central staircase. We tiptoe toward it, ushering past the various closed doors on our left and right. Clearly, too much to explore in one evening.
“Let’s start with the salons on the next floor?” Alexandre whispers.
I put my hand on his arm and nod. I don’t know why we’re whispering, but this lonely place demands our reverence, and we give it.
The floor is laid out in black-and-white marble tiles angled to look like a pattern of diamonds. Some tiles are chipped and cracked. The white marble stair winds its way up to the top. The banisters are cool against my palm, and the fine layer of dust that coats everything clogs my pores almost immediately. I shine my phone’s light up and down the walls. Every spot the light touches is carved and painted, mirrored and gilded, but also fractured. Murals and paintings set into the walls are in desperate need of cleaning and restoration. Clearly the people who built this place put their hearts and talents into it. It’s a magnificent baroque-lover’s dream, and it makes me sad that something this beautiful could simply sit abandoned and forgotten in the middle of this city brimming with life.
I take pictures as we climb the stairs. It’s dark, but the flash helps.
“You’re not going to post those on Instagram, are you?” Alexandre asks, catching me a bit by surprise.
“No. Obviously I’m not going to advertise my crimes. These are for me. Anyway, how do you even know I have an Instagram account?”
“Oh, I, um . . . assumed?” Alexandre usually doesn’t stumble over his words—he’s probably as nervous as I am. I’m actually a little relieved.
We get off at the first landing, and Alexandre pulls me through a door into what must have been a ballroom. The four walls have golden columns that reach toward the domed ceiling. It’s entirely covered in a huge mural. I can make out angel wings, some celestial scene, clouds and strings of flowers. To the left, opposite the windows, are two balconies. Inside balconies.
“It’s stunning,” I whisper.
“Imagine the parties they must have had here,” Alexandre whispers back.
I close my eyes and let the room come to life. Brightly lit by hundreds of candles. Women swishing around in huge skirts, their corsets crushing their ribs but pushing their breasts up perfectly. Some sort of orchestra playing in the corner. And wigs, lots of powdery white wigs.
“I suppose it was a ‘let them eat cake’ kind of crowd that partied here,” I say.
“Definitely. Until the revolution and the guillotine.”
I shudder. “Vive la France.”
“Without the French Revolution, our friends like Baudelaire would never have been able to take apartments here and—”
“No raven-haired lady. At least, not in this place. But no more talk of the guillotine, okay? This place is beautiful but also creepy.”
He takes my hand. “Scared of ghosts?”
“Not until tonight, when we broke into an old mansion with cracked mirrors and cobwebs. This place is asleep, and I don’t know what we’re going to stir up.”
Alexandre bends his head closer to mine, then closer until his lips graze my neck.
He peppers my neck with little kisses. I reach up and cradle his head, then turn into him. He puts an arm around my waist and pulls me closer until I feel the joint of his hipbone press against me. We kiss as he runs his fingers along the nape of my neck. Tiny flames ignite everywhere in my body. When we kiss, I can taste the grime from this place on our lips, and it occurs to me that a lot of our kisses are sprinkled with the dust of centuries past. I step back, nuzzling my head against his chest. He wraps his arms around me.
“Are we going to try and find this woman with raven tresses or just make out amongst the ghosts?” I ask.
“She’s been lost for a long time. A little longer won’t bother her,” he says and lifts my chin to kiss me again.
I sneeze. Stupid dust. Luckily, I avoid sneezing directly into his face. “Crap. I’m sorry.” I turn my face away,