The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue - V. E. Schwab Page 0,92

and it’s not as though the rumors will spread beyond the park. Passersby will, perhaps, be startled, and make note of the strangeness, but they will all forget before they have the chance to gossip.

She turns the page, lets her eyes travel across the printed words. These days, Addie steals books as eagerly as food, a vital piece of daily nourishment. And while she prefers novels to philosophers—adventures and escapes—this particular one is a prop, a key, designed to gain her entry to a specific door.

She has timed her presence in the park, seated herself at the garden’s edge along the route she knows Madame Geoffrin tends to favor. And when the woman comes ambling down the path, she knows just what to do.

She turns the page, pretending to be engrossed.

Out of the corner of her eye, Addie can see the woman coming, her handmaid a step behind, her arms full of flowers, and she rises to her feet, eyes still cast upon her book, turns, and makes two strides before the inevitable collision, careful not to knock the woman down, but simply startle her, while the book falls onto the path between them.

“Foolish thing,” snaps Madame Geoffrin.

“I’m so sorry,” says Addie at the same time. “Are you hurt?”

“No,” says the woman, dropping her gaze from her attacker to the book. “And what has you so distracted?”

The handmaid scoops up the fallen book and passes it to her mistress.

Geoffrin considers the title.

Pensées Philosophiques.

“Diderot,” she observes. “And who taught you to read such lofty things as this?”

“My father taught me.”

“Himself? You fortunate girl.”

“It was a start,” answers Addie, “but a woman must take responsibility for her own education, for no man truly will.”

“How true,” says Geoffrin.

They are playing out a script, though the other woman does not know it. Most people have only one chance to make a first impression, but luckily, Addie has by now had several.

The older woman frowns. “But out in the park with no maidservant? No chaperone? Don’t you worry that people will talk?”

A defiant smile flashes across Addie’s lips. “I suppose I prefer my freedom to my reputation.”

Madame Geoffrin laughs, a short sound, more surprise than amusement. “My dear, there are ways to buck the system, and ways to play it. What is your name?”

“Marie Christine,” answers Addie, “La Trémoille,” she adds, savoring the way the woman’s eyes widen in response. She has spent a month learning the names of noble families, and their proximity to Paris, pruning the ones that might invite too many questions, finding a tree with broad enough limbs that a cousin might go unnoticed. And thankfully, while the salonnière prides herself on knowing everyone, she cannot know all of them equally.

“La Trémoille. Mais non!” says Madame Geoffrin, but there is no disbelief in the words, only surprise. “I shall have to chastise Charles for keeping you a secret.”

“You must,” says Addie with a sheepish grin, knowing it will never come to that. “Well, madame,” she continues, holding her hand out for the book. “I should go. I would not want to hurt your reputation, too.”

“Nonsense,” says Geoffrin, eyes glittering with pleasure. “I am quite immune to scandal.” She hands Addie back her book, but the gesture is not one of parting. “You must come to my salon. Your Diderot will be there.”

Addie hesitates, the barest fraction of a second. She made a mistake, the last time they crossed paths, when she settled on an air of false humility. But she has since learned that the salonnière prefers women who stand their ground, and so this time she smiles in delight. “I would like that very much.”

“Superb,” says Madame Geoffrin. “Come around in an hour.”

And here, her weaving must become precise. One slipped stitch, and it will fall apart.

Addie looks down at herself. “Oh,” she says, letting disappointment sweep across her face. “I fear I don’t have time to go home and change, but surely this won’t be appropriate.”

She holds her breath, waiting for the other woman to answer, and when she does, it is to extend her arm. “Don’t bother,” she says. “I’m sure my ladies will find something that suits you.”

They walk together through the park, the maidservant trailing behind.

“Why have we never crossed paths before? We know everyone of note.”

“I’m not of note,” demurs Addie. “And then I’m only visiting for the summer.”

“Your accent is pure Paris.”

“Time and practice,” she answers, and it is, of course, true.

“And yet, you are unmarried?”

Another turn, another test. Times before Addie has been