“You’re taking us in the wrong direction,” Dorian said, craning his neck.
“This is the right way back to the apartment,” I said as I pushed the wheelchair. In the apartment building that I wished hadn’t been filled with such friendly tourists, who’d no doubt wish to greet and talk with my grandmère if they saw her.
“But I smell the pain au levain.” Dorian’s voice rose in excitement. “There is nothing like French bread, no?”
“I’ll be sure to get some when I stop by the market this afternoon. Alone.”
“Travel makes me so hungry,” he said. “It will be faster if you buy bread and pastries now, and then return to the market. Are you not hungry as well?”
I was famished. But I nearly turned back when I saw the throng of people in line. Until I noticed the people weren’t queuing to get into the bookshop or café, but the museum around the corner.
A vinyl banner swaying in the wind identified the Notre Dame exhibit. Affixed to stone columns with rope, the glossy materials looked out of place on the neoclassical building, even with an appropriate font and sepia color scheme. I hadn’t realized that the museum with the illustration on display was so close—but I also hadn’t counted on the line that snaked several blocks. How early did I need to show up, even with a ticket?
“Why are we stopping?” Dorian admonished. “We have not yet reached the patisserie.” He gasped. “Are those people in line for pastries?”
“It looks like they’re in line for the museum.”
Dorian breathed a sigh of relief.
“That’s bad,” I said. “That means it’ll be crowded, even with my ticket. I want to get a closer look at the charred illustration found at the cathedral without a throng of people around me.”
He was silent for a moment. “You do not wish me to accompany you.”
Of course I didn’t. My plan was to get enough groceries to occupy Dorian for hours, leaving him in the apartment with both his pastries and a kitchen full of ingredients to cook us a nourishing meal. I hoped. It was one thing to use his disguise in an anonymous crowd, and another to be inspected going through security to enter the Victor Hugo exhibit.
“I didn’t think it would be practical,” I said, “so I only bought one ticket.”
“I know.”
“You know?”
“Yes. This is why I purchased my own ticket.”
“Very funny.” I’d been good at keeping my credit card safely hidden ever since a stand mixer costing several hundred dollars arrived on my front porch.
He had the audacity to giggle. “Your credit card number was very easy to memorize. Do humans have trouble with such a simple task?”
“But the security and the crowds,” I blurted out. “They’ll make things difficult and take a long time, and don’t you want to stay in the safe, cozy apartment cooking—”
“You speak in a rush, as if you anticipate an argument.”
“You don’t object?”
“I bought a ticket in case it would prove practical. But as you said, the museum is so crowded. The night will be better.”
I frowned. “That’s for the catacombs, not the museum.”
He shrugged so theatrically that I was worried his wings would push through the shawls.
“Dorian—”
“The more we argue on this street corner, Zoe Faust, the more attention you draw to us.”
I gripped the wheelchair’s handles so tightly I expected I’d get at least one blister. It was a good thing I had several healing salves with me.
“No breaking and entering.”
He didn’t answer.
“I’m serious, Dorian.”
“I, too, am capable of serious thought. With my ‘little gray cells,’ I am more than capable of serious planning. I have assessed the situation and come up with the only plan that makes sense. I must steal the Lost Gargoyle of Paris before the backward alchemists can get to it themselves.”