The Conversatoire was originally built as the Hôtel bar. It had been an ordinary square room, but twenty years after it opened, Coquette Martinet—a very trendy sort of girl—had declared that squares were square, and shaved off the room’s corners. The newly circular lounge was lined with a curved bar of polished rosewood and papered in pink silk wallpaper. An up-and-coming architect was hired at eye-watering expense to design a large domed skylight made of hundreds of panes of glass, through which guests could stare up at the stars over Paris—though, even then, the glow coming off the City of Lights made that quite difficult. The finished ceiling was exquisitely constructed and beautiful to behold. It was also, unfortunately, deadly.
The party to celebrate the bar’s reopening had begun at eleven a.m., and was scheduled to run for a full twenty-four hours, with refreshments and entertainment throughout. By noon it was clear that the new ceiling acted as a converging lens, like a magnifying glass, trapping and focusing the sun’s rays. Several guests fainted from heatstroke and had to be dragged out with ice packs taped to their foreheads. Coquette herself refused to admit her new bar was a failure, and remained in the room drinking hot champagne until her hair caught fire.
Luckily, the room was only deadly during the day. At night it was pleasantly warm, almost cozy, a pink bubble of soft light and polished wood. The Martinets kept the room for their own personal use and filled it with whatever furniture they liked—armchairs, coffee tables, chaises longues—all placed at angles so no one comfortably faced anyone else. Why they had chosen to do this was anyone’s guess, but most of the Family were already twisted into their seats when Shenanigan, her sisters, and Erf arrived.
The children knew immediately that they were underdressed—well, except Felicity, who overdressed as a rule. The rosy glow of the lamps rippled on silks and satins, rich fabrics that had over time been worn to cobwebs at the wrist and hem.
In the middle of the room, Élan, the shortest of the triplet brothers, was seated at a grand piano, playing a soft jazz version of “Alouette.” He wore a silk bow tie and an ancient velvet tuxedo.
“Do you do this up at Swift House?” whispered Erf as Silhouette drifted past in blue silk and moonstones.
Shenanigan tried to imagine Cook in an evening gown, and failed miserably. “We do not,” she said.
Soufflé spotted them hovering by the door, and hurried forwards.
“Cousins!” he cried warmly, pressing their hands in his own soft, slightly clammy ones. Now that they had agreed to help catch Ouvolpo, he was all charm, and chattered warmly as he steered them to some unoccupied furniture.
“Welcome, welcome to our little soirée! A celebration of Family unity, yes? Fraternité? You understand. Sit, sit!”
They settled down gingerly. Since no piece of furniture was facing another, the Martinets were contorted into strange positions, leaning over the back of a sofa to carry on a conversation, or lounging across the arm of a chair. Silhouette was folded almost in half in order to talk to Bouquet. Souris was sitting cross-legged on a table, pestering Ennui, who was lying supine on a chaise longue in a pose of great suffering. The domed ceiling seemed to pull in light from the rest of Paris, varicolored and refracting. There were people here Shenanigan had not seen before. She supposed they must spend their time in the depths of the Hôtel, washing, cleaning, doing all the unseen jobs that kept it running. Tonight, they had shed their uniforms and moved about the glass-domed room in faded elegance like moths in a bell jar.
“I see you have opted to remain…casually dressed,” said Soufflé, still grinning.
“We weren’t told it was a formal occasion,” said Inheritance stiffly. Shenanigan hadn’t noticed her, hidden as she was by the winged back of her wingback chair.
“Of course, of course. And will Maelstrom be joining us?”
“He isn’t here?” Shenanigan took a harder look at the crowd. Sure enough, there was not a purple coat in sight. She felt a twinge in her chest.
“He’s been having a well-deserved day to himself,” said Inheritance. “I haven’t heard from him since lunch.”
Shenanigan looked to her sisters with mute concern.
“He’s fine—don’t worry,” said Felicity.
“I’m not worried about him! What about the investigation? What about the stakeout?”
Felicity just shrugged, which made Shenanigan want to pinch her.
Maybe he’s doing something important, she told herself. Perhaps he’ll burst through the door and tell us he’s found Ouvolpo’s hideout, and we’ll descend on the place with bolas and chains to capture them.
But, with dismay, she realized that if Uncle Maelstrom didn’t appear, they would have to ask Aunt Inheritance to accompany them on their stakeout at the Galerie Valerie, or at least ask her permission, which Aunt Inheritance was as likely to give as she was to take up skydiving. Shenanigan tried to stay focused, and not stare hopefully at the Conversatoire door—but that meant noticing that half the Martinets in the room were glaring at them.
“They could have put in a bit of effort,” she heard Débris mutter. The curved room bounced her voice round to the Swifts as if she was standing right beside them—which, given that she was speaking English, might have been the point.
