I didn’t want to believe what Laurent had told me; it was too awful, unthinkable. I couldn’t believe that a man like Dr. Girard would participate in such an odious endeavor. I pressed the heel of my palm against my forehead, felt a rush of sadness tear through me, and lamented that Edith had suffered such a loss in circumstances worse than my own. Or were they? Could one compare grief? Could solace be found in doing so? I raised my head, resting my chin on my left hand, tugging at the duvet with my right, listening to the sounds of Rouen lumber through my open window. It differed little from what one would hear in any city—carriages clattering over cobbled streets, the chatter of business, laughter and gossip, the tinkling bells that announced the opening of shop doors, the thud of them closing.

But something familiar strained to be heard over the clamor: a thin sound, reedy and sharp, growing louder and more rhythmic. I froze and closed my eyes, concentrating, eager to disprove what I suspected. Shaking, I rose from the bed and stepped to the window, leaning out when I reached it. Lost in the din, it was barely discernible, but still recognizable. The voice I’d heard in the country had followed me to Rouen, its lonely weeping twisted by the breeze fluttering the lacy curtains in my room.

Had Edith heard the same thing? The question hung, unanswered, in the damp air. My thoughts turned to Madeline, who’d also suffered the loss of a child. Children, I corrected myself. Would she hear it as well if she were here? Had I tapped into some ethereal spirit, calling on women whose emotions bled raw? Or was I letting my pain get hold of my imagination? Perhaps Colin’s concerns possessed more validity than I’d been willing to admit. Maybe I had succumbed to wallowing, had allowed myself to be consumed for too long by the tragedies of the past.

I reached for the tarnished handles on the sashes of the window-panes and pulled them in, locking the sounds away from me. The silence was almost harder to listen to than the crying and I felt as if I might crawl out of my skin. Agitated, I opened the windows again, this time only to close the shutters outside them. But as I started, my eyes caught a flash of blue.

Across the street, falling from above the height of my room, a narrow blue ribbon danced, buoyed by the wind as it drifted to the pavement below. I opened my mouth, certain I would scream, but found myself unable to make even the slightest noise. My breath shallow, my legs heavy and unmovable, I clenched my hands in tight fists. Soon the horror of moving seemed preferable to the horror of remaining where I stood, and I managed to flee the room, rushing down the steps two at a time, nearly losing my balance as the staircase curved at each landing.

Finding Cécile took no effort—I heard her laughter coming from the sitting room, where she and Madame Prier huddled, thick as thieves, gossiping about long-forgotten acquaintances. They didn’t notice me at first when I slipped through the door, standing next to it, silent. Only when I caught a lull in their conversation did I step closer to them.

“Mon dieu!” Madame Prier said. “You’re a fright!”

“What is it, Kallista?” Cécile asked.

“I—” I stopped. Every word that came to mind fell short of what I needed.

“Heavens, you’ve that same awful look Edith used to get,” Madame Prier said. “Have I cursed you by putting you in her room?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Cécile said, rising and taking me by the arm. “She needs fresh air, that’s all. Her health, you know, is not at its finest.”

I gripped my friend’s hand, wishing I could stop shaking. “I’ve pushed myself too hard, that’s all,” I said.

“Come sit outside,” Cécile said, her voice firm and unwavering. “Could you send some tea out to us?”

Madame Prier agreed at once, pulling a richly embroidered bell cord. “Would you like me to give you some privacy?” she asked.

“Thank you,” I said. “I’d very much appreciate it. Please forgive me if I’ve alarmed you.”

“It’s no problem, really,” she said. “But you’re the image of poor Edith right now.”

“I—I’m sorry,” I stammered as Cécile steered me to a set of tall French doors that led to the small garden behind the house.

Our hostess waved off my concerns. “Do not let it trouble you,” she said. “But you may want to consider leaving for Paris sooner than you’d planned. I don’t think Rouen is agreeing with you.”

17

“What happened?” Cécile asked, sitting close to me on a wooden bench in the Priers’ flower-filled courtyard.

“I hardly know what to say.” With a sigh, I let the whole story rattle out.

She shook her head. “I know not where we should start. Ghosts, Kallista?”

“Inconceivable, I know.”

She patted my hand. “Too much stress, that’s all it is.”

