The rue Regrette is a quiet street in the 4th arrondissement—that’s “borough” or “district,” if you do not speak French—of Paris. It is straight, and tree-lined, and was built to fit two horse-drawn carriages when horse-drawn carriages were at the cutting edge of urban transportation. It’s been a long time since the residents of the rue Regrette have had to worry about traffic, with or without horses. It’s been a long time since they have had to worry about anything. Looking at it now, it would be hard to guess that this was once a street where anxiety stared out of every window; where artists burned their canvases to stay warm in winter; where poets had to make a daily choice between bread or paper, ink or wine; and where dancers soaked their battered feet in salt water while sitting for yet another poorly paid portrait.
Today, one side of the rue Regrette is lined with bistros, their shaded tables out front so everyone can admire the clean street. There is a boucher, a boulanger, and a fabricant de chandeliers—that’s a butcher, a baker, and a candlestick-maker—a few narrow townhouses, and a bemused-looking antiques shop wondering where all the horse-drawn carriages went. The River Seine dawdles along the other side. Long ago, the flea-ridden tenements that served the artists of the neighborhood were bought up for redevelopment, and now the street is populated by people rich enough to afford views of the river, by boutique shops catering to tourists, and by the Hôtel Martinet.
Shenanigan’s first impression was of a lilac bird of enormous size. The building stuck out among its prim and whitewashed neighbors, with their neat window boxes and modest balconies. Haughty was the word Shenanigan’s brain supplied: a word like a nose stuck in the air. A small purple awning hung over every window, as if the Hôtel was ruffling its feathers in indignation. The door was a magnificent work of wrought brass and smoked glass, curving elegantly into two feather-shaped handles. Two round recessed windows on the first floor gave the building its eyes, and they glared at the Swifts as they approached.
“I doubt this is a coincidence, either,” murmured Maelstrom, gesturing to the entrance.
In front of the Hôtel, thronging the pavement like a flock of overgrown pigeons, was a group of clowns. Some were tall, some short, some fat, some thin, some in enough ruffles to embarrass ten infants, some in no ruffles at all. Some wore the tight black cap Shenanigan recognized from their painting, some a long, conical hat, like a dunce’s cap. They moved with a practiced grace that ignored the summer heat, though it was hot enough to melt the greasepaint from their faces. Occasionally, one would drift away from the crowd to mimic the walk of a self-important businessman, or hand a rose to a pretty passerby, or twist up a balloon animal for a pointing child. But most were listening intently to a city tour guide, who had a large flag on his back that said, in forget-me-not blue: Private Hire for the Société Des Pierrots.
“…lived and worked here between the years of 1921 and 1926,” the guide said in a grating, nasal voice. “Sadly, we are not permitted inside, but just to stand on this street is to FEEL HIS SPIRIT—”
The guide had had to raise his voice, because there was shouting coming from inside the Hôtel.
The Swifts exchanged significant glances.
“Excuse me,” Phenomena said politely, reaching for the door, and the Pierrots scattered, dancing away a few steps before closing in again to press their noses against the Hôtel windows, leaving white smudges.
The lobby of the Hôtel Martinet was cool and dim, and smelled of faded things: rose petals, coffee, tobacco. A beam of sunlight snuck through the open door, and in it dust motes waltzed towards the ceiling, where a chandelier glittered. Hundreds of pieces of costume jewelry had been tossed onto it like party streamers. Couches in pink and green velvet, flanked by fringed lamps, made up a lounge by the window. In one corner was a staircase of brass and enamel, twisting up and out of sight; in the other was a narrow elevator, fronted by an ornate brass grille.
It was ostentatious—a word defined as “assertively grand and attention-seeking”—but shabby. Everywhere, there were signs of age. Some of the brass was tarnished, some of the velvet a little moth-eaten. There was a crack running down the center of the tiled floor, as if something very heavy had once been dropped on it. The enamel on the staircase was chipped. The shouting from the depths of the Hôtel was quieter here than it had been outside, as if the noise had somehow got lost on its way down.
The Swifts hesitated. They hadn’t expected a warm welcome, but even a chilly one would have sufficed. Shenanigan wondered if the Martinets were planning an ambush. She began scanning the corners for hidden figures.
At the far end of the lobby, set into the wall like a gold filling in a set of teeth, was the front desk. A girl with a froth of lilac hair and a frown thickened by black eyebrow pencil occupied one of two chairs. Her glare escorted them all the way across the cracked tile floor.
