They took the long way back to their cemetery. Honoré liked her grave too much to let the Apaches scare her out of it, so she told Sylvie to walk south instead. Toward the Seine. It was a long enough detour that she’d be able to sense if anyone from Belleville was following them. Looking over her shoulder every few steps was something Honoré had sworn never to do, but it was different now that the youngest Enchantress was involved.
The girl was skipping—skipping!—down the street. As if they’d just left a dance hall instead of the territory of the most ruthless gang in Paris.
“That was very stupid of you,” Honoré said.
“You’re welcome.”
“What were you thinking? Following me into a neighborhood like that? I told you it was going to be dangerous—”
“That’s why I brought Marmalade,” Sylvie cut in. “You should thank him. I’m pretty sure he saved your life.”
“Marmalade?” Honoré echoed.
“He clawed up that thug’s face, after I asked him to attack. You believe me now about talking to cats, don’t you? I don’t see how you can’t.”
The cut on Honoré’s own face was now more crust than blood. But all the rage that Rémy had stirred up was still there, burning its way through her veins.
“You didn’t save my life, Sylvie.” She said nothing about the cat. “You put yours at risk, and now we’re both in a hell of a lot of trouble.”
“Why?” asked Sylvie.
Honoré considered being honest. Because I was never like you. I would have killed Rémy if you’d let me. I stabbed my own father, years ago. I murdered him, but he didn’t die, not the way I wanted him to. He cursed me with his last breath—loud enough for my younger brother to hear. Gabriel. Oh, Gabriel. He screamed when he found us, and Terreur’s men came running. If I were a son, they would’ve kissed the ring I’d cut off. But here we are, fleeing. I hope you like sleeping with one eye open, ma rêveuse, because the Apaches will turn over every stone in this city to find us.
But this wasn’t the kind of bedtime story Sylvie was used to, and besides, it was nearly midnight. They were close to the river, on a street lit with electric lights instead of gas lamps. The younger Enchantress liked them because they glittered. Honoré liked them because they left nowhere to hide.
So far no one seemed to be trailing them.
“We may be safe to round back.” Four solid walls would be good. Not to mention gates with locks and guards. “Let’s head home.”
“Oh… but can we at least walk by the cathedral?” Sylvie spun around, her palms pressed together as if in prayer. “I want to say hello to the lobster gargoyle! It’s funny. What do you think the sculptor was thinking about, carving a lobster onto a church?”
“Thermidor, probably.” Though Honoré doubted such a dish had existed in medieval times. “Are you quite sure it’s a lobster?”
Sylvie nodded and darted toward the Seine. Honoré followed. It had been a long time since she’d been by this part of the river at night, and the sight of Notre-Dame rising to face the moon was daunting. As if God himself were seated at the top of the towers. Lots of people considered this place a sanctuary, somewhere to feel safe from the evils of this world, but Honoré felt her steps slow as she approached. She still smelled like smoke and sin.
She still felt like fighting.
Sylvie skidded to the church’s left-most entrance, frightening pigeons from their shit-covered roosts. She pointed at the door’s frame, where, sure enough, there was a lobster set in stone. It could have been a crayfish. Or even an anatomically unfortunate crab. But it was certainly some sort of crustacean.
“See?” Sylvie said triumphantly.
“I’ll be damned.”
“You shouldn’t say that in front of a church.” The girl scowled.
Honoré looked back up at the surrounding carvings: Kings with their scepters. The Virgin Mary swaddling her baby. Saints holding scripture. One unfortunate fellow was holding his own head instead. Honoré felt a begrudging kinship with him.
“The lobster doesn’t really fit in, does it?”
“That’s what makes it so wonderful,” Sylvie said sagely. “If everything fit as we expected, the world would be dull, wouldn’t it? Why… look at that green pigeon over there! He’s the prettiest in the whole flock.”
This time the girl was pointing at the edge of the square, which was lined with lamps and chestnut trees. The birds she’d disturbed were settling back down, all as gray as the gravel they roosted on.
“There’s another!” Sylvie squeaked.
Honoré searched harder.
She saw nothing green, aside from the leaves. Sylvie started giggling, waving at the empty air, then patting her own head. Clearly, the girl needed sleep.
“It’s time to go home,” Honoré said.
“But…” The girl’s stare drifted over the river, toward the Left Bank. “I think it wants us to follow.”
