Chapter 28

The Seed of an Idea

Sylvie of a Single Name sat cross-legged on a futon, in a room she’d come to think of as the salon’s library. There were plenty of books here, along with a fireplace that changed colors to match the mood of whatever passage you happened to be reading. Its smoke also changed scents. Right now, it smelled like sunshine and sand, which meant Rafe was either reading a story about pirates or doing more digging into the legends of pharaohs. His hair tangled down both sides of his face while he stared at the pages, as if the ink of the story were reaching up and pulling him in. Firelight glanced around his eyes—and it seemed as though every time the other thief glanced over at Céleste, her own hair began to light like a fuse.

Her cheeks went extra pink as well.

Sylvie didn’t think this was the start of a masque. La Fée Verte’s birds were too quick, when it came to keeping the oldest Enchantress’s promise, snatching whatever dreams they could from her head.

Anastasia didn’t have a masque either—just dark circles under her eyes. The grand duchess wasn’t getting much sleep these nights, and this evening, when Sylvie had met the princess at rue de la Réunion, her face had looked extra puffy. Pink from tears instead of masque light. “Alexei fell today…” She pressed her lips together. “He was trying to sneak over to the Children’s House, and he bruised himself climbing into the boat. Dyadka Andrei—his sailor nanny—found him drifting around the lake. Mama was beside herself. She telegrammed ‘Our Friend,’ and he arrived as soon as he could. The starets looks different now.” Anastasia seemed to shrink inside herself when she said this. “He looks… awful.”

You’re letting her see too much, Sylvie. Honoré’s warning lingered over the nearby cobblestones like stray fog.

“I tried not to stare,” the princess went on, “but Mama couldn’t tear her eyes off him. I think… I couldn’t see her face very well. There’s too much darkness around it. The papers are right… he’s got her under some kind of spell.”

“It’s a curse,” Sylvie managed to say.

“A curse?”

“Your ‘Friend’… I don’t think he’s your friend. Not really,” Sylvie said. “He works for the evil sorcerer from the mirror.” She saw the implications of this flashing across the princess’s face. “That’s why it’s important for us to make our own magic. If we can collect enough of our own dreams to become Sancts, then we can help La Fée Verte fight him. We can help your family too.”

She’d figured then that it was a good time to introduce Anastasia to the salon. What better way to dry her tears than to take her wandering through a maze painted by Pablo Picasso? Or to help her lose herself in a good book? Literally. Some of the stories on this library’s shelves opened like doors—Sylvie had already seen a few guests disappear between their gilded spines. She might have suggested following them, if she weren’t so set on seeing her own story through.

The orphan who became a Sanct.

She was a good enough daydreamer now. She’d saved her imaginings. She’d Enlightened Anastasia; she’d even performed more spells with the grand duchess’s help. But waking up some statues and creating a portal to Russia didn’t make her a Sanct any more than her butterfly wings did.

She still felt… cocooned.

“What would you do?” Sylvie asked Rafe. “If you were trying to become a Sanct?”

The fire popped and snapped behind his shoulder as he thought this over. “Well, the main difference between a Sanct and a daydreamer lies in the volume of magic that’s harvested. The power required to become a Sanct is more than one anima can manage. That’s why not just anyone can cast spells. Most people who are Enlightened stay imaginers because they don’t know any better. If you do know better and keep enough of your own creations to become a daydreamer, the next step is to start Enlightening others and saving their imaginings as well.”

“That’s why La Fée Verte opened this place,” Céleste surmised.

“Exactly.” Rafe nodded. “If I were free to do whatever I pleased? I’d start a magical artists’ colony at La Ruche and spell its doors to open for anyone who needed room to dream. They could stay there and create for as long as they wanted.”

“You’d have to address the roof’s leaks,” Céleste teased. “Maybe you could charm the water into diamonds so you could afford to keep the soup kitchen running…”

“Instead of having a soup kitchen, you should just serve ice cream,” Sylvie said.

“Ice cream does turn to soup, when it melts,” Anastasia pointed out.

“It sounds like I should put you two in charge of the menu.” The shadow at Rafe’s feet gave an excited leap in front of the fire. It always turned into a fox when he was happy, Sylvie had noticed. “Although, if you want to become a Sanct yourself, it might serve you better to open your own establishment. A pâtisserie, maybe?”

Céleste laughed. “Sylvie couldn’t be a baker. She’d eat everything.”

“Does every Sanct need a shop?” Anastasia wondered.

