brief trance and refocused on Alouette. “Are you a niece? A cousin?”
“No,” Alouette said, slightly confused by the question. “I’m her daughter.”
The madame flinched as though someone had slapped her. “Her daughter? Surely you can’t be—”
“I’m Madeline.”
Madame Blanchard’s eyes narrowed, almost distrustfully. She shifted in her chair.
“I was hoping you could tell me a little about her,” Alouette forged on. “Where she was from. Who her family was. Even her last name would help. Anything. Please. All I know was that she used to come here and then …” Alouette dropped her gaze to the floor, trying to conceal the malice she felt toward this place, this woman, this whole operation. “And then she died.”
“Yes,” Madame Blanchard said, although there was something suddenly cold about her tone. Distant. “I was very sorry to hear about her passing. Like I said, she was a good client. And had become somewhat of a friend. She used to rent a room from me upstairs.”
Alouette’s small seed of hope suddenly blossomed until it filled her entire body, chasing all the resentment away. “Really? What was she like? Did you know my father? Did you ever meet me?”
Madame Blanchard laughed at Alouette’s eagerness. “She was lovely. Bright and beautiful and very full of life. She loved you quite dearly. She used to bring you in here when she would come for her extractions. You were just a little baby then. The other girls would play with you while Lisole was in the extraction room. But I’m sorry I don’t know who your father is. She never spoke of him. And most people in here don’t use any last names. So, I’m afraid I’m not much help there either.”
Alouette scooted to the edge of her chair, desperate to keep this woman talking. She’d had a taste of truth—her truth—and like the girls plugged into those dreadful machines in the next room, she was hooked. She wanted more. She craved it. “Do you remember anything else?”
The madame closed her eyes, thinking. “Lisole was a sweet girl. I had grown quite fond of her.”
Alouette reached into her sac and cradled the little titan box that had belonged to her mother, squeezing it hopefully between her fingers. She desperately wished she knew what was inside. That she could see what was hiding underneath the two majestic creatures carved onto its lid. But no matter how hard she’d tried to pry the box open, it had stayed sealed shut.
The madame opened her eyes and smiled at Alouette, but it was a crooked smile that never seemed to reach her eyes.
“I was very sorry when she left town,” Madame Blanchard went on.
“Left?” Alouette withdrew her hand from the bag. “What do you mean? When did she leave? Where did she go?”
Alouette knew her mother had left her with the Renards because she couldn’t afford to take care of her, but she’d always assumed her mother had stayed in Montfer. After all, Sister Jacqui had told her that her mother had died in Montfer.
“I don’t know where she went. She just left. Skipped out on the rent. Four months of rent, actually.” There was a sudden edge to the madame’s voice.
“When was this?” Alouette asked.
The madame sighed. “Let’s see. It was about two years after the end of the rebellion. Probably around Month 7 or 8 of 490.”
Alouette quickly did the calculations in her head. Month 7 or 8 of 490, she would have been not quite two years old. Which means her mother had left Montfer right after she’d dropped Alouette at the Renards.
“Do you know why she left?”
The madame shifted in her seat, suddenly looking uncomfortable with the question.
“Do you?” Alouette pressed.
“I always assumed she left because she was in mourning and wanted to escape her grief.” The madame stared down at her hands, trying to avoid eye contact with Alouette. “But now I’m not so sure.”
“In mourning? Over who?”
The madame tittered uneasily. “See, that’s where my confusion starts. Up until five minutes ago, I thought—and with good reason—that she was mourning you.”
Alouette’s stomach dropped. “Me?” she whispered, hardly able to form the word. “B-b-but why would she be mourning me?”
“Good question.” The madame clucked her tongue. “One I’ve been trying to answer since you claimed to be Madeline.”
Alouette’s heart raced at the madame’s accusatory tone. She was Madeline, wasn’t she? She was the daughter of Lisole, the woman they’d been talking about.
The madame went on. “And if you are who you claim to be—which, let’s face it, how could