When the tenement building that became the Hôtel Martinet was first converted by famed Parisian property developer Tyran Martinet, the immense leaded window of the restaurant had been something of a marvel. Over the years, as the Hôtel’s fortunes declined, moss had grown along the fine joins between the interlocking, diamond-shaped panes, filling the room with a green-tinged light that made it feel slightly sub-aquatic. Entering was a little like stepping into a fish tank.
The Swifts paused on the threshold in the awkward pose of people who have arrived late to a dinner and aren’t sure where to sit. A few of the tables were occupied by shivering, upright menus. Occasionally, one of the menus would sway or dip, and Shenanigan would see a face behind, creased up with the effort of choosing what to order. Finally one of the menus lowered, and the face revealed was familiar.
“Felicity!” shouted Shenanigan, making several diners look up in surprise and one man inhale his soup. Felicity’s beam became a wince, which was exactly what Shenanigan had hoped for. She’d missed that wince. She ran to the table.
“We came here on a boat!” she said triumphantly, knowing Felicity had only come by train.
“I went first class, and got afternoon tea, with lemonade in a champagne flute,” said Felicity, neatly illustrating the differences between the two sisters.
“Phenomena was sick everywhere.”
“You don’t have to sound so pleased about it,” grumbled Phenomena.
“Well. We took a plane,” Erf said, the clear winner.
“Erf persuaded me that only a tiny number of flights end in flaming balls of death,” said Aunt Inheritance. “And assured me we were going nowhere near the Bermuda Triangle.”
“Gran still gripped the armrest the entire way, though.”
Shenanigan covertly scanned Erf for changes since she’d last seen them. The cousins were racing to see who could grow another inch first. It was not a race Erf was aware they were in, but Shenanigan wasn’t going to go easy on them just because of that.
To her satisfaction, Erf appeared to be the same height as before and, apart from their haircut and a new hand-knitted jumper (this one with a Goliath beetle on the front), hadn’t changed, physically. But they were different in some subtle, hard-to-pinpoint way. They smiled more, and seemed more solid around the edges. Shenanigan assumed this was because their gran, Aunt Inheritance, was now using their proper name, the one Erf had picked for themself rather than the one assigned by the Dictionary. Shenanigan allowed herself to warm towards Inheritance, ever so slightly—an unusually charitable feeling that lasted right up until her aunt spoke.
“As glad as I am to see that Felicity is alive and well,” she began (ignoring Felicity’s worried interruption of “Wait, why wouldn’t I be?”), “I fear we have overestimated our welcome. Since I arrived, I have been ignored and insulted by turns. Felicity, I’m surprised Soufflé invited you here in the first place.”
“Well, he didn’t,” said Felicity. “Pomme did. And I’m not entirely sure she expected me to accept—the Martinets were all pretty surprised when I turned up. But”—she lowered her voice—“the Hôtel is really struggling at the moment. There are hardly any guests, and all the non-Family staff have left. So maybe they just don’t want more people staying for free?”
“Who told you the Hôtel is struggling?” asked Phenomena.
“No one.” Felicity blushed. “I’ve just overheard a few things. They didn’t realize I speak French, so I just…didn’t tell them.”
“That’s my girl!” Maelstrom chuckled.
“And now, Maelstrom, I think you had better give me a proper account of this robbery,” said Aunt Inheritance briskly.
“Robbery?” asked Felicity, sitting up straight. Her eyes grew round as her sisters and uncle described the burgling of Swift House. Shenanigan noted the way Felicity pulled her menu closer, protectively.
Erf frowned. “Well, that doesn’t make any sense,” they said matter-of-factly. “Everyone knows Ouvolpo only steal art that was already stolen. Like those jade dragons from the Summer Palace.”
“But if we stole—”
“Won,” corrected Inheritance.
“But if we got the clown painting from the Martinets, and they’re the rightful owners, why haven’t Ouvolpo given it back to them?” asked Shenanigan.
“Simple,” said Erf. “The Martinets mustn’t be the rightful owners.”
Aunt Inheritance looked worriedly to Maelstrom. “Perhaps you and I should remove ourselves to another table and discuss this further. Leave the children to catch up.”
“They’d catch up better if they could hear us,” said Maelstrom.
“I meant with each other. This is adult business.”