“Soufflé says we must make them feel welcome,” Bouquet responded.
“What? Why?”
“Je ne sais pas.” He sighed. “They have never welcomed us. I have heard they don’t even keep to the old agreement! Here we are, fluent in English by the time we can tie our cravats, and they never so much as pick up a French textbook.”
Inheritance fell for the bait immediately, and twisted in her seat. “True—we do not force the children to learn a second language,” she snapped. “Instead, Felicity chose to learn French out of interest, and I understand Shenanigan has begun Spanish—”
“You see! Why would they bother?” said Débris loudly, rubbing at a stain on her gown. “These Swifts! Anywhere they go, they expect to be understood and welcomed!”
Pomme appeared by Shenanigan’s shoulder. “Débris, don’t you have a toilet that needs cleaning somewhere?”
“Certainement. If you’ll just hand me your wig, I’ll get started right—”
“Ugh, taisez-vous!” groaned Bouquet, raising his hands delicately to his temples. “I’m reading my new poems later, and you’re going to give me a terrible headache!”
“I see you haven’t dressed, either, Pomme,” said Débris, ignoring him completely to scowl at Pomme’s paint-splattered coat.
“Yes, I have. I’ve come in costume as you.” Pomme smiled sweetly. “Though I’ll admit, I don’t have nearly enough coffee stains on my shirt.”
Shenanigan laughed, and Débris’s eyes swung back in her direction.
“Yes, the child thinks you’re funny,” she said acidly. “That’s because you behave like a child, Pomme. It’s time you grew up, and took some responsibility, and—”
“Chut, children,” said Grisaille, drifting into the room on Beige’s arm. “The Swifts did not come all this way to listen to us bicker.”
With the gentle guidance of her daughter, the old woman made her way to a spare armchair. Soufflé fluttered about, asking if she was comfortable, if he could fetch her a pillow or a snack. Beige settled on a chair nearby, prim in her nurse’s uniform. Shenanigan hadn’t really looked at her before, and it was hard to do so now; she was a woman so average in appearance that Shenanigan’s gaze seemed to slide off her. She had a short bob, like her mother, though her hair was blonde rather than gray. She wore a similar string of pearls, looped twice round her throat. She had a somewhat weak chin. And…that was it. It didn’t help that she was so still and quiet, as if her greatest goal in life was to successfully dissolve into the background.
“Who is here tonight?” Grisaille asked.
Soufflé began to list off the Martinets present.
“Mercredi and Souris have come, and we have Silhouette, with her newest painting, and Bouquet, who has promised a poetry reading later. The triplets are all here, and Gourmet, who has prepared canapés, and, well, Canapé himself, with Madeleine. Cliché has gone to see if he can find some better wine, and we didn’t ask Contraire, so he’s bound to turn up—”
Élan pounded a discordant note on the piano, making them all jump. “I think it’s about time we got started!” He grinned, and bounced to his feet, the curl on his forehead bobbing. “Unless, Esprit, you would like to present?”
Esprit, who was at the bar polishing a stack of teacups, shook his head, dislodging one of the two pairs of glasses propped above his hairline.
“How about you, Ennui?”
“What would be the point?” came a miserable voice from the chaise.
“Well then, without further ado: Bouquet! Would you regale us with your posy of poesy?”
Shenanigan detected a few groans under the polite clapping as Bouquet swept onto the stage, a loose sheaf of paper in hand.
“To be a poet is to experience joy and agony in a way no others can, and turn that soup of emotion into a stew of beauty,” he said solemnly. “The muse has been kind to me today, and I have written this humble verse in English, to honor our cousins.”
He shook out his sleeves, and read:
“A debutante from Saint-Tropez
Performed espionage in a café.
She ate microfiche
Someone hid in her quiche,
And passed the state secrets next day.”
The Martinets applauded. Felicity and Erf exchanged disbelieving looks with Shenanigan.
“Wonderful, Bouquet!” called Grisaille. “Très bien!”
“Oh, limericks truly are the highest form of poetry!” Silhouette said, dreamily.
“I have another,” said Bouquet, preening under the attention, but Élan slung an arm round his shoulder.
“Yes, bravo, Bouquet!” he cried. “Always good to hear from you. But, ah, I think it’s time we moved on!”
For the next half an hour, the Swifts watched a parade of Martinets approach the dais and perform. Esprit did a few magic tricks. Débris sang in a high, warbling voice. Risqué began telling a joke, but was yanked offstage before she could get to the punch line.
Gourmet and Souris circled the room with canapés. Shenanigan kept waiting for Pomme to get up and show off one of her paintings, but she just sat there, one knee bouncing, as if lost in thought.
Finally, when Shenanigan was getting sick of applauding, Élan bounded back onstage.
