The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue - V. E. Schwab Page 0,46

no money, and no past, and no future.

Someone dumps a bucket from a second-floor window, without warning, and thick brown water splashes onto the cobbles at her feet. Addie jumps back, trying to avoid the worst of the splash, only to collide with a pair of women in fine dress, who look at her as if she were a stain.

Addie retreats, sinking onto a nearby step, but moments later a woman comes out and shakes a broom, accuses her of trying to steal away her customers.

“Go to the docks if you plan to sell your wares,” she scolds.

And at first, Addie doesn’t know what the woman means. Her pockets are empty. She’s nothing to sell. But when she says as much, the woman gives her such a look, and says, “You’ve got a body, don’t you?”

Her face flushes as she understands.

“I’m not a whore,” she says, and the woman flashes a cold smirk.

“Aren’t we proud?” she says, as Addie rises, turns to go. “Well,” the woman calls after in a crow-like caw, “that pride won’t fill your belly.”

Addie pulls the coat tight about her shoulders and forces her legs forward down the road, feeling as if they’re about to fold, when she sees the open doors of a church. Not the grand, imposing towers of Notre-Dame, but a small, stone thing, squeezed between buildings on a narrow street.

She has never been religious, not like her parents. She has always felt caught between the old gods and the new—but meeting the devil in the woods has got her thinking. For every shadow, there must be light. Perhaps the darkness has an equal, and Addie could balance her wish. Estele would sneer, but one god gave her nothing but a curse, so the woman cannot fault her for seeking shelter with the other.

The heavy door scrapes open, and she shuffles in, blinking in the sudden dark until her eyes adjust, and she sees the panels of stained glass.

Addie inhales, struck by the quiet beauty of the space, the vaulted ceiling, the red and blue and green light painting patterns on the walls. It is a kind of art, she thinks, starting forward, when a man steps into her path.

He opens his arms, but there is no welcome in the gesture.

The priest is there to bar her way. He shakes his head at her arrival.

“I’m sorry,” he says, coaxing her like a stray bird back up the aisle. “There is no room here. We’re full.”

And then she is back out on the steps of the church, the heavy grind of the bolt sliding home, and somewhere in Addie’s mind, Estele begins to cackle.

“You see,” she says, in her rasping way, “only new gods have locks.”

* * *

Addie never decides to go to the docks.

Her feet choose for her, carry her along the Seine as the sun sinks over the river, lead her down the steps, stolen boots thudding on the wooden planks. It’s darker there, in the shadow of the ships, a landscape of crates and barrels, ropes and rocking boats. Eyes follow her. Men glance over from their work, and women look on, lounging like cats in the shade. They have a sickly look about them, their color too high, their mouths painted a violent gash of red. Their dresses tattered and dirty, and still finer than Addie’s own.

She has not decided what she means to do, even when she slips the coat from her shoulders. Even when a man comes up to her, one hand already roving, as if testing fruit.

“How much?” he asks in a gruff voice.

And she has no idea what a body is worth, or if she is willing to sell it. When she does not answer, his hands grow rough, his grip grows firm.

“Ten sols,” she says, and the man lets out a bark of laughter.

“What are you, a princess?”

“No,” she answers, “a virgin.”

There were nights, back home, when Addie dreamed of pleasure, when she conjured the stranger beside her in the dark, felt his lips against her breasts, imagined her hand was his as it slipped between her legs.

“My love,” the stranger said, pressing her down into the bed, black curls tumbling into gem-green eyes.

“My love,” she breathed as he entered her, her body parting around his solid strength. He pushed deeper, and she gasped, biting her hand to keep from sighing too loud. Her mother would say that a woman’s pleasure was a mortal sin, but in those moments, Addie didn’t care. In those moments,