Phenomena bristled. “What, like Aunt Schadenfreude’s attempted murder was adult business? Ow!” She flinched as a stylish yet sensible loafer kicked her under the table. Felicity’s face was serene.
“Yes, Aunt Inheritance. You two go ahead, talk about adult things.”
Despite her pleasant tone, Felicity’s little finger tapped restlessly at the edge of her menu. As soon as Maelstrom and Inheritance were out of earshot, her head whipped towards her sisters and cousin.
“Tell me about the tableau,” she whispered urgently.
“What’s a tableau?”
“A tableau is like a scene onstage—Ouvolpo always leave behind a big dramatic piece of art when they go. It’s like their calling card.”
“Oh! You mean the thing with the bird and the kettles?”
Shenanigan again described the scene that had been left in the Great Hall of Swift House.
“That is bizarre,” said Erf when she’d finished. “And very cool. Ouvolpo are so creative.”
“I wonder what it means?” murmured Felicity, her eyes far away.
Shenanigan noticed that her sister had still not lowered her menu. On instinct, she grabbed the top and pulled it down. She didn’t see much before Felicity snatched it back, but did spot a crumpled newspaper article, tucked inside the menu the way a person might tuck a comic into a textbook for classroom reading. It was covered in scratched-out notes in Felicity’s curly handwriting. The headline was in French. It read OUVOLPO A ENCORE FRAPPÉ! in huge, indignant letters, and below that was a photograph, gray and grainy, the only part of the page that had escaped scribbling.
“Fliss, were you already trying to catch Ouvolpo?” asked Shenanigan.
“I would never have expected such forward planning from you,” said Phenomena, impressed.
“SHHH!” Felicity darted a glance over her shoulder. It was the most suspicious attempt at looking unsuspicious Shenanigan had ever seen. “I don’t want to attract attention!”
“Well, maybe you shouldn’t be shushing everyone quite so loudly,” said Erf, smiling through gritted teeth as a guest shot them a quizzical look from the next table. “Is that picture of the tableau they left at La Garde-robe?”
Felicity slid the menu, article and all, towards the middle of the table. The photo had been taken through the glass wall of the museum before the police had managed to put the paper up. Around it, Felicity had written things like Suspension/suspense? and Who’s pulling the strings? and, in somewhat frustrated-looking letters, PUPPET SIGNIFICANCE????
“What is this?” asked Shenanigan, confused.
“Art is open to interpretation,” explained Felicity. “Ouvolpo’s work is full of things that symbolize other things, so I thought maybe—I could figure out what they’re trying to say.”
Erf cackled. “You’re not trying to catch them! You’re a fan!”
“Shut up!” said Felicity, glancing around anxiously. “We have to be discreet. Ouvolpo aren’t very popular among the Martinets.”
“Well, of course they aren’t!” said Shenanigan, glaring at her traitorous sister. “They’re thieves!”
“Shenanigan, you love thieves! I would have thought you’d be cheering them on!”
This might have been true, if it had not been Swift House that had been robbed. Thievery, in Shenanigan’s opinion, was a skill, just like being a locksmith or a close-up magician. Some people had worked very hard and got very good at it, and those people should be applauded. But stealing their painting had been a challenge, and one Shenanigan could not ignore. Before it was taken, Shenanigan had not had a strong opinion about A Clown Laments, one way or another. But now it was the most precious object that her Family owned, and its abduction a grave dishonor.
Anyway, Shenanigan had a policy of only admitting Felicity had a point when that point was against her throat.
“Fliss, they robbed us,” Shenanigan said patiently. “They’re obviously our mortal enemies. Who cares what they’re trying to say?”
“A lot of people, actually.” Felicity fumbled behind her menu again, shuffling through several articles.
“Here,” she said. “This one’s in English.”
Shenanigan, Phenomena, and Erf clustered around the article. There was a picture of the scene, and a much clearer photograph of the stolen piece: The Buildings in Their Finery. It was a very strange sculpture. It was of three buildings: the Eiffel Tower, Notre-Dame Cathedral, and a shabby-looking building that was only just recognizable as the Hôtel Martinet, before its renovation. Each of the buildings was decked out in silk and taffeta and ruffles, their boxy shapes encased in elaborate bodices, like three radically different women dressed up for a night on the town.
