The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue - V. E. Schwab Page 0,164

assuming it’s an inside joke. Addie simply smiles.

A song comes on, the kind that rises above the noise, and she drags him to his feet.

“Dance with me,” she says, and Henry tries to tell her that he doesn’t dance, even though she was there, at the Fourth Rail, when they flung themselves into the beat, and he says that is different, but she doesn’t believe him, because times change, but everyone dances, she has seen them do the waltz and the quadrille, the fox-trot and the jive, and a dozen others, and she is sure that he can manage at least one of them.

And so she draws him between the tables, and Henry didn’t even know that the Merchant had a dance floor, but there it is, and they are the only ones on it. Addie shows him how to lift his hand, to move with her in mirror motions. She shows him how to lead, how to twirl her, how to dip. She shows him where to put his hands, and how to feel the rhythm in her hips, and for a little while, everything is perfect, and easy, and right.

They stumble, laughing, up to the bar for another drink.

“Two beers,” says Henry, and the bartender nods, and steps away, comes back a minute later, and sets down their drinks.

But only one is a beer.

The other is Champagne, a candied rose petal floating in the center.

Addie feels the world tip, the darkness tunnel.

There is a note beneath the glass, written in elegant, sloping French.

For my Adeline.

“Hey,” Henry is saying, “we didn’t order this.”

The bartender points to the end of the bar. “Compliments of the gentleman over…” he starts, trailing off. “Huh,” he says. “He was just there.”

Addie’s heart tumbles in her chest. She grabs Henry’s hand. “You have to go.”

“What? Wait—”

But there is no time. She pulls him toward the door.

“Addie.”

Luc cannot see them together, he cannot know that they have found—

“Addie.” She finally looks back. And feels the world drop out beneath her.

The bar is perfectly still.

Not empty, no; it is still brimming with people.

But none of them are moving.

They have all stopped mid-stride, mid-speech, mid-sip. Not frozen, exactly, but forcibly stilled. Puppets, hovering on strings. The music is still playing; softly, now, but it is the only sound in the place besides Henry’s unsteady breath, and the pounding of her heart.

And a voice, rising from the dark.

“Adeline.”

The whole world holds its breath, reduces to the soft echo of footfalls on the wooden floor, the figure stepping out of the shadows.

Forty years, and there he is, unchanged in the ways she is unchanged, the same raven curls, the same emerald eyes, the same coy twist to his cupid’s bow mouth. He’s dressed in a black button-down, the sleeves of his shirt rolled to the elbows, a suit jacket flung over one shoulder, his other hand hooked loosely in the pocket of his slacks.

The picture of ease.

“My love,” he says, “you’re looking well.”

Something in her loosens at the sound of his voice, the way it always has. Something at the center of her unwinds, release without relief. Because she has waited, of course she has waited, held her breath in dread as much as hope. Now it rushes from her lungs.

“What are you doing here?”

Luc has the nerve to look affronted. “It’s our anniversary. Surely you haven’t forgotten.”

“It’s been forty years.”

“Whose fault is that?”

“Yours, entirely.”

A smile tugs at the edge of his mouth. And then his green gaze slides toward Henry. “I suppose I should be flattered by the resemblance.”

Addie doesn’t rise to the bait. “He has nothing to do with this. Send him away. He’ll forget.”

Luc’s smile drops away. “Please. You embarrass us both.” He carves a slow circle around them, a tiger rounding on its prey. “As if I don’t keep track of all my deals. Henry Strauss, so desperate to be wanted. Sell your soul just to be loved. What a fine pair you two must make.”

“Then let us have it.”

A dark brow rises. “You think I mean to pull you apart? Not at all. Time will do that soon enough.” He looks to Henry. “Tick tock. Tell me, are you still counting your life in days, or have you begun to measure it in hours? Or does that only make it harder?”

Addie looks between them, reading the triumphant green in Luc’s eyes, the color bleeding out of Henry’s face.

She does not understand.

“Oh, Adeline.”

The name draws her back.

“Humans live such short lives, don’t they? Some far