“Or a salon. Or a church. Or a cabaret. A place where people gather… a place where people can be gathered,” Rafe explained. “Though my version of La Ruche would be a more Enlightened experiment. Artists could work on their landscapes for years instead of hours. Poets could make their stanzas as sharp as iron, and sculptors could shape fountains with them. We’d inspire each other. We’d become a—a league of imaginers.”

“You’d need to feed them more than ice cream, in that case.” A fresh voice entered the conversation.

The hearth fire shifted into greens and golds, overwhelming the room with the smells of spring leaves and gilded pages. La Fée Verte’s feathers filled the doorway. No matter how many times Sylvie saw the Sanct’s wings, they always woke something inside her. The part of her heart tied to a hot-air balloon…

“Contrary to popular belief, artists don’t thrive when they starve.” La Fée Verte laughed. “And if you wish to become a muse, you’ll have to offer your dreamers more than food or drink. Imaginers need inspiration. Beauty. Wonder. Hope. They need ideas they can shape into something solid.” Her honey-colored eyes stuck to Sylvie then. “I would suggest practicing that.”

“You… want me to plant an idea in someone’s head?”

“Like a flower?” Anastasia gasped.

“Flowers are far less finicky,” La Fée Verte said. “All they need is water and sun and the correct kind of soil. Ideas need the right soul to root in. And even then, it takes time for such seeds to grow. If they do at all. They need exact conditions to thrive.” Her eyes alighted on Rafe. “Your dream for La Ruche… if you tried to realize a magical artists’ colony now, Terreur would destroy it.” Other ideas sang along her wrist as she extended her hand, expectant. “Perhaps such a thought would be safer with me?”

Rafe looked hesitant.

Céleste looked fierce. “And what will you do? Turn Rafe’s dream into a stalactite?”

La Fée Verte tilted her head. “I’ll give it back when the time is right,” she promised. “That’s the difference between Terreur and me. There are far more brutal ways to gather anima. He chose one of the darkest. Becoming a muse or a baker is much more rewarding. That is the kind of Sanct you should strive to be.”

Sylvie figured La Fée Verte was speaking to her, even though her golden eyes were locked with Céleste’s gray stare. Even though she extended her hand again toward Rafe. He set down his book and pulled the dream from his head. It was long, too long to be a bracelet, so La Fée Verte twisted it into a necklace instead—a free-thinking La Ruche sitting over her breastbone like a pendant, close as a heart.

Becoming a muse was easier said than done.

Choosing a mind to inspire was a lot like selecting a mark. Sylvie sat on the bar top of the salon’s front room, greeting guests as they retrieved their aperitif from the tower of flute glasses. Who seemed extra thirsty? Who paused to say more than just bonjour?

“Good midnight, mademoiselles!” Jean Cocteau swept through the door, exchanging his coat for a drink that turned bright blue when it hit his lips. “How fare we this fine evening?” His stare settled on Anastasia, who was skipping from one stool to the next. Céleste, seated at the end of the bar, was watching her as well. “I see we have a new imaginer in our midst! Sporting a nightgown nonetheless.” He conjured up a dress made of dewdrops for the princess. There was, fittingly, a tiara to go with it. “Here you go, ma chère! An outfit worthy of… what did you say your name was again?”

“I didn’t!” Anastasia answered cheerfully, as she splashed into the gown.

“This is Anastasia Nikolaevna.” Sylvie scrunched her nose tighter with each syllable, hoping she got them right. “She’s a grand duchess!”

“Always a pleasure to meet a fellow royal!” Jean laughed.

The dew on Anastasia’s crown caught the light of the chandelier, shimmering as she paused. “I thought France didn’t have a monarchy.”

“My friends call me ‘the Frivolous Prince,’ but we do have a true duchess in our midst.” Jean’s smile turned sly—sly enough for Sylvie to realize he didn’t believe Anastasia’s pedigree. “Have you met Manuela? That’s her code name when she’s mingling with creative commoners like us.”

He pointed at a woman who was peeling off a set of gloves and shoving a pair of goggles up her forehead. There were wrinkles there, and the hair peeking from beneath her leather driving helmet was so threaded with silver that it was hard to know whether she was inspired. It hardly ever stayed that way, though. Sylvie had met the duchess. Many times over. Each interaction ended with the woman making the same wish—hair that matched Sylvie’s in spirit, if not the exact shade. She often walked away with emerald curls or purple plaits…

It was a wind-whipped gray this evening, as she set her helmet on the bar.

