When it came down to it, I didn’t have much of an idea of how Colin felt about his mother and stepfather. We’d skirted around the topic, when circumstances had made it impossible to ignore, but Colin had deflected any attempt to extract anything resembling emotion. All I knew were the bare bones of the situation, not how Colin felt about it.

I got the impression that all wasn’t exactly warm and cozy, but not because Colin had ever precisely said so. It was the little comments; the twist of the lips, the unguarded expression—all such ephemeral things, like the play of light on water, there one minute, gone the next. If I asked him about his family, Colin clammed up. It was only when I didn’t ask that he volunteered.

It was like playing that child’s game—red light, green light, one, two three—creeping and freezing, sent back to the starting line if you tried to move too fast.

This time, I could practically see the light flip to red. “These art dos always make me nervous,” said Colin lightly. “I’m afraid I’ll spill champagne on a Klimt. Look—have you seen the booksellers?”

Accepting the tacit change of topic, I let him draw me in his wake to the kiosks lined up along the side of the walkway, the green metal booths bolted into the stone walls. If he didn’t want to talk about it, I wasn’t going to force him.

If, however, after several drinks, he chose to make his feelings known, that was another matter entirely.

But what if, contrary to everything I’d been taught in every after-school special, talking about things didn’t make them better? What if it only made them harder? There was something to be said for the stiff-upper-lip model. By discussing something, one made it real, gave it—in the words of Shakespeare—a local habitation and a name. There was no ignoring it after that. Maybe it was better for both of us to let Colin display to me the person he wanted to be, not the person circumstance forced upon him.

“May I ’elp you?” The stallholder eyed us suspiciously, as though suspecting us of having untoward designs on the merchandise.

I put down the book I was holding, though not before sneaking a quick glimpse at the price tag. Eek. This was an antiquarian bookseller, not a junk shop, and the extra zeros reflected that.

“Did you see this?” asked Colin, undaunted by the bookseller’s glare or the price tags. He held up a small book with torn paisley paper covers. It was an edition of Ronsard’s poems, a very old edition judging by the bindings.

“Mmm,” I said, scanning the rows. Old books exert a strange fascination for me—their smell, their feel, their history; wondering who might have owned them, how they lived, what they felt. I spotted several early editions of Dumas and Hugo, as well as authors I had never heard of before. They were fairly bulky things, those nineteenth-century tomes, most in several-volume sets.

There were some smaller books among them. I reached for one at random, pulling it out. It was a slim volume, the red leather cover worn in places, the pages yellowed and spotted with age. The gold lettering on the cover had flaked away, making it impossible to read.

I flipped to the title page.

Venus’ Feast. Chiara di Veneti. Chansons d’Amor.

A chill went down my spine. That was—well, too much of a coincidence. Chiara di Veneti had been, by modern academic standards, a minor poet of the eighteenth century. She had also been the mother of Laura Grey, the Silver Orchid.

I wouldn’t have heard of her but for my research on the Selwick spy school, which led me to Miss Grey, aka Laure Griscogne. She wasn’t the sort generally included in AP French exams, partly due to the extreme raciness of some of her subject matter. Admittedly, it had been a racy era, but di Veneti put the author of Dangerous Liaisons to shame.

It boggled my mind that she had been the mother of prim and proper Miss Grey, described by Lady Henrietta Selwick as “a forbidding, gray-toned thing who played the piano as though she were solving a mathematical equation, all logic and no passion.”

I thought of Colin’s mother and the pictures I had seen of her. A free spirit, Colin’s great-aunt had called her, and not in a complimentary way. I looked at Colin, solid and dependable beside me, having assumed his parents’ cares as well as his own. He kept an eye on his sister, looked after his aunt, made sure the family home wasn’t run into the ground. At the same time, I certainly wouldn’t call him all logic and no passion. The four walls of Room 403 could definitely attest to that.

I looked back down at the little red book in my hands. André Jaouen’s wife had possessed a copy of Venus’ Feast. Several contemporaries had mentioned it, and the droll illustrations with which she had decorated the margins. Moving very carefully, as if afraid to scare away the pictures, I slowly turned a page.