“Puis-je vous aider?” she asked.
There was a small sign on the desk that read Concierge, next to a brass bell shaped like a crab that Shenanigan itched to ring. The girl’s eyes were rimmed with kohl, which is a type of smudgy black makeup particularly popular with people who listen to angry music, and they flicked over Maelstrom and the girls with suspicion. Something about them must have said “English,” because she switched languages effortlessly. “Can I help you?”
Uncle Maelstrom put on a warm smile. “Afternoon! We’re looking for my niece,” he said politely.
The girl simply stared. A bubble of lilac-colored gum appeared between her slightly parted lips, grew, expanded, popped, and was neatly withdrawn. She was wearing a gold name badge unsettlingly like the one Inheritance had given Shenanigan at the last Reunion. It said Mercredi.
“Her name’s Felicity,” added Shenanigan. When Mercredi still did not respond, Shenanigan slapped the bell with an open palm, in case the girl had forgot what her job was, and was disappointed to find it was broken. The girl smirked in a way that suggested she had broken it.
“Felicity Swift?” repeated Phenomena.
Mercredi sighed. “You’ll have to speak to the receptionist.”
There was a pause in which the Swifts waited for her to call someone. She didn’t. The shouting upstairs grew louder.
“May we please speak to the receptionist?” tried Maelstrom.
Mercredi stood abruptly, took two steps to her left, and sat in the empty chair behind another sign that said Réceptionniste. Then she hauled over a lilac ledger the length of her arm, threw it open with a bang, and stabbed a finger on the page.
“Felicity Swift, Room 290, orange juice. I can ring her up for you.”
“Thank—”
“Un moment.”
Behind Mercredi were dozens of cords, each attached to a different-shaped bell with a number embossed on the front. Without looking, she reached back and yanked one.
“Oui?” came a muffled voice out of the brass trumpet behind her.
“Trouvez Souris,” she said into the trumpet.
“Quoi?”
“TROUVEZ SOURIS,” she shouted. To them, she said, “I am Mercredi Bakir-Martinet. I am the concierge, and that means I am in charge of guest relations. If you need anything, you come to me.”
Maelstrom smiled encouragingly. “You’re very young to be a—”
“Thank you,” Mercredi said. “How long will you be staying with us?”
“We’re not sure. We—”
“Names?” she asked, flipping furiously through the ledger again.
“Maelstrom, Shenanigan, and Phenomena Swift.”
“Good. Sign here. Name, date, juice preference. Any non-members with you?”
“What?”
“Non-Martinets, non-Swifts, whatever. Non-Family.”
“Non,” said Maelstrom.
“Sorry, do you only admit Swifts to the Hôtel?” asked Phenomena.
Mercredi looked up at Phenomena as if she was very stupid, which might have been the first time that had ever happened to her.
“Of course not. That wouldn’t be very good business, would it? But Family stays free. It’s Hôtel policy.”
The phone next to her rang. She picked it up. “Allô, Hôtel Martinet, concierge à l’appareil. Oui, un moment.” She hung up. “I am not usually the receptionist as well. But things have been…” She paused. “What is that word in English? The one that means everything is a mess, and people are running around like chickens with their heads cut off?” The phone rang again. She took up the receiver, barked, “La ligne est occupée!” and slammed the receiver back into its cradle. There was a loud thump from upstairs, and the chandelier quivered. Mercredi breathed hard through her nose.
“Ms. Mercredi,” Maelstrom said soothingly, “we can see you’re very busy. Perhaps it would be easier if you called the manager?”
For some reason, the question seemed to make Mercredi’s mood even fouler. “Soufflé is busy— Ah! Souris, finally.”
“My little brother,” she said, by way of introduction.
A boy had appeared, maybe a year younger than Shenanigan, in a bellboy’s uniform of pistachio green. When Shenanigan saw who was accompanying him, she let out an inarticulate shout that was echoed by the other person, and then she, Erf, and Phenomena were laughing and trying to make up a three-way secret handshake on the fly, which mostly looked like they were just slapping each other.
Erf was Shenanigan’s cousin, which made them Phenomena and Felicity’s cousin as well. Shenanigan had met them for the first time a few months ago, during the eventful Reunion. They had proven themself to be brave, clever, dryly funny, and very good with cats, and the cousins had formed a fast friendship. When Aunt Inheritance—Erf’s grandmother—had finally allowed Erf to shave the sides of their head, Erf had sent Shenanigan some of their hair, as insurance. The idea was that if Erf ever betrayed Shenanigan, she could use it to frame them. Shenanigan was so moved by this expression of trust she had sent back some of her own toenail clippings. This is what’s known as “mutually assured destruction” and is common in both political rivalries and best friendships.