Jean gave a bow. “I present to you Manuela! Sculptor, author, artist, chauffeuse—”

“What’s a chauffeuse?” asked Anastasia.

“He means I prefer to drive myself places. Quickly,” the older woman said with a wink.

“Duchess d’Uzès here was the first woman in France to get a speeding ticket,” Jean told them. “But she receives francs for every sip of champagne someone else takes, so you shouldn’t feel too poorly for her.”

Sylvie didn’t. She loved the idea of a duchess racing her own automobile through Paris’s moonstruck streets, but there was no point in planting the thought if it was already true. She saw far more promise in the way Duchess d’Uzès smiled at her hair.

“Still pink, I see! I wish my colors wouldn’t fade so easily.” The older woman’s goggles and gloves joined the pile on the bar. “This winter will be drab enough… I don’t need to see more gray every time I meet a mirror. Would you mind passing me a glass, dear?”

You’ll have to give dreamers more than food or drink. La Fée Verte’s advice rang in Sylvie’s own head as she plucked an aperitif from the top of the pyramid and handed it to the duchess. Was planting an idea just as straightforward? Or should that transaction be more like picking a pocket, sneaky and seamless? If so, it would be far easier with songbirds…

Céleste arched an eyebrow.

Back in the days when the Enchantresses had simply stolen coins, this served as a signal. Stop! A tap on the temple had meant look! Sylvie watched her friend lift the helmet from the bar.

“Would this really help you in a crash? Or is it meant more for keeping your coiffure contained?”

“Coiffure?” Anastasia asked.

“She means hairstyle,” Sylvie said.

But what the oldest Enchantress really meant was that the Duchess d’Uzès would set this helmet back on her head again… probably at dawn, when she was walking back to her automobile, the rising sun stripping the older woman’s memories, every imagining gone…

Except one.

“I do not crash,” the duchess replied. “I cannot afford to, despite what Monsieur Cocteau infers. Men can make all the mangled wrecks they want, but the moment a woman collides with something—well, let’s just say that I don’t want to be the last French lady to receive a speeding ticket.”

Sylvie didn’t have to reach far to grab the helmet. She didn’t have to reach too far inside herself for the inspiration either. She thought of all the wigs Céleste used to pin on before their cons. Then she pictured all the colors on the nearby artist’s palette and started mixing them: Periwinkle and pink. Yellow sliding through blue, through green, into midnight.

She set the helmet on her head and threaded the thought of rainbow wigs through its lining. Would it slip into Duchess d’Uzès’s waking mind once she put it on? Would it stick? Sylvie wished there were a better way to know, besides waiting for days or weeks or forever…

It takes time for such seeds to grow, La Fée Verte had explained. If they do at all.

Jean began to say something about deep-sea-diver helmets when the salon’s door opened. Sylvie didn’t take note at first—there were always guests following the fountain dragon here at this hour—but then a blur of fur appeared. All the glass flutes in the pyramid flashed orange before Marmalade plowed through them. Aperitif went everywhere, soaking Duchess d’Uzès’s gloves and mixing with Anastasia’s gown. Sylvie’s stomach dropped at the sight of the tomcat. Marmalade’s fur was standing on end. A growl grew over most of his words: Bones! Brother! Below!

Sylvie’s insides kept falling, even though the flute tower had begun to rebuild itself.

“Where’s Honoré?” she asked.

The prickly one found her brother digging through the bones down below, the ginger cat yowled. She tried to slice his shadow, but—

But the flute glasses were trembling again. Céleste had grabbed the bar, her knuckles nearly as pale as her hair, and at first Sylvie thought the oldest Enchantress was the one shaking things, but then she watched the chandelier swing wide, butterflies bursting everywhere. The salon’s walls shuddered so hard that petals dropped from wallpaper flowers. Stained glass vines too lost their leaves. Songbirds squawked their dismay as they flew through shuddering curtains, and many imaginers had thrown themselves to the rug.

Out of all the people in the room, only Anastasia seemed unfazed. “That was my very first earthquake!” she announced, once the tremors stopped.

“I’m not sure it was an earthquake,” said Duchess d’Uzès, as she retrieved her helmet. “Paris doesn’t sit on any fault lines.”

“No,” Sylvie whispered. Marmalade’s words were starting to sink in: the bones down below.

It wasn’t an earthquake at all.

It was the catacombs.