The pages were pristine, unmarked. Well, if by pristine you mean aside from the inevitable brown of mold and some tears around the edges where the old paper had ripped with time and turning.

I suppressed an entirely unreasonable sense of disappointment. Did I really think I was going to stumble on Julie Beniet’s copy of Venus’ Feast at a secondhand stall on the Seine? All by sheer felicity? Felicity would really have to be working overtime there. The Beniet copy was probably in a museum somewhere. Either that, or long since scribbled in by small children, eaten by mice, or dropped in someone’s bath. It was coincidence enough finding any copy of the poems. I wasn’t sure it was the same edition—according to the quick encyclopedia search I had done on Laura’s mother, Venus’s Feast had been a runaway bestseller, rocketing through multiple printings in the course of just a few years—but if it wasn’t, it was close.

“Excellent condition,” said the bookseller in a thick accent. “Very rare.”

“Not so rare,” I said. “Didn’t Veneti go through multiple printings?”

“What did you find?” asked Colin, putting down his own book to come up behind me.

“Oh, just some old poetry.” I made as if to put it down. “Sentimental stuff of the late eighteenth century. Nothing too exciting.”

“Very good price,” said the bookseller.

Colin consulted his watch, looking as bored as it was possible for anyone to look. “We should be going. We’re going to be late for drinks.”

We were early for drinks. I flashed the bookseller an apologetic smile, flipped the corner of my pashmina back over my shoulder, and started to turn.

“For you,” said the bookseller, “forty euros.”

The price on the sticker was fifty. Eighteenth-century poetry must be selling particularly poorly this year.

Colin got him down to thirty. Before I could extract my wallet from my impractical, beaded evening purse, he had paid the man and tucked the book into my hand.

“Happy birthday,” he said.

“My birthday was in November.”

“Consider it a deposit on next year’s birthday,” he said, with that little crinkle at the corner of his eyes that still made my heart go flutter.

I liked the sound of “next year.” Technically, I would be back at Harvard by next year . . . but I didn’t want to think about that, not right now. It was enough that he was thinking ahead.

We had turned to cross one of the many bridges that span the Seine. Don’t ask me which; I can never remember things like that. This one had little alcoves along the sides, with circular stone benches running along their circumference. We paused midway along the bridge, settling down on the still-damp stone of the bench.

Colin nodded at the book in my hands. “What is it?”

“It really is eighteenth-century love poetry. The woman I’m researching, one of the Pink Carnation’s agents—her mother wrote it.” I turned the small, red volume over in my hands. “Finding it seemed like a good omen.”

“I won’t turn up my nose at a good omen,” said Colin somberly. It was another one of those moments, one of those red-light, green-light moments. It didn’t take a crystal ball to divine that he was thinking of the evening to come. But should I press him on it? Or just let it go?

I went with the latter. “As methods of divination go, books are tidier than pigeon entrails. You know, like the ancient Romans.”

“Have you eviscerated any pigeons recently?”

Even then, even after five months, his smile still had the power to make me go giddy. “Not for months. I’ve been relying on my Magic 8-Ball instead.”

“Read me some poetry,” Colin suggested.

“What a cliché,” I scoffed, “love poetry on the Seine.”

I opened the book anyway, flipping it open at random to a page somewhere in the middle. That was another superstition for you: the old medieval tradition of sortes—letting a book fall open at random to see what wisdom the page would bring. My finger landed on like a fortress betrayed from within, my heart—

Maybe I shouldn’t be looking for omens, after all. Sortes was a very unreliable method of divining the future. Pigeon entrails might be more accurate, at that.

I closed the book over my finger. “Maybe later? I’d rather get a drink before the party.”

“Fair enough,” said Colin. “You can read me love poetry later.”

I leaned over and pressed a quick kiss to his lips. “Don’t expect any peeled grapes.”

“What about the dancing girls?”

“They’re against the fire code,” I said serenely, discreetly shaking out my damp skirt. I giggled, remembering an old Cole Porter song. “They’re too darn hot.”

We amused ourselves the rest of the way to the Place des Vosges singing bits and pieces of the Kiss Me, Kate score.