them, the house creaked, and in the pantry cupboards, the wineglasses clinked together. Odette. She had to trust Adèle and Daumier would take care of her.
“Tell me!” she urged. “Where is it?”
He tapped his temple. “Somewhere safe.”
“You’ve committed it to memory?”
“Not yet,” Blaise said. “It’s only a small blue book written by an obscure magician, but he explains the process of a magic he calls, in a very offhand way, ‘tempus fugit.’ He even mentions something to relieve the magie-sickness that comes afterward, though he mentions nothing about the effect lingering, as you experienced.”
“Where’s the Comte de Roland?”
“Tours. I’ve already sent word. As soon as he arrives, we can use tempus fugit to transform our tears.”
“We must make as much as we can,” Camille said. “It lasts such a short time, we’ll need several doses for each of us.”
Chandon gave a fretful sigh. “I fear it will be a very dreary evening.”
“Because we will have to make ourselves sad,” Camille said, “to collect our own tears.”
Did a shadow pass over Blaise’s white face? “It’s a bit more complicated than that,” he said. “But in essence, yes. The tears Camille found should function as our reserve. Hers are fairly new—but what if the others have become too old? Off, like bad wine? Or what if the memories are too terrible to endure? That might have been the case with the ones Roland took. Even if our memories are difficult, at least they’re our own.”
But even that didn’t make them easy to relive. The difference was, she thought, that what she relived might help her understand what she hadn’t before. Maman’s love and her belief in Camille’s strength.
“I’ll bring the vials to the meeting and we can divide them among us,” Camille decided. “You’ll send a flare when you’ve determined on the time?”
“As soon as Roland returns,” Chandon said. “Foudriard warns of borders tightening. The city is papered with pamphlets and advertisements calling for our deaths, offering rewards for any information at all about magicians. The Comité’s already been to the Hôtel Séguin and I’ve seen them outside Bellefleur, too. We must be careful. Whatever warding magic protects our houses cannot last forever.”
“Chandon is right,” Blaise said. “There have also been strange goings-on at Les Mots Volants. Suspicious customers, wandering in and never speaking to me. It’s hard to find a warded book if you don’t know what you’re looking for. So what are they looking for? I fear we are running out of time.”
“We shall not delay, mon ami.” Chandon set his wineglass down and embraced them both. “Damn their persecution! We will be free. All that time I spent gambling and using my magic on card tricks, I never thought much of my life. But now there’s a chance to do something good, I fear I might lose it.”
“You did do something at Versailles,” Camille reminded him. “You protected Foudriard.”
“Ah!” Chandon brightened. “I’d forgotten I nearly gave my life for him.”
“True love,” Blaise said, a sad smile on his lips. “And now I think we should go our separate ways.”
His caution unsettled her. Blaise didn’t exaggerate. “How did you come in?”
“By the kitchen, as before.”
“One of you can go out through the kitchen, the other down the passageway to the right, all the way to the end. There’s an odd servants’ hall that opens onto the stableyard. The groom will let you out the back gate.”
The plan that they’d worked toward for so long was becoming real. They would make the blur, and they, as well as all the magicians of France—once the magic was written up and shared—would be able to hide themselves if they needed to. No journey would be completely free of peril, but being able to evade the Comité would make it less so.
“À bientôt, then,” Blaise said. “Be on your guard, both of you.”
Slowly, Chandon opened the door and peered out into the passageway. “All clear. I’ll go out by the stables.” He blew her a kiss and was gone with a clatter of heels on stone. Blaise headed toward the kitchen, floating along like a pale strand of moonlight in the gloom.
Above her head were rows and rows of ghostly vessels. Glass from Venice, thin as mist: crystal decanters glittering with shards of diamonds and dozens of ballooning wineglasses, etched with the Séguin family seal. She wondered if she’d ever be able to drink from them all.
Suddenly they tinkled, as if someone were walking nearby.
She tiptoed to the other end of the pantry. Beyond