ROBIN HOOD ROBBERS ROB ’ROBE
Paris was shaken today as the activist art thieves known as Ouvolpo returned to their native city. The police were alerted to a break-in at La Garde-robe—a fashion museum in the 4th arrondissement—when a passerby saw an unusual spectacle through the gallery window and raised the alarm.
Upon investigation, the stolen piece was identified as The Buildings in Their Finery (1923), a mixed-media sculpture by the artist Pierrot. One of Ouvolpo’s trademark tableaux (pictured) was left in its place.
The piece is an unusual target for Ouvolpo, who have previously only stolen art that has been controversially acquired by museums via war, colonial projects, and theft. La Garde-robe insist that they bought the piece legitimately through a private seller, though this raises questions as to why the thieves would change the habits of decades.
Erf chewed a thumbnail. “This Crème person has a point,” they said. “Ouvolpo don’t usually target a single artist repeatedly like this—why are they going after Pierrots specifically?”
“I don’t know,” said Felicity. “That’s what I’ve been trying to work out, but— Shh!”
Shenanigan looked up to see Uncle Maelstrom and Aunt Inheritance heading back to their table. Felicity raised her menu as if she was still deciding what to order, neatly obscuring the clipping as she did so.
“Are you girls ready to eat?” Maelstrom asked. “I assume we have all finished our secret conversations by now.”
While he and Inheritance squeezed back in at their table, Shenanigan finally took a look at her menu. She blinked. The menu was large because it was written in two languages: French on one side, English on the other. This is common in places where two languages are often spoken, so no one is left out. What was uncommon, however, were the names of the dishes. Nothing listed sounded like food. They had names like “Jeunesse gaspillée,” which apparently meant “misspent youth.” The meal descriptions said only “contains shellfish” or “suitable for vegetarians.”
“I think they’ve made a mistake with the translation,” said Phenomena, frowning.
Felicity snorted. “No, they haven’t. It’s very avant-garde here.”
“It is food, though, right?” asked Shenanigan in sudden terror.
“Oh yes. If you order Certainty in the Existence of a Moral Universe, for example, you get pumpkin ravioli. Yesterday I had an Unusual Feeling of Being Watched, but it was just a salad.”
In the end, Phenomena ordered the Solution to a Crossword Puzzle, Felicity had Hope for a Better Future, over easy, and Shenanigan tried Understanding Why Suffering Exists, with chips. Maelstrom had some Ruminations on What Might Have Been, but sent them back as they were too bitter.
At least the dessert menu was more straightforward. Shenanigan was warned off the Choc des cultures (“that means ‘culture shock,’ Shenanigan, so goodness knows what will arrive”) and the Declaration Tart (“it has almonds, and I know you’ve gone off them since the cyanide thing”), and so ordered a Chocolate Retort instead. By the end she was almost too full to move, and could only stare with detached interest at the man in the chef’s hat coming towards them.
He was enormous, taller and broader even than Maelstrom, with a nose that looked as if it had been broken several times and a chest the size of a range cooker. He halted several steps away from them, his hand twisting his apron. The restaurant was almost deserted, and they could hear another chef whistling away in the back.
“Bonsoir,” he said finally, and his smile was nervous. “My name is Gourmet. Je suis…I am the head chef de l’Hôtel. Bienvenue—welcome, Swifts.”
He thrust a small green box at them, tied with a ribbon and printed with the Hôtel logo. “My-English-is-not-good-sorry,” he said apologetically.
Felicity took the box and opened it. A delicious smell wafted out. Inside were little clam-shaped pink cakes, like madeleines but rounder, with what looked like a white chocolate filling between each half of the shell.
“Clandestines,” Gourmet said. “My recipe. For you.”
“Thank you,” said Felicity.
Gourmet smiled, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly.
Shenanigan was oddly touched. Gourmet was the first person to actually welcome them since they’d arrived, and it took her by surprise how relieved she felt that someone was glad to have them around. She wanted to tell him that the clandestines looked delicious, but realized that in French even a sentence as simple as “these look tasty” was beyond her. She could see the same frustration reflected on Gourmet’s face, clearly wanting to say more, but likewise unable to find the right words. There was an awkward pause.
Then Felicity repeated her thanks in French, and Gourmet visibly relaxed. As soon as he realized Felicity was fairly fluent, he became a chatterbox, talking quickly, gesticulating, even letting out a high-pitched giggle that didn’t suit his frame. It was a conversation the rest of the Swifts were shut out of, and once again Shenanigan felt small and isolated. She turned to Erf, but they were hurriedly flipping through a small book, scribbling something on a napkin.
