“What?” he asks. “No plan? No minute-by-minute itinerary?”
I wal op the back of his head with the towel. “Careful. I’l make one.”
“God, no. Anything but that.” I think he’s serious until he turns around with half a grin on his face. I swat him again, but truthful y, I’m so relieved for that half grin that I could cry. It’s more than I’ve seen in weeks.
Focus, Anna. “Shoes. I need shoes.” I throw on my sneakers and grab my winter coat, hat, and gloves. “Where’s your hat?”
He squints at me. “Mer? Is that you? Do I need my scarf? will it be cold, Mummy?”
“Fine, freeze to death. See if I care.” But he pul s his knitted stocking cap out of his coat pocket and yanks it over his hair.This time his grin is ful and dazzling, and it catches me off guard. My heart stops.
I stare until his smile drops, and he looks at me questioningly.
This time, it’s my voice that’s grown quiet. “Let’s go.”
Chapter nineteen
There it is! That’s my plan.”
St. Clair fol ows my gaze to the massive dome.The violet gray sky, the same sky Paris has seen every day since the temperature dropped, has
subdued it, stripped away its golden gleam, but I am no less intrigued.
“The Panthéon?” he asks warily.
“You know, I’ve been here three months, and I stil have no idea what it is.” I jump into the crosswalk leading toward the gigantic structure.
He shrugs. “It’s a pantheon.”
I stop to glare, and he pushes me forward so I’m not run over by a blue tourist bus. “Oh, right. A pantheon. Why didn’t I think of that?”
St. Clair glances at me from the corner of his eyes and smiles. “A pantheon means it’s a place for tombs—of famous people, people important to the
nation.”
“Is that all ?” I’m sort of disappointed. It looks like it should’ve at least crowned a few kings or something.
He raises an eyebrow.
“I mean, there are tombs and monuments everywhere here. What’s different about this one?” We climb the steps, and the ful height of the approaching
columns is overwhelming. I’ve never been this close.
“I don’t know. Nothing, I suppose. It’s a bit second rate, anyway.”
“Second rate? You’ve gotta be kidding.” Now I’m offended. I like the Panthéon. No, I LOVE the Panthéon. “Who’s buried here?” I demand.
“Er. Rousseau, Marie Curie, Louis Brail e, Victor Hugo—”
“The Hunchback of Notre-Dame guy?”
“The very one. Voltaire. Dumas. Zola.”
“Wow. See? You can’t say that’s not impressive.” I recognize the names, even if I don’t know what they all did.
“I didn’t.” He reaches for his wal et and pays our admission charge. I try to get it—since it was my idea in the first place—but he insists. “Happy
Thanksgiving,” he says, handing me my ticket. “Let’s see some dead people.”