gargoyles more and more, until I reach the exit and—
I’m really high up. I fol ow the tight walkway that leads from the NorthTower to the South.There’s my neighborhood! And the Panthéon! Its massive dome is impressive, even from here, but the tourists around me are snapping pictures of the gargoyles.
No. Not gargoyles. Chimera.
St. Clair once told me that what most people think of when they hear the word “gargoyle” is real y a chimera. And gargoyles are these skinny things that
stick straight out and are used as rain gutters. I don’t remember the purpose of the chimeras. Were they protecting the cathedral? A warning to demons?
If he were here, he’d tell me the story again. I consider cal ing him, but he’s probably stil busy with his father. He doesn’t need me bothering him with vocabulary questions.
The Galerie des Chimères is pretty cool. The statues are half man and half beast, grotesque, fantastic creatures with beaks and wings and tails. My
favorite holds his head in his hands and sticks out his tongue, contemplating the city. Or maybe he’s just frustrated. Or sad. I check out the belfry. And it’s .
. . a big bel .
What am I doing here?
A guard waits beside another set of stairs. I take a deep breath. “Bonne soirée,” I say. He smiles and lets me pass. I squeeze inside. It’s a tight corkscrew, and the staircase grows narrower and narrower as I climb. The stone wal s are cold. For the first time here, I’m paranoid about fal ing. I’m glad I’m alone. If someone came down, someone even a little bigger than me, I don’t know how we’d pass each other. My heart beats faster, my ears prick for
footsteps, and I’m worried this was a mistake when—
I’m there. I’m on top of Paris.
Like the chimera gal ery, there’s a protective wire structure to keep people from fal ing or jumping. And I’m so high up, that I’m grateful for it. I’m the only one here, so I sit on one of the quiet stone corners and watch the city.
I’m leaving soon. I wonder what Dad would say if he could see me, melancholy about saying goodbye when I fought so hard to stay in Atlanta. He meant
wel . Observing the steady boats gliding down the Seine and the proud Eiffel Tower stretched above the Champ de Mars, I know this now. A noise on the
stairwel startles me—a screech, fol owed by pounding feet. Someone is running up the stairs. And I’m alone.
Relax, Anna. I’m sure it’s just a tourist.
A running tourist?
I prepare for the onslaught, and it doesn’t take long. A man bursts onto the viewing platform. He’s wearing teeny tiny running shorts and athletic
sneakers. Did he just climb those stairs for fun? He doesn’t acknowledge me, just stretches, jogs in place for thirty seconds, and then bursts back down the stairs.
That was weird.
I’m settling back down when I hear another yel . I bolt up. Why would the running man be screaming? There’s someone else there, terrified by the runner,
afraid of fal ing. I listen for more footsteps but don’t hear anything. Whoever it is has stopped. I think about St. Clair, about how frightened he is of heights.
This person may be trapped. With growing dread, I realize perhaps someone did fal .
I peek down the stairs. “Hel o? Bonsoir? Ça va? ” No response. I climb down a few spirals, wondering why it’s me doing this, not the guard. “Is someone there? Do you need help?”
There’s a strange shifting, and I continue down cautiously. “Hel o?” They must not speak English. I hear them panting. They’re just below me, just around this corner—
I scream. He screams.
Chapter forty-six
What the hel are you doing here? jeez, St. Clair! You scared the crap out of me.”