Until I Die - By Plum, Amy Page 0,46

word by word. still speaking of the powerful healer, the man told Goderic, “From his family will come the one to see the victor. If anyone holds the key to your plight, it will be the VictorSeer’s clan. He lives in a faraway land, among les A . . . . . . . . . . , and can be found under the Sign of the Cord, selling relics to the pilgrims.”

My heart skipped a beat. There was a word crossed out. An essential word. After the capital A, a thick line of black ink had obscured the rest of the word, making it impossible to know among whom the healer lived. Someone had purposely drawn through it. Someone who didn’t want the healer to be found, I thought.

I forced myself to keep reading, hoping that the word would recur later, but it didn’t. Goderic and Else began traveling north, but she contracted another ill ness along the way and died in Goderic’s arms. He was so distraught that he traveled to the city and hunted down a numa, who “delivered him from life.”

By the time I finished, it was two in the morning.

Who knew if there was even a grain of truth in the story? But if there was someone who could help me and Vincent, I wouldn’t stop until I found him.

However, before I could, I had to locate another copy of the book—a copy that hadn’t been tampered with. And I knew just the place to start.

Although I slept only a few hours, I was wide awake as soon as my alarm sounded. I had set it early so that I could catch Mamie before she went up to her restoration studio and got lost in her work. But when I got to the kitchen, I saw I was too late: Mamie’s breakfast dishes were already in the sink, and the white work apron she wore while restoring paintings was missing from its hook by the door.

I sliced a baguette in half, cut it lengthwise, and then smoothed a chunk of salty butter along my bread. A little dab of homemade jam from the quince tree in my grandparents’ country garden, and I was holding a traditional tartine. Simple but delicious. I wrapped it in a napkin and carried it up the stairs with me.

Walking into Mamie’s studio was like entering another world—an oil-paint-and-turpentine-scented world—populated by the subjects of centuries of paintings. Young aristocratic mothers with perfectly dressed children and ribbon-festooned dogs playing at their feet. Mournful-looking cows, cud chewing in the midst of a fog-blanketed pasture. Tiny saints kneeling in front of a cross, with a jumbo-size Jesus hanging on it, bloody and twisted.

Anything and everything was in Mamie’s world. No wonder I had spent my every free moment as a child up here.

My grandmother was brushing a clear liquid onto the surface of a time-darkened painting of Roman ruins. “Hi, Mamie!” I said, as I walked up behind her and plopped down onto a stool. I took a bite of tartine as I watched her work.

She carefully finished her brushstroke, and then turned, smiling brightly. “You’re up early, Katya!” She made a gesture that indicated that if her hands weren’t full, she would kiss me. I smiled. The all-important first-time-I-see-you-in-the-day cheek-kisses. I would never get used to letting someone get that near my mouth before having the chance to brush my teeth.

“Yeah. I had some stuff I needed to do before school. And I was just thinking about something I heard at the market the other day. I thought you could explain it.”

Mamie nodded expectantly.

“This woman was talking about finding a guérisseur. For her eczema, I think it was. And I’ve heard of guérisseurs —I know the word means

‘healer’—but I don’t really understand how they work. Are they kind of like the faith healers we have in the States?”

“Oh, no.” Mamie shook her head vigorously and tsked reproachfully. She placed her paintbrush in a jar of liquid and wiped her hands on a towel.

From this enthusiastic response, I knew I was in for a good story. Mamie loved telling me about French traditions that I didn’t already know about, and the weirder the topic, the more she enjoyed it.

“Pas du tout. Guérisseurs have nothing to do with faith, although some claim that their healings are psychosomatic.” I laughed as I watched her become animated, warming up to her story. “But I, for one, know that’s not the case.” Voilà! I thought. Trust Mamie to