blur had carried with it a terrible memory. What would it be like to swallow it? To have that despair bloom inside of her? She already feared she might lose herself in magic. This would be worse. She had seen it with Roland—not only had his body vanished, but also his mind. He had disappeared into that girl’s memories.
She was not certain she wanted to return to hers.
The portraits at Bellefleur came back to her, the long line of ancestors in that darkened hall. The way they looked as if they were about to speak and tell her their stories. She had wondered: if she had grown up with her magician past around her, might she be less ashamed of what she was?
Might she also understand who she was?
The blur was a memory from the past. Perhaps it was also a key.
She let a single pale-blue drop land on her tongue.
It was bitter as sorrow.
In a storm, sensations overtook her. They had the dim feel of stories long forgotten. Lost, or never meant to be retrieved. An achingly sunny day, bright with promise. A scatter of sharp furniture tacks on the floor. A child trying to keep quiet as sobs stuck in her throat.
The magic was consuming her. Memories, trapped in tears, unleashed.
Camille rubbed at her eyes, trying to see in this world, this time. She made her way to the cottage’s half-open door. From inside came angry, hushed voices. She was nearly inside when the blur took hold once more.
The sound of weeping. Thin, muffled. Somewhere, a child was crying.
Around her, the river and the buildings of Paris receded until she only dimly sensed them, as if from behind a pane of dirty glass. Instead, there was a bright, quiet room. High in a house. Ferns of frost etched the windows. A pitcher of water, cracked ice on top. And the weeping?
It was coming from herself. A red-haired little girl sitting on the floor.
She was hugging her knees tight. Maman squeezed her shoulder, reassuring, as waves of sadness rolled through her. “Try now,” Maman encouraged. “You are strong enough.”
Picking up a black tack, Camille rolled it between her childish fingers. It pricked her, and she squeezed her finger to see the bright jewel of blood. She let the sadness stream through her, wishing the tack smooth. Soon its point dulled and the tack collapsed until it was nothing but a small, iron disk.
“Better?” Her voice was very small.
“Very good,” Maman said in Camille’s ear. In the haze of the blur, her mother was close, so close. I love you, she wanted to say. Do not leave me yet.
“Camille?”
Who had called her? Was it someone there—or here?
With that sharp, panicky question in her mind her childhood vanished, and in its place was the cottage’s warmth, the watery rush of the Seine, the splash of firelight on the girls’ tense faces.
Odette glanced over her shoulder, right at where Camille stood—as if she could see her—and Camille flattened back against the wall. If her luck held, for a few more minutes, she was invisible.
Giselle took a step toward Odette, then faltered. “Why are you wearing her clothes?”
Odette tossed her head, making the plume in Camille’s hat dance. “I’m staying at her house.”
Giselle’s chin wobbled. “Why?”
“I needed to spy on her to find out what she truly is.”
“And that is?”
Her smile gleamed like a knife. “I promise I’ll tell you later, once I have proof. But trust me, once you know … you’ll wish you never knew her.”
Tiny Henriette, the forger with the cloud of blond hair, jabbed a finger at Odette. “You know she helped us keep this house. Those subscriptions keep us in food and clothes. You’re telling us to throw that away?”
Sly, Odette asked, “Haven’t you wondered if she’s using you?”
Suddenly the little room wavered as Maman’s perfume and her comforting warmth flooded back. Softly she murmured, Remember, mon trésor. Some will say magic is a terrible thing. A lie, a parlor trick, cheating. But they are seeing it wrong.
Camille the child hadn’t tried to understand what her mother had said. It had been too grown-up and far from her own wants and fears. But now she wanted say to her mother, Tell me! What is the right thing to do? Who should I be?
The fire crackled, and she was back in the warm cottage, the girls shouting among themselves, Giselle scowling at Odette.