The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue - V. E. Schwab Page 0,94

you mean?”

She tries to back away, but the salon is crowded, the path muddled by legs and chairs.

“That woman, there.” Heads begin to turn in Addie’s direction. “Do you know her?” Madame Geoffrin does not, of course, not anymore, but she’s too well-bred to acknowledge such a misstep.

“My salon is open to many, monsieur.”

“This time you have been too generous,” says Luc. “That woman is a swindler and a thief. A truly wretched creature. Look,” he gestures, “she even wears one of your own gowns. Better check the pockets, and make sure that she hasn’t stolen more than the cloth from your back.”

And just like that, he has turned her game into his own.

Addie starts toward the door, but there are men around her, on their feet.

“Stop her,” announces Geoffrin, and she has no choice but to abandon it all, to rush for the door, to push past them, out of the salon and into the night.

No one comes after her, of course.

Except for Luc.

The darkness follows on her heels, chuckling softly.

She rounds on him. “I thought you had better things to do than plague me.”

“And yet I find the task so entertaining.”

She shakes her head. “This is nothing. You have marred one moment, ruined one night, but because of my gift, I have a million more; infinite chances to reinvent myself. I could walk back in right now, and your slights would be as forgotten as my face.”

Mischief glints in those green eyes. “I think you’ll find my word won’t fade as fast as yours.” He shrugs. “They will not remember you, of course. But ideas are so much wilder than memories, so much faster to take root.”

It will be fifty years before she realizes that he is right.

Ideas are wilder than memories.

And she can plant them, too.

New York City

March 16, 2014

X

There is a magic to this evening.

A defiant pleasure in a simple act.

Addie spends the first hour holding her breath, bracing for catastrophe, but somewhere between the salad and the main course, between the first glass and the second, she exhales. Sitting there, between Henry and Elise, between warmth and laughter, she can almost believe that it is real, that she belongs, a normal girl beside a normal boy at a normal dinner party. She and Bea talk about art, and she and Josh talk about Paris, and she and Elise talk about wine, and Henry’s hand finds her knee beneath the table, and it is all so wonderfully simple and warm. She wants to hold the night like a chocolate on her tongue, savor every second before it melts.

Only Robbie seems unhappy, even though Josh has been trying to flirt with him all night. He shifts in his seat, a performer in search of a spotlight. He drinks too much, too fast, unable to sit still for more than a few minutes. It is the same restless energy Addie saw in Henry, but tonight, he seems perfectly at ease.

Once, Elise goes to the bathroom, and Addie thinks that’s it, the domino that tips the rest. And sure enough, when she returns to the table, Addie can see the confusion on the girl’s face, but it is the kind of embarrassment you cover instead of show, and she says nothing, only shakes her head as if to clear a thought, and smiles, and Addie imagines her wondering if she’s had too much to drink, imagines her pulling Beatrice aside before dessert and whispering that she cannot remember her name.

Robbie and their hostess, meanwhile, are deep in conversation.

“Bea,” he whines. “Can’t we just—”

“My party, my rules. When it was your birthday, we went to a sex club in Bushwick.”

Robbie rolls his eyes. “It was an exhibitionist-themed music venue.”

“It was a sex club,” Henry and Bea say at the same time.

“Wait.” Addie leans forward in her seat. “Is it your birthday?”

“No,” says Bea emphatically.

“Beatrice hates birthdays,” explains Henry. “She won’t tell us when hers is. The closest we’ve gotten is that it’s in April. Or March. Or May. So any dinner party in the spring could conceivably be the one nearest to her birthday.”

Bea sips her wine and shrugs. “I don’t see the point. It’s just a day. Why put all this pressure on it?”

“So you can get presents, obviously,” says Robbie.

“I understand,” says Addie. “The nicest days are always the ones we don’t plan.”

Robbie glowers. “What did you say your name was? Andy?”

And she goes to correct him, only to feel the letters lodge in her throat. The curse