“We weren’t sure you’d come along!” beamed Shenanigan.
“It was touch and go for a while,” said Erf, still trying to do something complicated with Phenomena’s elbow. “Gran made coming here sound like being dropped into a pit of snakes. Venomous ones, I mean, like taipans or cobras. Being dropped into a pit of grass snakes might be quite nice.”
Suddenly, the children heard a rapid thump-thump-thump-THUMP from the direction of the staircase, and looked up in time to see a young woman come tearing down it, her coat and curls struggling to keep up. She skidded to a stop at the bottom of the stairs and sprinted towards the front desk. Mercredi’s eyes widened.
“Non, t’avise pas. Don’t you dare—” she began, but the person vaulted over the desk and vanished from view.
The shouting sounded as if it was coming from just above them now, and the Swifts could hear the elevator grinding its way towards the lobby. A head popped up from behind the desk, its curls skewed sideways.
“I know how this looks,” whispered the fugitive, “but I didn’t actually do anything this time. I just need to lie low for half an hour.”
“Non,” said Mercredi flatly.
The woman swiveled her hair back into place. “Come on, have mercy, Mercy! Débris has been trying to put me on cleaning duty again. She was hiding in my wardrobe today. My wardrobe!”
Souris giggled. “Look at her sad face,” he said as the newcomer pulled an exaggerated expression of misery. “Have pity!”
“Yes, have pity! Sanctuaire!”
Mercredi rolled her eyes at both of them. “Fine.”
“Oh, merci, Mercy!” She blew hair off her forehead. “You’re a peach. A gent. A humdinger. A real swollen gal.” Then she did a double take. “By gums! Swifts!”
When Fauna had first mentioned Pamplemousse’s sister, Shenanigan had just pictured Pamplemousse, but without the moustache. She hadn’t been far off. Pomme (for it couldn’t be anyone else) was far younger than her deceased brother, darker-skinned and with a pointier chin, but their fashion sense was much the same. She wore a similar blue frock coat and breeches, as if she had stepped out from some royal court; King Charles II to Pamplemousse’s Louis XIV. She even had the same ringlets, which she pulled off briefly to mop her brow, revealing a shaved head underneath. But whereas her brother’s every pocket, belt loop, and sleeve had bristled with weapons, the bandolier slung across Pomme’s chest held stubs of pencils, pastels, and charcoal. When her coat swung open, Shenanigan saw a dozen paintbrushes sheathed in the lining, and on one hip sat a can of spray paint, holstered and ready for a quick draw.
Pomme grinned at them all, showing off a catlike smile. “Do me a favor—pretend you saw nothing?” She ducked to the floor behind the desk.
It didn’t take much to secure Shenanigan’s unwavering loyalty, but asking her to be an accomplice was a definite shortcut.
The elevator pinged, and an improbable number of people spilled out into the Lobby in a yelling, gesticulating knot of pistachio-green uniforms and pointing fingers.
Mêlée—another word the English have borrowed from the French—means “a confused mass of people” or “a battle at close quarters,” and this was both. Just visible in the center was a prim little man in a suit, facing off against a familiar frizz of dishwater-colored hair.
“And furthermore,” Aunt Inheritance was shouting, “Swindle Swift won A Clown Laments His Lot in Life fair and square under the terms—”
“Fair?” cried the man, his face reddening. “I don’t know any packs of cards that contain five aces, Madame Archivist—”
“—under the terms of his wager with Varlet Martinet. Who, by the way, provided the pack of cards, so if there were five aces, they were his—”
“And only four aces came back, which begs the question—”
“All day it has been like this,” whispered Souris conversationally. “You Swifts have really put mustard up his nose.”
“We’ve done no such thing,” said Phenomena, frowning.
“It’s an expression,” said Pomme from her hiding place. “Like the English phrase ‘put their socks in a knot.’ ”
“I think you might mean ‘got their knickers in a twist,’ ” said Erf.
“That’s it! You have such a beautiful language,” said Pomme, sighing. “So expressive!”
Shenanigan remembered Pamplemousse’s fondness for peppering his conversation with French phrases, despite being raised in England. Pomme seemed to have the opposite affliction.