Gourmet kept looking around the restaurant, as if he was waiting for someone to appear. Eventually, as he turned to go, Erf stuck their hand in the air.
“Wait! Ah—arrêtez! Attendez? Um—”
Gourmet stopped. Erf picked up their napkin, and, hesitantly, read, “Merci beaucoup pour les clandestines…et pour votre hospitalité…I think…?”
They trailed off, embarrassed, but Gourmet beamed, revealing crooked teeth.
“Je comprends,” he said kindly. “You are welcome. Eat soon!” He gestured to the clandestines, and then disappeared back into the kitchen.
Erf groaned, their head thunking onto the table. “I sounded like a right twerp,” they said.
“Me too, probably,” said Felicity, patting them on the shoulder.
“What? You’re fluent!”
Felicity snorted. “I’m not. To people who speak French properly, I sound like a six-year-old. These cakes look amazing, though.”
Shenanigan took the box of clandestines. Beneath the Hôtel logo was a small card that read, Your Hairs Look Fantastic Today!
“He did say they’re complimentary,” explained Felicity.
After dinner, Felicity showed her sisters to her—now their—room. Erf’s attempt to get their gran to agree to a sleepover had been first denied due to the risk of potential kidnappers, and then agreed to on the logic that there was safety in numbers.
Erf threw themselves on the sofa bed with their phrase book in hand, skimming through the pages.
“Wednesday,” they said as Shenanigan brushed her teeth.
“Fwha?”
“Mercredi means ‘Wednesday,’ ” said Erf, waving the phrase book. “Bouquet is the same as in English, a bunch of flowers. Débris is rubbish—”
“Yeah, she seems it.”
“No, I mean the word débris means ‘rubbish,’ or ‘rubble,’ or ‘mess.’ ”
Shenanigan rinsed and spat. “Wish I’d thought to bring one of those,” she said, looking enviously at Erf’s phrase book. It was pocket-sized, and would have fitted comfortably in the place she usually kept her map.
Erf hesitated for a moment, and then tore the phrase book in half down the spine.
“There,” they said, throwing Shenanigan the back half. “I’ll take A to L, you take M to Z.”
Shenanigan flicked through her half of the book. “A pomme is an apple,” she said. “Souris is the French word for ‘mouse.’ And a soufflé is a type of French dessert, full of air and easily deflated, which I think I knew already. What’s ‘art’ in French?”
“ ‘L’Art,’ ” said Erf flatly.
“Crime?”
“ ‘Le crime.’ What about ‘sculpture’?”
Shenanigan riffled through the pages. “Uh…‘La sculpture.’ ”
“Of course. And ‘police’?”
“…‘La police.’ ”
Erf threw up their hands. “No wonder all the Martinets speak English. French is just English with way more e’s and accents.”
“Not really,” said Felicity. “ ‘Heist,’ for example, is ‘cambriolage.’ ”
“Right. So what’s a robber, then?”
“…‘Le brigand.’ ”
“Gallery?”
“ ‘La galerie.’ ”
Erf gave Felicity an “I told you so” sort of look.
Shenanigan had expected Felicity to be annoyed at having to share her room, but she didn’t utter a word of complaint, even when Shenanigan threw herself onto the bed with a noise like a happy pig.
“You’ve missed us,” Shenanigan teased.
Felicity shoved her to the other side, grumbling, “Whenever you sleep in my bed, I wake up with your feet in my hair.”
“We should”—Phenomena yawned—“theorize. Write down what we know so far.”
“I’ll sum it up,” said Shenanigan as her own eyelids grew heavy. “Ouvolpo nicked our painting, A Clown Laments His Lot in Life. And they nicked the one from La Garde-robe, Les Bateman—”
“Les Bâtiments. The Buildings in Their Finery.”
“Right. The Martinets own another Pierrot, and it’s due to go on display the day after tomorrow.” Shenanigan yawned. This really was a soft bed. “But all of that is fine, because now we’re here, and we’re going to catch these thieves, and…get our painting back, and I won’t have to…to give up treasure…lake…”
Shenanigan heard the familiar rattle of her elder sister’s snore and felt sleep pulling her down too. Their long day, which had pursued them all the way across the English Channel, had finally caught up with them, and knocked them unconscious.