“I don’t think so.” I stood up and walked out of the garden, Cécile close on my heels. I cut through the house and onto the street where in a matter of minutes I’d searched to no avail. There was no ribbon to be found anywhere—instead, I discovered a crumpled piece of pale blue paper. Was my mind playing tricks on me?

“I’m worried about you,” Cécile said, as we walked back to the courtyard bench. “Is it a good idea that you return to London on your own? Do you want me to come with you?”

“I don’t want to go at all. Not anymore. I feel like I’m coming close to unraveling Edith’s story.”

“You promised Colin.” She brushed a stray hair out of my face. “And it may be best for you to go. This is not a good place for rest and recovery.”

“I’m physically recovered.”

“But your emotions, Kallista. Your stay here has not helped them.”

“What am I to do? Knowing what happened to Edith is important to me.”

“We will pursue answers to the questions plaguing you until the moment we must step on the train to Paris. And then we will spend at least a week in my city, shopping and buying art and drinking champagne. And by then, you’ll have forgot all about this.”

“How could I forget Edith?” I asked.

“Well, perhaps not her,” she said. “But the rest of it.”

“I want to know what happened to her.”

“We will discover what we can. All you must do is tell me where we start.”

“With Toinette, before she leaves for Yvetot. And then Dr. Girard. You’ll like him.”

“You go to the young vixen. I shall organize a carriage to take us to the good doctor first thing tomorrow morning.”

“You’re good to indulge me, Cécile,” I said.

“I’ve yet to see the time your instinct wasn’t worth pursuing,” she replied. “Furthermore, I’ve never before had the opportunity to see a madhouse.”


Toinette had retired to her bedroom, on the floor below mine, to pack for her trip. She feigned delight at finding me at her door, and invited me to come inside. “What fun to have someone with me,” she said. “You can help me decide which of my gowns will make the best impression when I’m away. Don’t you love how wide sleeves are becoming?”

“Actually, no,” I said. “I prefer something more discreet.”

“You must be getting too old to appreciate fashion.”

I swallowed the biting remark that sprung instantly to mind. “I was hoping, Toinette, not to discuss your wardrobe but to have you tell me more about your sister. She must have confided in you from time to time.”

Toinette snorted. “Far from it. She treated me like a baby. Hardly talked to me.”

“Did you notice changes in her before she was sent away?”

“Do you mean other than her incoherent ramblings?”

“What did she talk about?”

“Nothing that made even a piece of sense. It was boring, really.” She held up a bright pink dress. “Do you like this on me?”

“The color brings out the rose in your cheeks,” I said. “Did you ever meet Monsieur Vasseur?”

“Not officially. But I saw him once, waiting for her outside.”

“Did she sneak away to see him often?”

“Oh yes. It was the only bit of her character that I really liked,” she said. “She was so moody and dull—and jealous of my high spirits. Was always tattling on me, getting me in trouble with Maman. But I admired her flair for romance.”

“Is he handsome, Monsieur Vasseur?”

“Not at all. But he looks strong, and has decent hair, I suppose. Nice blue eyes. He was wounded in some tedious battle and limped in a most embarrassing fashion. Can’t imagine he could dance. Probably would be best if he didn’t try.”

Her complete lack of sympathy grated on my nerves. “Did she plan to run away with him?”

“She absolutely did. I read all the letters planning the elopement.”

“You read them?”

“Maman keeps all the interesting books away from me. I’ve grown most proficient in steaming open envelopes.”

“What did you learn?”

“She wanted him to take her to Portugal—heaven knows why—and get married. I think she’d got herself in a spot of trouble.”

“Did your parents know about this?”

“My mother has perfected the art of ignoring anything unpleasant. My father is confident no one would disobey his orders. So no, they suspected nothing.”

“And what did your brother think of all this?”

“Laurent? He wanted to kill Monsieur Vasseur. Especially when he heard the man had left the Foreign Legion.”

“And you know this how?” I recalled Laurent’s surprise when I told him Vasseur had given up his life in uniform.

“He’d hired a detective to follow Monsieur Vasseur. I read all the reports.”

“What else did they say?”

“Unfortunately, not much of interest. He left Indochina or some other dreadful malaria-ridden place and showed up in Marseilles. That was the last dispatch from the detective. Disappointing, I thought.”