“And now: on to the first of our evening’s games!” he cried. He pulled out a stack of large cards, shuffling them like an oversized deck. “What’ll it be? Any suggestions from the audience?”
The Martinets all began calling out at once, but Élan waved them off.
“Madame Inheritance, as our guest, perhaps you should pick first?”
He fanned out the cards, face down. Hesitantly, Aunt Inheritance selected a card. Élan set her choice on the music stand, where everyone could see. It read:
Interrogatoire/Interrogation
2+ Players
A simple game. Two players sit opposite one another. One player asks questions, the second answers as quickly as possible. It is important that they do not have time to think.
Felicity frowned. “So it’s like trivia?”
The Martinets laughed.
“Oh, no,” said Esprit. “Mostly, we ask personal questions.”
“Why?”
“When you ask a person questions very fast,” said Silhouette, “their mouth answers before their mind has a chance to catch up. There’s no better way to get at the subconscious. It’s vital for an artist,” she added, “to be conscious of their subconscious.”
Felicity’s frown only deepened. The Swifts played games at home, but not like this. “Then, excuse me, but what exactly is the point?”
Élan paused in the middle of dragging a chair onto the stage. “Point?”
“Yeah,” said Shenanigan. “Who wins?”
“Swifts,” snorted Élan. “You don’t play to win—you win by playing well. Silhouette, shall we demonstrate?”
Silhouette hopped onstage to a round of applause, seating herself in the chair. Élan took a light out of his pocket, and shone it in her face, making Silhouette squint, and began to ask questions with the speed of an auctioneer.
“Favorite color?”
“Pink.”
“Least favorite food?”
“Tomatoes.”
“What do snakes make you think of?”
“Rubber hoses.”
“Why is pink your favorite color?”
“It reminds me of death.”
“What’s your most embarrassing habit?”
“Keeping my lost eyelashes in a matchbox— Oh!”
Silhouette clamped her mouth shut, eyes wide. As the other Martinets laughed and cheered, Phenomena leaned over to Shenanigan and Erf.
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“That it would be hard to keep eyelashes?” asked Shenanigan. “If you sneezed near the box they’d go flying—”
“No. That this exercise is very aptly named,” Phenomena said. “We must remember it for when we’re questioning suspects.”
Silhouette leaned forwards with her hands clamped on to the arms of her chair. Élan’s questions began to increase in speed and oddity.
“How many lemon cakes could you eat in one sitting?”
“Twenty!”
“What’s the strangest thing to find in a sandwich?”
“Meaning!”
“If a bear and a shark fought, who would win?”
“Um—um—”
“Hesitation!” crowed Élan. “Round’s over! Now for a round of applause!”
As Silhouette curtseyed, Élan beckoned Inheritance onstage. Erf groaned quietly as their gran settled into the chair Silhouette had vacated.
“Here we go!” cried Élan. “Ready, Inheritance?”
“Yes. I mean no. I mean perhaps—”
“What’s two plus two?”
“Four, of c—”
“Favorite season?”
“Spring?”
“What are you afraid of?”
“Germs and mice and comets and pigeons and heights and—”
“Did Swindle cheat in that card game with Varlet?”
“Oh, obviously.”
As soon as she said it, Inheritance clapped her hand over her mouth, but it was too late. Several Martinets rose to their feet, crying out in rage. Aunt Inheritance looked stricken.
“Wait—” she protested, but Élan rolled on.
“So you admit A Clown Laments His Lot in Life WAS stolen by the Swifts?”
“No— I mean yes, but—”
“And you’ve held on to it all these years?”
“Yes!”
“Even though you knew it was stolen?”
“Yes, but—”
There were gasps and cries of “I knew it!” and “You can’t trust them!”
Soufflé hurried forwards, mopping his brow. “Friends, cousins, let us not reopen old wounds,” he tried, but it wasn’t until Grisaille coughed gently that everyone shut up. Grisaille raised her head, as if surprised at the sudden silence.
“Oh! Soufflé and I have told the Swifts that the incident with A Clown Laments His Lot in Life is forgiven,” she said querulously, “so it seems unfair to keep bringing it up.”
There were some cries of disbelief, but Grisaille sat through them patiently, a lenient smile on her gray face. “I would ask you all to please remember your manners,” she said, and gradually the grumbling died away, leaving a sullen silence in its place.
“Perhaps another game?” tried Esprit, pulling a stack of dictionaries out from under the bar. “How about Definitions?”
Inheritance perked up. “That sounds quite interesting! How does one— Oh my word, what are you DOING?”
Esprit had begun tearing pages out of one of the dictionaries. Aunt Inheritance made a noise like a small mammal in distress.
“Don’t worry, we have many of these lying around,” Esprit said, ripping a page into strips. “For the Naming, you know.”
Inheritance’s hand clutched at her throat. “The…the Naming?”