“There’s no green bird, Sylvie.”
“You don’t see it?”
Honoré rubbed her eyes until they danced with strange colors. Some greens. No birds. “I’m too tired to play make-believe. Let’s just go back to the cemetery and get some sleep—”
“I’m not making this up!” Sylvie voice grew twice her size. “There really are birds, and they’re calling me across the river!”
“You’re hallucinating, then.”
Sylvie broke out into a run toward the nearest bridge. She’d nearly crossed the thing before Honoré caught her by the elbow.
“You never believe me!” Her wail carried over the Seine’s mud-colored waters. “Never ever! It’s not fair! I wish Céleste were here!”
“Me too,” Honoré muttered.
The other Enchantress would know how to coax Sylvie into bed without a fuss. Céleste acted far more maternal than Honoré. And more paternal, for that matter.
“Oh!” Sylvie’s tone switched to slight surprise. “Our wishes worked! There she is!”
Honoré tightened her grip on the girl’s shirt, but this wasn’t a ruse. It wasn’t a hallucination either. There, on the quai on the other side of the bridge, was Céleste, walking with Rafael García.
They were not holding hands, but they moved like a couple—closely. Honoré did not call out as they walked past the bridge. She couldn’t. She heard Rafael’s chuckle and then Céleste’s echo. It was a real laugh. Not the kind used for marks, but one that meant her friend was truly amused. She usually only reserved it for picnics at Père Lachaise…
Honoré wasn’t exactly surprised. She’d seen the draw between the two artists before The Rite of Spring, the way each of their gazes lingered on the other. What didn’t make sense was the rest of Céleste’s silence.
Why hide this?
“See?” Sylvie grinned wide. “Marmalade was right! Do you think she and Rafe are on their way to the vanishing street?”
The pair was already well down the lane, not looking over their shoulders even once. One could do that in the Latin Quarter. There were plenty of respectable folks on the streets—far more respectable than Honoré, with her sliced-up face, and Sylvie, chasing imaginary birds. Boulevardiers tapped their canes and doffed their top hats. A woman pulled a cart of slightly wilted flowers. And all along the sidewalks were café tables, filled with wine glasses and genteel conversation. The night was not young, but it wasn’t over either.
“Should we follow them?” Sylvie asked, after Céleste and Rafael rounded the corner.
Honoré certainly didn’t feel like going home anymore. If she did, she’d simply focus on that empty mattress and the fight that awaited her in the morning, when she’d try to convince Céleste to tell her what she could now see with her own two eyes.
She let go of Sylvie’s sleeve.
They went down the quai, past barrels and moored steamers, before turning down a small side street, where Honoré caught a glimpse of Céleste’s moonstruck hair. Back here was a maze of cobblestones, noisy with university students who certainly weren’t studying, at least not the Latin this quarter was named after. A few took note of Honoré’s face, and when she went to probe the cut there, she realized her moustache was only half attached. She ripped the thing off and tossed it to a boy who was drunk enough to be delighted.
She’d lost track of Céleste, but Sylvie—somehow—knew exactly where the other Enchantress was going. The alleys spit them out onto a larger boulevard, and the girl crossed it quickly before coming to a halt in front of a rather ostentatious fountain. Water trickled through a scene of Archangel Michael stabbing the devil.
Céleste and Rafael were nowhere to be seen, but Sylvie was staring at the statues, looking almost like one herself. Rapt. For some reason she focused on one of the abutting dragons. It didn’t stand out as sorely as Notre-Dame’s lobster, but something about the sculpture didn’t completely blend in either.
Its eyes.
Its eyes were blank, and yet… not.
“Ma rêveuse?” That stare was giving Honoré the creeps. She reached into her pocket, where her own dragon lurked.
The fountain dragon blinked.
It was a reptilian sort of motion. The lids slid sideways. Unmistakable.
Sylvie gasped.
Honoré swore.
The dragon turned on its pedestal to face the Enchantresses. It snuffled at Sylvie’s head, the way a horse might ask after an apple. Gentle but insistent. The girl giggled. Honoré started drawing her third knife. This weapon was barely longer than the statue’s claws, claws that flexed as the beast stared down at her.
The dragon sat still long enough for Honoré to think that maybe she’d started hallucinating. Maybe it had always been cast that way.
But then the spell broke.
The dragon lunged.