Finally, the man in the suit spotted the Swifts. His eyes widened. He brushed Inheritance aside and strode across the lobby, beaming.
“Bonjour!” he cried warmly, mopping his brow. He had a perfect bald ring on the very top of his head, and a small, curled moustache. “Bienvenue à l’Hôtel Martinet—”
“You can drop it, Soufflé,” said Mercredi sourly. “They’re not paying guests, just more Swifts.”
Soufflé did, indeed, drop it. The warm expression fell off his face so fast it practically thudded to the floor.
“More?” he snapped. “More? Schadenfreude can smell blood, hmm?”
Aunt Inheritance sagged in relief at the sight of them. Her hair looked even more stressed than usual, and there were spots of indignant pink on her cheeks. “Maelstrom, can you please tell these boors that I am here on an errand of peace?”
“Oh yes,” sneered Soufflé before Maelstrom could open his mouth. “And of course this errand of peace has to occur at the most inconvenient time! How very like the Swifts to turn up when it suits them!”
“Actually—” began Maelstrom, but Soufflé steamrolled on, seeming to puff up as he spoke, until Shenanigan was surprised his chest didn’t lift him bodily from the floor and float him across the lobby.
“We are in the midst of preparing for a grand exhibition. It is a very delicate matter,” he said.
“Yes, we saw the—”
“And yet we are beset—beset!—with complications on every side. First, we learn you lost A Clown Laments—”
“It was stolen; you can hardly—”
“Then we learn from the papers that the very thieves who took it are back in the city—”
“I don’t see how that’s—”
“And now you rabble stroll into our home without any regard for the difficulties you cause!”
Shenanigan frowned. She’d thought Ouvolpo were returning A Clown to the Martinets. Shouldn’t they be pleased?
Maelstrom took a calming breath in the face of the little man’s ire. “Our Matriarch did call ahead—” he began.
“Oh, your Matriarch, yes, I’m sure she assumed we would drop everything to attend to your problems, never mind the fact that—”
“Monsieur,” said Maelstrom, and the word was sharp enough to puncture. Soufflé’s mouth closed. Shenanigan saw Maelstrom’s arms unconsciously knit behind his back, as if he was mimicking Inspector Rousseau. “We had hoped we’d be welcome, but if not, we’ll simply take our painting back and be on our way,” he said.
“It’s our painting,” snapped Soufflé. “Swindle cheated to get it!”
“ ‘Cheating is a legitimate strategy when all parties accept its use,’ ” retorted Inheritance. “That’s stated by Litigious Swift in Lore and Law—”
“All right, we can sit down and discuss it,” said Maelstrom, still using an even, steady voice. “We presume Ouvolpo have returned A Clown Laments His Lot in Life to you by now?”
That brought Soufflé up short. “No,” he said stiffly. “They have not. And, what’s more, they have taken Les Bâtiments too.”
It was as if a dam had broken. The gathered Martinets all began shouting at once. What Shenanigan had thought of as anger, she now realized, was panic.
“Who’s Les Bateman?” she yelled over the din.
“Les Bâtiments dans leurs plus beaux atours—or, in English, The Buildings in Their Finery,” said a woman with long, straight hair and enormous, limpid eyes. Her Hôtel name tag said Silhouette. “It’s one of the four most famous artworks by Pierrot, and it was stolen in the early hours of this morning!”
“You must have passed the crime scene on your way here,” added a man wearing a frilly shirt beneath his Hôtel uniform—Bouquet, according to the tag. “At La Garde-robe?”
Maelstrom and Phenomena looked at each other. Shenanigan could see the machinery of her sister’s mind whirring and clicking behind her eyes.
“You mean Ouvolpo have stolen two Pierrot pieces?” asked Phenomena. “Our painting, and another piece from La Garde-robe?”
“Clown was never yours, but yes,” said Soufflé.
“And our Pierrot is next!” wailed Bouquet, pressing a bejeweled hand to his forehead.
“Yes,” said Phenomena, nodding thoughtfully, “that does seem likely.”
The ensuing uproar took place in three kinds of language: French, English, and Strong. Shenanigan saw Mercredi take the crab bell off the desk and begin fiddling with the base of it.
“What do we do? Do we cancel?” asked a short man whose uniform had been accessorized with a beret and a striped shirt.
“Absolutely not, Cliché!” cried Soufflé, taking out a handkerchief and dabbing his shining forehead. “We can’t afford— We need this exhibition to go ahead!” He spun on his heel and pointed a blunt finger at the Swifts. “How do we know you’re telling the truth?” he demanded. “We only have your word that Clown has been stolen!”
