the Seine.
There are no burning barricades. There is no cannon fire. No men waiting, weapons at their sides. Only a foreign river running beneath a foreign bridge, and foreign buildings rising along foreign banks, their rooftops capped in red tiles.
“That’s better,” he says, adjusting his cuffs. Somehow, in the moment of nothing, he has changed clothes, the collar higher now, the cut and trim a looser silk, while Addie wears the same ill-fitted tunic, salvaged from a Paris street.
A couple passes arm in arm, and she catches only the highs and lows of a foreign tongue.
“Where are we?” she demands.
Luc glances over his shoulder, and says something in the same choppy flow before repeating himself in French. “We are in Florence.”
Florence. She has heard the name before, but knows little of it, besides the obvious—that it is not in France but Italy.
“What have you done?” she demands. “How have you— No, never mind. Just take me back.”
He arches a brow. “Adeline, for someone with nothing but time, you are always in a hurry.” And with that, he ambles away, and Addie is left to follow in his wake.
She takes in the strangeness of the new city. Florence is all odd shapes and sharp edges, domes and spires, white stone walls and copper-slated roofs. It is a place painted in a different palette, music played in a different chord. Her heart flutters at the beauty of it, and Luc smiles as if he can sense her pleasure.
“You would rather the burning streets of Paris?”
“I assumed you would be fond of war.”
“That isn’t war,” he says curtly. “It’s only a skirmish.”
She follows him into an open courtyard, a plaza scattered with stone benches, the air heavy with the scent of summer blossoms. He walks ahead, the picture of a gentleman taking the night air, slowing only when he sees a man, a bottle of wine beneath one arm. He curls his fingers, and the man changes course, coming like a dog to heel. Luc slides into that other tongue, a language she will come to know as Florentine, and though she does not yet know the words, she knows the lure in his voice, that gauzy sheen that takes shape in the air around them. Knows, too, the dreamy look in the Italian’s eyes as he hands over the wine with a placid smile, and strolls absently away.
Luc sinks onto a bench, and draws two glasses out of nothing.
Addie does not sit. She stands, and watches as he uncorks the bottle and pours the wine, and says, “Why would I be fond of war?”
It is the first time, she thinks, he has asked an honest question, one not meant to goad, demand, coerce. “Are you not a god of chaos?”
His expression sours. “I am a god of promise, Adeline, and wars make terrible patrons.” He offers her a glass, and when she does not reach to take it, he lifts, as if to toast her. “To long life.”
Addie cannot help herself. She shakes her head, bemused. “Some nights, you love to see me suffer, so that I will yield. Others, you seem intent to spare me from it. I do wish you’d make up your mind.”
A shadow sweeps across his face. “Trust me, my dear, you don’t.” A small shiver runs through her as he lifts the wineglass to his lips. “Do not mistake this—any of it—for kindness, Adeline.” His eyes go bright with mischief. “I simply want to be the one who breaks you.”
She looks around at the tree-lined plaza, lit by lanterns, the moonlight shining on the red-capped roofs. “Well, you’ll have to try harder than…”
But she trails off as her attention returns to the stone bench.
“Oh, hell,” she mutters, looking around the empty square.
Because Luc, of course, is gone.
New York City
April 6, 2014
VI
“He just left you there?” says Henry, aghast.
Addie takes a fry, turning it between her fingers. “There are worse places to be left.”
They’re sitting at a high-top table in a so-called pub—what passes for a pub outside of Britain—sharing an order of vinegary fish-and-chips and a pint of warm beer.
A waiter passes by, and smiles at Henry.
A pair of girls heading for the bathroom slow as they come into his orbit, and stare as they leave again.
A stream of words drifts over from a nearby table, the low, rapid staccato of German, and Addie’s mouth twitches in a smile.
“What is it?” asks Henry.
She leans in. “The couple over there.” She tilts her head in their direction. “They’re