The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue - V. E. Schwab Page 0,91

truths half-told.

“We all have battle scars,” she says. “People in our past.”

“You too?” he asks, and for a moment, she is in New Orleans, the room in disarray, those green eyes black with rage as the building begins to burn.

“Yeah,” she says softly. And then, gently probing, “And we all have secrets, too.”

He looks at her, and she can see it swimming in his eyes, the thing he will not say, but he is not Luc, and the green gives nothing away.

Tell me, she thinks. Whatever it is.

But he doesn’t.

They reach Bea’s building in silence, and she buzzes them in, and as they climb the stairs she turns her thoughts to the party, and thinks, perhaps, it will be okay.

Perhaps, they will remember her, at the end of this evening.

Perhaps, if he is with her—

Perhaps—

But then the door opens, and Bea stands there, oven mitts on hips, voices spilling through the apartment behind her as she says, “Henry Strauss, you are so late, that better be dessert.” And Henry holds out the pastry box as if it were a shield, but as Bea plucks the box from his hands, she looks past him. “And who’s this?”

“This is Addie,” he says. “You met in the shop.”

Bea rolls her eyes. “Henry, you really don’t have enough friends to be getting us mixed up. Besides,” she says, flashing Addie a crooked smile, “I wouldn’t forget a face like yours. There’s something … timeless about it.”

Henry’s frown deepens. “You have met, and that’s exactly what you said.” He looks to Addie. “You remember this, don’t you?”

She hesitates, caught between the impossible truth and the easier lie, begins to shake her head. “I’m sorry, I—”

But Addie’s saved by the arrival of a girl in a yellow sundress, a bold defiance of the chill beyond the windows, and Henry whispers in her ear that this is Elise. The girl kisses Bea and plucks the box from her hands, and says she cannot find the wine opener, and Josh appears to take their coats, and usher them through.

The apartment is a converted loft, one of those open floor plans where the hall runs into the living room and the living room runs into the kitchen, and it is all mercifully free of walls and doors.

The buzzer rings again, and moments later a boy arrives like a comet crashing through the atmosphere, a bottle of wine in one hand and a scarf in the other. And even though Addie has only seen him in photos on Henry’s wall, she knows instantly that this is Robbie.

He sweeps through the front hallway, kissing Bea on the cheek, waves at Josh and hugs Elise, and turns toward Henry, only to notice her.

“Who are you?” he says.

“Don’t be rude,” answers Henry. “This is Addie.”

“Henry’s date,” adds Bea, and Addie wishes she hadn’t, because the words are like cold water over Robbie’s mood. Henry must see it too, because he takes her hand and says, “Addie’s a talent scout.”

“Oh?” asks Robbie, rekindling a little. “What kind?”

“Art. Music. All sorts.”

He frowns. “Don’t scouts usually specialize in something?”

Bea elbows him. “Be nice,” she says, reaching for the wine.

“Didn’t know I was supposed to bring a date,” he says, following her into the kitchen.

She pats his shoulder. “You can borrow Josh.”

The dining table sits between the sofa and the kitchen counter, and Bea sets an extra place as Henry opens the first two bottles of wine, and Robbie pours, and Josh carries a salad to the table and Elise checks the lasagna in the oven and Addie stays out of the way.

She is used to having all of the attention, or none of it. To being the brief but sunlit center of a stranger’s world, or a shadow at its edges. This is different. This is new.

“Hope you’re all hungry,” says Bea, setting lasagna and garlic bread in the center of the table.

Henry grimaces a little at the sight of the pasta, and Addie almost laughs, remembering their food truck feast. She is always hungry, the last meal nothing but a memory now, and she gratefully accepts a plate.

Paris, France

July 29, 1751

IX

A woman alone is a scandalous sight.

And yet, Addie has come to revel in the whispers. She sits in the Tuileries, skirts spread around her on the bench, and thumbs the pages of her book, and knows that she is being watched. Or rather, being stared at. But what is the point of worrying? A woman sitting alone in the sun is not a crime,