Until I Die - By Plum, Amy Page 0,52

whole story.

“Wow—you booklifted something from Jean-Baptiste’s library?”

“Just for a day. I don’t know why I couldn’t just show it to Violette.”

Georgia lifted an eyebrow to show me her feelings for Violette were unchanged.

“Anyway, so now I have this mysterious information to go on, and am going to sleuth around Saint-Ouen looking for some nameless healer whose family might have died out centuries ago.”

“Sleuthing. That’s so Nancy Drew.” Georgia smiled. “Gonna have to get you a pencil skirt and an oversize magnifying glass.” Her expression changed from silly to serious in a second flat. “So, what can I do to help?”

“Well, first of all, you can help me return the book to Papy’s gall ery. Distract him while I put it back where I got it. But after that, I think I’d rather do the sleuthing alone, since I have no clue where I should even look first.”

“Deal. But just let me know if you ever want me to come along.”

I smiled my thanks. “Oh, and don’t mention anything to Vincent. I don’t want him to know what I’m doing until I’m sure I’m onto something. He’s kind of been . . . doing his own thing that he’s not telling me about.”

I had meant it to sound flippant, but my voice cracked and gave me away. My sister’s eyes filled with sympathy. “Oh no, Katie-Bean. What’s going on?”

“It’s something he’s doing to make things easier on us—some kind of test. But he doesn’t want to talk about it because he thinks it will freak me out. Whatever it is, it’s not good for him. He looks worn out. And beat up. I’m just afraid it’s dangerous.”

“Oh, little sister,” Georgia said, and leaning over, took me in her arms. She gave me an affectionate squeeze before sitting back and considering what I had said.

“Well . . . first of all, I hope that your instincts are wrong and that Vincent’s not doing anything stupid. But secondly, I think you’re totally right about striking out on your own, Katie-Bean,” she said, petting my arm consolingly. “You’ve always been the smartest one in the family. If you think you can solve this, then I’m sure you will. And then, when you show up with the answer to all his immortal problems, you’ll knock that dead boy right off his feet.”

I smiled at her, reassured. Nothing like a sister-sister pep talk for comfort.

Georgia and I pulled the book-replacement scheme off brilliantly, with Papy so surprised to see my sister actually in the gall ery and acting interested in the antiquities, that I easily excused myself, nabbed the key, and slipped into the back room. I was relieved to see all the boxes were in the closet where I had left them. Papy would never know the book had been gone.

Leaving Papy’s, Georgia and I walked up the rue de Seine, past all the minimalist gall eries and crowded antique shops. I glanced over at La Palette, the café where I had spotted Vincent with Geneviève last fall. The terrace was punctuated with tall, treelike gas heaters, and all the tables beneath them were occupied.

My eye was caught by a blond boy sitting at a table, talking to a man standing beside him. The table held several open notebooks: The boy had been interrupted while writing. As we got nearer, I saw it was Arthur.

Georgia noticed him at the same time. “Hey, isn’t that one of Vincent’s friends?” Arthur glanced our way, and he flinched as he registered who we were. “Bonjour! hello!” he called, after a second’s hesitation.

“Great. Thanks, Georgia. He looks really happy to see us,” I grumbled as we crossed the street to stand in front of his table.

The guy talking to Arthur was a handsome older man, probably around Gaspard’s age. He looked like someone I knew, but I couldn’t quite place him. And there was something weird about him, something just outside my mind’s grasp that didn’t seem right. When he saw Georgia and me heading in their direction, he tucked his newspaper under his arm and walked quickly away.

“Another friendly acquaintance of the oldsters,” I muttered to Georgia, and then I said more loudly, “Hi, Arthur.” Arthur stood politely to greet us. “hello, Kate. And Georgia, is it?”

“Georgia it is,” my sister said flirtatiously.

“Yes, well ”—Arthur gestured toward his table—“would you like to join me for a coffee?”

“Sure—” Georgia began.

“No,” I said, cutting her off. “Thank you, though. We have things to do. In fact, I’m supposed to be