but living for centuries seemed to provide an advantage when it came to meaningful, timeless décor.
I entered the bathroom and studied the porcelain knobs on the bath as I ran the hot water. While the tub was filling, I decided to call my mother’s hotel and let her know I was in town. Explanations would be in order for arriving early, but as I dialed her number at the Ritz, I decided that sticking with the truth—that we’d had an opportunity to come earlier by private plane—was the best idea. Any deviation, however small, and she would certainly detect it. I was spared putting my theory to the test, however, when I was informed that my mother was out at her gallery for the afternoon, so I left word with the front desk.
Near the tub was a large glass jar with bath salts. I removed the lid and inhaled, delighted by the scents of geranium and rose oil. I sent a generous scoop cascading into the steaming water and prepared to settle in. Once submerged, I let out a grateful sigh as the heat soaked through my bones and muscles, dissolving the stiffness brought on by travel and fatigue. I closed my eyes and let my mind wander, lulled by the quiet. I drifted away, pulled into a dreamlike state as I inhaled the perfumed oils. I would have gladly stayed that way were it not for Josef’s voice breaking the spell.
“Be careful now… you might drown,” he said, regarding me lazily from the doorway.
“Go away,” I said, sending him my fiercest gaze. “I would never have pegged you as a peeping tom. How long have you been standing there?”
“Long enough,” he said, waggling his eyebrows. “I came in to check on you, it was so quiet. I feared you were about to fall asleep.”
“Unlikely, but thank you, mission accomplished,” I said. “It seems your work is done here.”
Josef didn’t budge. Instead he regarded me, and I mean all of me, silently, the two of us staring at each other. Locked in his gaze, it occurred to me that this was a test; it was always a test with him. For my part I refused to play the prude; showing any discomfort would only bring him pleasure.
“Out with you,” I said, my voice made of sterner stuff this time, while flicking water at him from the tub. “You may go and let your brother know I’ll join you both for drinks shortly.”
Josef grinned, amused at my firm rebuke. “As you wish, my lady,” he said bending at the waist, before turning out of the bathroom.
After he’d gone, I rose from the tub and wrapped a towel around myself. I dried off and returned to the bedroom to find my suitcase. As I crossed the room to get my things, I noticed that my leg felt much better, most of the stiffness gone. It was amazing that I could walk at all, and I marveled at how William’s blood had saved my life. My life was becoming more interesting than any science fiction novel I’d ever read.
I pulled on a black woolen sweater-dress and paired it with suede boots and a brown-and-black leopard print pashmina shawl. I’d vacillated about whether to bring the boots. Being in a hurry usually means packing light. But this was Paris, and I was loath to arrive underdressed for the most elegant city in the world.
I gave myself one last look in a small mirror on a table and went in search of William and Josef. As I progressed down the hallway I popped my head into each of the apartment’s rooms again, admiring the décor along the way. I found the two brothers seated outside on the terrace, a bottle of red wine decanting in a glass vessel on a table next to them. Next to the wine, apple slices, bread and a small selection of cheeses had been arranged on a wooden tray. Heaters were set up around the furniture, making the outside temperature comfortable. I looked up at William, who winked at me, “Bon appétit, ma chère.”
“Merci pour l’aperitif. C’est très charmant,” I said, thanking him for a lovely meal. I was famished, having eaten little in the days prior to our trip. It felt good to sit and eat, to drink French wine, and gaze across the rooftops. For a few moments, I pretended that none of the memories I was carrying existed. No danger pending, no death, no mourning, no loss.