he loves you—if that is what you want. You are under no obligation. You must know,” she said impulsively, “that he made Les Merveilleux for you.”
Sophie flinched, as if she’d been slapped. Her lower lip trembled, though with anger or some other emotion, Camille could not tell. “Rosier is too unpredictable and foolish with his games and enthusiasms! Whatever kind of life would that be?” she said before turning on her heel and running down the gravel path into the house.
“A marvelous one,” Camille called out as the glass doors banged open.
But Sophie did not hear. She was already gone, and it had started to rain.
THE LOST GIRLS SPEAK
THE LOCK PICKER
MY FATHER ALWAYS WISHED FOR A BOY
My mother had lost two babies, both boys. But Papa wanted a son to follow him in his trade so he taught me to make locks, and keys, the things that protect the valuable and mysterious in our lives. He always said
A LOCK WAS LIKE A PERSON:
complicated, but something you could figure out
if you listened hard.
NO ONE EVER WAS SO KIND TO ME
NO ONE EVER SO UNDERSTOOD ME
We were happy until my mother died in childbirth. That little brother lived but two days, though we did all we could to keep him. But when at last he slipped through our fingers and was laid in the coffin in the crook of Maman’s arm, it was as if Papa too stepped into that grave and buried himself with them.
Four months I worked on the unfinished orders in the shop. No new ones came. Customers saw Papa wandering the square, gaping in people’s windows for where my mother might be, and they wanted nothing to do with me, who was too little to be anything like a true locksmith.
When they put Papa in the madhouse, I was sent to the orphanage.
There I discovered I could pick any lock they tried to put on me. And so I fled to Paris, city of ten thousand locks, where I could practice the only trade I have ever mastered.
THERE IS NO LOCK
that can
KEEP ITS SECRETS
from
ME
26
The rain Chandon predicted continued for three long days. Despite the fires in every room, damp filled the house. In the streets, rain collected in dank puddles that soaked boots and stockings. It raised the level of the Seine and ferried branches and debris from upriver, floating dangerously below the surface. Like mushrooms encouraged by the wet, pamphlets and posters covered Paris, claiming the flooding was the work of magicians.
She heard nothing from Lazare.
Perhaps he hadn’t left Lille before the rains began and was now stranded at the border. If that was the case, surely he could travel by coach? But perhaps the corps kept him there. It was impossible to know. Restless, she wandered the house, frowning at the enchanted objects and even the servants—so much so that Sophie told her to rest.
At least Camille could escape by reading. Settling into bed one dreary afternoon, she opened the gothic romance, The Castles of Athlin and Dunbayne by Mrs. Radcliffe, where she had left off. As she read, the author’s description of the Scottish Highlands, with its vast gloomy moors unmarked by paths and its torrential waterfalls, began to merge with the storm outside. She could hardly keep track of where she was, and soon her head sank back against the pillow. As she slept, she dreamed of crossing through fields of heather, searching the sky for Lazare.
When she woke it was to the slap of rain against the windows.
It’s getting worse, she thought, and rolled onto her other side. Why was the rain so loud? Was the window open? Unable to sleep, she sat up. The fire in the hearth had shrunk to glowing embers. She held her breath, listening hard. There it was again. Scattered tapping, almost like rain.
No rain pounded that hard.
Pulling her silk dressing gown over her cotton chemise, she crossed the room and opened the shutter. Beyond the glass, the deluge continued. The street lamp remained lit, its circle of light reflected in puddles. At the edge of the light stood a figure. Tall, lean, his arms crossed and his head tipped down, the rain pouring off his tricorne hat. There was a weary slant to his shoulders that made her heart ache.
She fumbled with the shutters, threw open the windows. “Lazare!”
He raised his head, searching for her. When he found her, his expression changed. Brightening. “I’m coming up.”
“What?” she said as she saw him take hold of the drainpipe