She raised it to her nose and inhaled. Even two years after her mother’s death, it still held her perfume. Faint, like a memory. What would it say, if it could? What would Maman tell her, now? A wind traveled like fingers along Camille’s cheek. In it, she imagined her mother’s voice, close and loving, but also always urging her forward: Mon trèsor, there are mysteries ahead of you. I know you are not one to take the easy way out.
Maman would want her to find The Silver Leaf. In it there would be answers to her questions about who she might be and what she needed to do with her magic.
Tucked into the frame of her mirror was Blaise’s card. Les Mots Volants was only a few streets away from the café where she was to meet Sophie. She flipped the card over to read the words that had appeared there days after he’d given it to her. Come any time.
She would ask him. Perhaps there was even something helpful in the new book he’d found? In the rush of today, she’d forgotten to ask. Carefully, she tucked the cloak away. From her wardrobe she took a midnight-blue pelisse, trimmed in beaver fur, and shrugged it on over her blue-and-gray striped dress. Then she left the house, taking the stairs two at a time.
Outside, the sky was gray, a few bright snowflakes twirling down.
Everything was changing. She could feel it.
WHAT
IS A
MAGICIAN?
ONE WHO PRETENDS
TO BE A FRIEND TO FRANCE
WHILE HE EXULTS IN
ILL-BEGOTTEN WEALTH
&
DRINKS THE
BLOOD OF CITIZENS
PATRIOTS!
A MAGICIAN IS A MASTER OF DISGUISES
AVERT YOUR OWN
DESTRUCTION
BE VIGILANT
ALERT THE COMITÉ
DEFEND FRANCE
BY WHATEVER MEANS NECESSARY
37
Between two ancient cross-timbered buildings was squeezed a narrow shop. A row of elongated windows ran along the front, their casings painted white, books stacked against them. On top of one pile slept a white cat, its rounded, furry back pressed flat against the glass. The sign on the door hung crookedly: LES MOTS VOLANTS. Before she had a chance to open the door, it swung open of its own accord.
Inside there was hardly room to turn around. Bookshelves covered the walls from the floor to the high ceiling, which was painted to resemble a summer sky. Instead of birds soaring among the clouds, there were books, their pages like wings. Books were stuffed between the arms of several tattered armchairs and teetered in rows along the seat of a sofa. The counter at which Blaise presumably sat was covered with a blizzard of papers. As she watched, one sheet loosened from the others and floated to the floor. Clocks—hidden behind books—ticked cheerfully into the silence. Hanging in the air like incense was the faint char of magic.
On a ledger sat a small white plate, a fork, a half-eaten apple pastry. She stood on her toes to see over the maze of books. “Blaise?”
For a moment, there was no sound but the ticking of the clocks—followed by a shuddering thump, as of books falling to the floor. “J’arrive!” he called.
Slowly, a shelf of books separated from the wall, creaking open like a door. As Blaise came out, dressed in white, Camille glimpsed the room he’d come from: pale walls, a cream-colored carpet on the floor, white roses in a vase. And many more shelves filled with books, their spines illegible. Bespelled.
“I worried something had happened to you,” she said. “Pinned down by a stack of books?”
“It isn’t out of the question,” he said seriously. “But what brings you here? Something that couldn’t wait until our meeting?”
“That makes it sound so dire.” Though it did feel that way. Blaise set down the books he’d been carrying. A handkerchief was wrapped around his hand, its white fabric was splotched red with blood. “You’re hurt!”
“It’s nothing. I cut myself on purpose.” He regarded her calmly. “I thought I would do a little reading.”
“But you didn’t use blood to read books at the Hôtel Séguin—”
“Some books require it.” He cleared a space on a table and set down one of the larger volumes he’d been carrying. “Would you like to see?”
The book was covered in a deep burgundy leather, almost black, and thin for its size. Already she could feel Blaise’s intention gathering over it, like clouds before a storm. The air sharpening. “You need the blood because of the warding?” she asked.
“Exactly.” He opened it and flipped forward a few pages. There was a single image of a hand. It was life-size and decorated with running lines and the kinds of small rectangles,