carefully at the lacquerware cabinet. The knobs on its doors had been bound with red string.
Her first thought was that it was a kind of magical protection. Then she realized they’d been tied together to keep them from flapping open—the cabinet was one of the things that been sent back from Versailles when Séguin’s rooms had been cleared out. She hadn’t wanted to look inside. Her memories of his apartment in the palace, what he had done there …
She grabbed a letter opener from the desk and sliced the string. The doors creaked open as the sharp smell of magic filled the room. The sobbing grew louder. Clothes were piled in the bottom, coats and robes heavy with embroidery. Underneath them lay something hard and smooth. With an effort, she dislodged it. Pulling it out, she fell back on her heels. In her hands was a rectangular object.
It was a valise, covered in worn maroon leather.
The sound of crying was coming from inside.
There was a lock on it, and she thought of the key ring downstairs and how many she’d have to try to find the right one. But the house, both Chandon and Blaise had said, cared for her. Maybe it would open if she tried.
She put her hands on the lid and the top lifted free.
Lined with worn rose-colored silk, the box held a small wooden rack. In it were rows of crystal vials, each labeled with the words Larmes de … followed by a name. It was a collection of tears. Hands shaking, she found one labeled Larmes de Jean-Marc Étienne de Bellan, Marquis de Chandon. There were a few more, the bottles dusty and discolored by age.
Gooseflesh rose on her arms.
She ran her fingers along them, touching them, reading the names aloud, and somehow this soothed the magic in the box, because eventually the crying quieted. The vials were in no particular order, though the labels on some seemed newer. The one with the cleanest label rested in the bottom rack. His last victim. Plucking it out of the case, she held it up to see.
In Séguin’s spidery script was written: Larmes de Camille Durbonne, Vicomtesse de Séguin.
He had taken her tears after all.
She held the tiny vessel to the light. The liquid inside was tinged pale blue and slightly thick, as if it had been condensed. Tipping the bottle, she watched the substance that had been her tears slide slowly from one side of the vial to the other. Had she cried while she slept? Had he scraped up the tears that laced her cheeks after he’d trapped her?
She wondered what sorrows lay inside.
The vial had a miniature cork stopper, covered with a thin layer of silver decorated with a pattern of tears. Prying it loose with her fingers, she brought the bottle to her nose and inhaled. A familiar powdery smell, like dried roses. The liquid scent of ink. Cold water in a well, dark and deep and quiet. Muffled cries.
They were her own, caught in the tears like flies in amber. When she covered the mouth of the vial with her thumb, they quieted. When she removed it, they rose up to her. Around her, the room thinned, becoming transparent. She sensed herself, very small, a child hiding under a table, a sob choking—
She shoved the cork back in.
The memories were so potent they had nearly crawled out of the vial.
Shaking, she unlatched the window. The sharp autumn air helped clear her head. The cries faded, as did the memory they’d contained. A childhood hurt that still felt raw and humiliating. Something nestled so deep inside her that she no longer remembered the wound. But it had power, she had sensed that.
Saint-Clair had been right.
She shut the valise’s lid before setting it safe into the wardrobe and pocketing the crystal vial. It wasn’t the book they needed, but the valise was still a treasure. She knew it was dangerous to use others’ tears, but in an emergency? Even if the magicians never found the secret of the tempus fugit, there was enough blur to get them past the gate, past a checkpoint or out of France.
As she closed the door behind her, a loud bang echoed downstairs. It was unlike any of the maids or footman to let the glass doors slam shut. Instead it sounded as if the Hôtel Séguin were trying to get her attention. Summoning her courage, for the first time she let down her guard. Here I am. She