Everything That Burns - Gita Trelease Page 0,109

inside,” Foudriard said. “I have the flint in my coat.”

Silent as shadows, they left the carriage. Two small alleyways, the last with a crooked gate, and they’d reached the doorway of the apartment. Chandon fitted the key to the lock.

“Strange,” he observed. “It is already open.” Blaise was always meticulous. Would he not have locked his door? Not if he didn’t have enough time. Not if he were being dragged away—

“Careful,” Lazare whispered. “Someone else may have gone in ahead of us.”

As silently as they could, one after another, the boys loosened their swords in their sheaths and they went in.

As Foudriard lit his lantern, the tiny apartment flared into being around them. The air was bittersweet with the scent of magic. Bookcases towered all the way to the ceiling. His single bed haunted her: the pillows fluffed, the coverlet folded back as if he were about to come in, lie down to sleep, and dream of books. A sob caught in Camille’s throat; Lazare squeezed her hand. They were doing this to save their own lives, of course. But she was also doing this for Blaise. What he’d worked for would not be in vain.

Between the apartment and the shop was a door that opened onto a short hall, two or three paces long. Slowly they crammed themselves into the passage, their breathing unbearably loud, until Foudriard finally pushed open the bookcase door.

Beyond lay the shop. Waiting. Foudriard held up his light.

It was as if a storm had raged through the room.

Books yanked from shelves lay torn in heaps on the floor. Papers littered every surface. Any order that had existed before was utterly destroyed.

“What now?” Camille asked.

A white cat emerged from behind the counter and pressed against Chandon’s shins.

“Pauvre petit!” He picked up Blaise’s cat, which scrambled onto his shoulders and lay there like an ermine collar, purring. “If only he could tell us what happened.”

“It would help,” Lazare said wryly. “But without him—now what? What does the book look like?”

“It’s blue.” On the floor alone were scattered so many volumes the search felt suddenly hopeless. Why hadn’t she at least asked Blaise where it was? But then she remembered she had. She had asked him the second time he came to the Hôtel Séguin, and in reply Blaise had tapped his temple. “I remember now—he said it was in a safe place. I took him to mean it was in his head, but I hope I was wrong.”

“It could be anywhere. Fan out,” Foudriard said. Lighting their lanterns from his, they spread out in the small shop. “But stay together. Be aware of what the rest of us are doing at all times.”

Camille went quickly to the shelves behind the counter. The magical atlas Blaise had shown her when she was there lay on the floor, its pages crumpled. She searched through all the books, piling the volumes against the wall. But neither did she find the book with the blue binding or—for she still hoped it might be there, somehow—The Silver Leaf.

The others had drifted into the far corners of the shop, sifting through heaps of books, making stacks to get through to the next pile, when Camille thought she heard a noise from the apartment. She held her breath and listened, hard. Could it be the book, calling to her? The way the house told her things?

It did not seem impossible.

Quietly she moved to the bookcase door. It was not entirely closed. Through the crack came a faint shuffling sound. Glancing at the others, she saw that they were absorbed in their searches. She’d be gone only a minute—it wasn’t worth disturbing them. Opening the door, she slipped into the little hall that joined the two rooms.

Faint light shown in a line beneath the door.

But they had not left a lantern there.

There it was again: a shuffling, dragging sound. Suddenly she realized they hadn’t locked the door. Someone had followed after.

Fear set her pulse to hammering. A Comité guard was in Blaise’s apartment. She took a step backward, felt her skirts push against the closed door behind her. What should she do? For what felt like hours, she waited, hardly breathing. Then the presence in the apartment—whatever it was—stopped moving. It was listening.

She thought about running.

They would be forced to flee through the front door and risk being caught by the watchers. Even if they managed to escape, they would be hunted with more ferocity than they were now. And worse, their only chance to

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