evening: him in his tux and me in the red Asian-patterned long dress he had bought me, worn under Mamie’s floor-length black-hooded coat. Vincent’s eyes shone appreciatively when he saw me, and once we