“That’s right! They could be lying!” shouted an unkempt woman with a fork in her hair. Her name tag had something smeared on it, but Shenanigan could just about make out the name Débris. “They could be in league with Ouvolpo!”
“They could be Ouvolpo!” added Bouquet. “How interesting that Les Bâtiments disappeared mere hours before you arrived!”
Soufflé nodded vigorously at these suggestions with the desperation of a man who hopes that if he believes hard enough an unpleasant truth will morph into an unpleasant lie, and stop being a problem. “A typical Swift trick, they always Yes-sir-hello-welcome-may-I-help-you!”
A businessman who had just entered the Hôtel took in the scene, shook his head once, and turned on his heel. The gilt door swished shut behind him.
A loud dinging sound made several people clap their hands over their ears. Mercredi had un-sabotaged the crab bell, and was slamming her hand down on it repeatedly. She hopped over the front desk. Below her uniform’s pistachio-green jacket and trousers, she wore huge black platform boots that gave her an extra four inches in height, bringing her to an almost average five feet.
“Now this nonsense is costing us business,” she snapped. “I don’t care if you want to break out the lances and start jousting, but you are not going to do it in my lobby! ”
Mercredi was small, but it was as if all the ferocity of a much taller person had been condensed down into a pressurized canister. The Martinets quieted almost instantly, shuffling their feet and looking embarrassed. Mercredi waited until there was silence.
“The Swifts have been checked in,” she said. “They are guests. I suggest we at least let them unpack before we start tossing accusations about, eh?”
More grumbling and shuffling of feet. Shenanigan was impressed.
“Disperse,” Mercredi snapped.
“Yes, disperse,” added Soufflé. “Go on, do your jobs.”
The Martinets drifted off, until the only ones left were the children, Soufflé, and Débris, who was clutching a Hôtel uniform in her hands.
“If you see Pomme, tell her to stop being so childish,” Débris said, tossing the bundle on the front desk. “Everyone else is helping out. It’s time she rolled up her sleeves like the rest of us.”
There was a faint snort from behind the counter.
“I’ll tell her you were looking, Débris,” said Mercredi, and the woman stomped away, her undone shoelaces whipping against the tile floor.
Then it was just Soufflé. His pale gray eyes cast around and landed on Souris. He snapped his fingers, and the bellboy stepped forwards, looking annoyed at being clicked at. Shenanigan would have been annoyed too. She would have bitten Soufflé’s fingers off.
“Today has been trying,” said Soufflé. “Souris, tell Chef Gourmet to prepare dinner in my suite. Afterwards, I will check in on Maman, and I want my bath ready by six.”
Mercredi bristled. “That’s not his job.”
Shenanigan heard Pomme mutter, “Besides, you don’t have a bath anymore.”
“I am the manager,” replied Soufflé, as if he was trying to convince himself. “Souris’s job is to do what I— Did you just say something?”
“No,” said Mercredi.
“I distinctly remember, because it nearly fell through the ceiling of my room and ruined half my paintings.”
Soufflé frowned. “I could have sworn I heard—”
“Do you know where our sister is?” asked Shenanigan hurriedly. “Long hair, complains a lot?”
“She’s called Felicity,” added Phenomena.
“We think. She’s been gone so long it’s hard to remember,” said Shenanigan.
Soufflé looked down at the children as if he wasn’t sure whether they were joking or not, and, finding the question too complicated, promptly erased them from his mind. He turned to the adults instead.
“I apologize for this lack of hospitality, but my attention is currently being solicited from multifarious locales and myriad personages, and I am not, at present, the most even-tempered.”
“Sorry?” asked Inheritance, blinking.
“My apologies. I shall speak more simply,” said Soufflé with a trace of smugness. “The exhibition of our Pierrot, Toujours j’attends, opens in two days. There is much to prepare. I may have been a little…sharp.”
“I understand,” said Maelstrom. “We only came here to get back our painting—”
“Debatably your painting.”
“—to get back A Clown Laments His Lot in Life,” said Maelstrom, before Inheritance could protest. “But since you are in difficulty, perhaps we can help each other. Maybe this can be an opportunity to heal the Family rift, after all.”
Soufflé looked thoughtful.
“À demain,” he said finally. “Tomorrow, I will meet you for breakfast, and we can discuss the best way for you to help us. For now, your niece is in the restaurant.”