held a long, golden cross in her clasped hands and someone had stitched the slash at her throat with coarse, black thread, a piece of sheer black cloth placed over her face to hide it. Mrs. Zaronova stood at the foot of the casket. Had the doll factory paid for the funeral?
I forced myself to look at Karina’s face. Even through the cloth I saw the gray pallor of her cheek, the paper crown across her forehead. It was Karina, of course. There was no mistake. It had been a bad death.
Those in line pressed me along and I left my cousin lying there, rage growing in my chest. No church could keep us safe. We’d lost our homeland and now no one was safe. God was not going to save us. Nor the French police.
I left the cathedral, ran down the steps and through the gates. There was only one way to keep us all safe.
* * *
—
“YOU’RE BACK,” RENÉ SAID as I entered the tent.
I walked toward the stool and pulled the pins from my hair. “I want four hundred francs or I will go elsewhere. Do it quickly.”
René waved toward the stool. “Sit, madame.”
I tucked the pins in his smock pocket. “And more for the pins. I won’t be needing them anymore.”
“Of course.” René untied the scissors from his belt and I held my breath.
I flinched as he tied my hair tight at the nape with a blue ribbon.
“Some wine to make it easier?” he asked.
“No. Just do it, please.”
“No husband to object?”
“If you don’t hurry up, sir—”
The sound of the cutting was the worst part, the brass of his shears cold against my neck. But in ten seconds it was over and I was left with a sudden lightness. I touched the back of my head, the stub of short hair.
I turned, but René had already secured my hair in a paper bag and whisked it to his desk drawer. Perhaps to avoid a scene? Little did he know how good it felt.
I stood. “My payment?”
René pulled a leather pouch from his smock pocket, slid out a few bills, shook out silver coins, and slid it all into my cupped hands.
“Half now and half on—”
“I want it all now or I will shout to the rooftop that you are a fake and a—”
He stepped back. “Keep your voice down, madame. This is a quality establishment. Fine then, four hundred francs.”
“And more for the pins.”
He slid the extra francs into my coat pocket. I counted it and then stepped to the door.
“In three years your hair will have grown long enough for another visit.”
“Au revoir, monsieur. I won’t be back.”
* * *
—
I LEFT THE HAIR merchant’s tent and, on my way back to Rue Daru, had the impression I was flying, so light after the surrender of my hair. Perhaps it was more the happy jangle of silver in my pocket, but I felt I could do anything. What to do first? Send word to Eliza? Hire a private detective to find Max? First I had a mission to accomplish.
I’d never handled so much money before, since no one in my family carried it and at boarding school we had no need for it. My first stop was to the sweetshop I’d been thrown out of, la Mère de Famille. This time they were more than happy to sell me my tin of candies and a box of their prettiest chocolates when I produced a palmful of silver francs. I then walked on to a merchant who dealt in knives and hatchets of every kind, then hurried to an open-air market. Though the selection was limited, I found a fat cabbage, good-looking carrots, and some lavender-colored beets to stuff into my net bag. I’d never shopped for food before and how satisfying it was, seeking out the best produce and bargaining for the lowest price.
I bought firewood and a few more things and hurried to the restaurant at Rue Daru, feeling invincible, bags bulging with food, a bundle of kindling under one arm. I called for Dr. Abushkin and handed him my bags.
I handed him a handful of francs. “This is to make soup for those working across the street.”
“Where did you get such money?”
I turned my head.
“You sold your hair? How could you? A woman’s femininity. Are you deranged or just hysterical?”
“After Karina—”
“You are suffering from a weak nervous system as a result of the terrible news, Sofya. Being on your own, without your husband, has