know how to prevent. Nevertheless I believe this damage would take years to occur. And, to be blunt, when one’s life is at stake, it may not matter.
“Bien!” said Roland, shaking out his cuffs as if everything were resolved. “We make the veil, have invisibility when we need it, and then there’s no need to stop working magic or even leave France. Problem solved! Though I’d normally be loath to admit it, you are a genius, Chandon.”
“I wish I could agree,” Chandon said, “but we have no idea how to work the tempus fugit.”
Roland stared expectantly at Blaise. “You seem to know everything. Surely you must have a book somewhere—”
“The books we need,” Blaise said, “are being burned. Have you not seen the pyres on the river? You might mistake them for ordinary fires, but they are not. Barges, piled high with magical objects. Paintings igniting as oil and canvas feed the inferno. Books,” he choked, “their pages flapping open…” He cradled the Journal of the Burning Years to his chest.
“This is the work of the Comité?” Foudriard asked.
“And of the people,” Blaise added. “Why hold on to magic when it may bring the Comité to your house in the middle of the night and land you in prison?” He must have seen something in Camille’s face for he added, kindly, “For now, at least, prison is but a rumor.”
It was hardly a comfort.
“But this crisis is also an opportunity,” Blaise said. “Because I am known, in certain circles, to be interested in magic, people have been coming to my shop to sell me magical objects. I buy mostly books, naturally, but if they have some … vials … or other curiosities, I buy those, too.”
“And have you found a vial of this esteemed blur?” Roland challenged.
As if he had been waiting for this moment, Blaise took from a pocket in his waistcoat a tiny glass cylinder, no longer than his little finger. It looked very much like the one Chandon had described Séguin using. Holding the glittering vial up to the light, he tilted it slowly from side to side. Inside, a tiny amount of viscous jade-colored liquid shifted hypnotically back and forth.
Roland held out his hand. “May I see?”
“Certainly, just please be careful—” But before Blaise could give it to him, he snatched the vial out of his grip and pried loose the cork.
Blaise lunged for the vial. “This is a dangerous magic!”
“Oh là là! What is the worst that could happen?” With a flick of his wrist, Roland tipped the bottle into his open mouth. Two pale green drops fell onto his tongue. Wonderingly, he said, “Horrendously bitter.”
Blaise’s mouth worked, but he said nothing.
“You are a fool, Roland,” Chandon snapped. “But now that you’ve taken it, you can at least tell us what’s happening.”
“It feels like sticks snapping against my skin. But inside my skin. Not nice.” For a few long minutes, Roland said nothing. He did not fade, but his eyes narrowed, as if he were watching something they could not see. Pain spasmed across his face, and then his shoulders bent into a protective hunch. A wrenching sob tore from his mouth. It was a ghastly, haunting sound. “All her memories! Poor child. So much suffering—”
And then Roland dimmed.
“Where is he?” Foudriard asked, bewildered. “Did he leave?”
“Look!” Chandon pointed at the fire. “He’s over there, very faint now.”
By the fire was a shadow without a person, a figure made of smoke. Roland kept silent, and only once, as he moved around, did he make a noise loud enough to draw attention to him.
“Incroyable,” Chandon said with a low whistle. Then he took out his watch and waited. Five minutes passed before Roland began to reappear, but slowly, and not all at once. Camille was able to first see him out of the corner of her eye, then full on.
His eyes were red with tears.
“Well?” Blaise’s curiosity seemed to have overcome his anger.
“The worst thing I’ve ever experienced. I lived through a girl’s sorrows. Broken dolls. A dead pet bird. A cruel best friend. And then a stepfather who tried to”—his voice broke—“have his way with her. A marriage with a duc who beat her and took her money. Mon Dieu! How do we allow these things to happen?”
They all stared.
“Alors,” demanded Chandon, “could you see us?”
“As through a haze. All the while I struggled mightily to stay here. It was like falling into a river. I was almost carried away.” Pouring himself some wine, he