“Well, we don’t use your English Dictionary, do we?” Élan chuckled. “We used to have our own Dictionnaire, but it fell apart so often that we finally threw it away. You can buy a cheap paperback dictionary from any bookshop in the world, after all!”
The Swifts had used the same enormous leather-bound book for their Naming for the past several hundred years. Shenanigan thought using modern ones was quite sensible, but couldn’t help but feel sorry for Aunt Inheritance, who looked as if she might faint. She treated the Swift Family Dictionary like a holy relic, and would no more tear out a page than she would cut off her own arm.
Élan put a new card up in place of Interrogation:
Definitions
2+ Players
One player shouts out a word. The other pulls a dictionary definition out of a hat. For the rest of the party, this becomes the true definition of the word, and must be used accordingly.
“Swifts!” called Esprit. “Do you have a word for us?”
“Caterpillar!” shouted Erf, not noticing their gran’s look of horror.
Esprit rummaged in the hat and pulled out a shred of paper.
“A caterpillar is defined as ‘a person who betrays their cause, country, friend, or loved one,’ ” he said. “Young Swift, could you please use it in a sentence?”
“Why, yes,” said Erf, giggling. “They knew someone in their camp was a low-down, dirty caterpillar, but who?”
Aunt Inheritance sputtered. “This is most…I…Words have meanings,” she said plaintively.
Erf squeezed her hand. “It’s all right, Gran,” they said. “I won’t forget what a caterpillar is.”
Aunt Inheritance’s face relaxed, at least until Élan spoke.
“It’s even more fun when you play it with people’s names,” he said. “Ennui once got ‘a receptacle for human waste, connected to the sewer system,’ so for the rest of the evening it was ‘Pardon me, I need to visit the Ennui!’ ”
“It’s true,” moaned Ennui from a corner. “My life is a toilet.”
Poor Inheritance winced, holding so tightly to her chair that the wood creaked. “But…don’t you believe you match your names?” she croaked. “That there’s…some reason?”
“Well, of course,” said Élan, winking. “You don’t get to be this charming by accident. It’s just a little fun.”
“I really don’t understand the point of this game,” said Inheritance weakly.
“What is an Inheritance?” called someone at the back of the room. Shenanigan saw Esprit smile and reach into the hat.
Aunt Inheritance was hardly Shenanigan’s favorite person, but she’d been pretty decent on this trip, and she obviously wasn’t enjoying herself. Shenanigan decided that the best thing that could happen would be for Esprit to drop his hat, so with an unconvincing “whoops,” she went to hit it out of his hands.
But Pomme had had the same idea. Both their hands smacked the crown of the hat at once, sending words and definitions flying. Shenanigan saw her aunt’s grateful expression as paper fluttered to the floor, catching in Pomme’s wig, drifting into the drinks of the shouting Martinets until their glasses were filled with indignation and conséquence. She and Pomme grinned at each other.
“What did you do that for?” cried Bouquet. “We were having fun!”
“No, we weren’t,” said Pomme, taking off her wig to pick débris out of her hair.
“We all know what an Inheritance is anyway,” sniffed Débris herself, who wasn’t so easily discarded. “Inheritance, noun: a person who hides her family’s secrets.”
All at once Pomme’s grin vanished. “Oh, shut up, you hypocrites!” she cried, wig clutched in one hand. “I’ve had enough!”
“Now, now—” began Soufflé, but Pomme ignored him and started pushing her way towards the door. She had to take a winding route to get there, twisting around the crooked chairs and tables.
“I’ve had it with your snideness, and your narrow-mindedness, and your stupid traditions, and your uniforms, and this Hôtel!” she snapped. “I’m leaving. Tomorrow, I’m moving out.”
Débris snorted. “We’ve heard this before,” she said.
“Well, this is the last time you’ll hear it,” Pomme said, finally hopping onto one of the coffee tables. She made her way to the doorway using the backs of chairs and tabletops as stepping stones. “I’m sure you’ll be devastated, Débris, but I’m tired of being treated like an employee.”
“If you were an employee, you’d have been sacked by now,” said Soufflé, beginning to puff up. “We give you free room and board. All we ask in exchange is that you pitch in, like everyone else belonging to this Family—”
“Aha!” cried Pomme, spinning round and pointing triumphantly at Soufflé. “Exactly! You want to talk about definitions? Here’s one. Belonging, first definition: ‘to be part of, to be accepted by, to be where one is meant to be.’ ”
“Pomme,” said Grisaille softly, a gray shadow in the corner.
“Belonging, second definition,” said Pomme, “ ‘to be owned by, to be subject to.’ The problem isn’t me—it’s that you have got belonging with and belonging to confused. Well, I’m not going to stick around and be treated like a…a caterpillar just because I don’t want to wear a uniform and clean rooms all day! I’m off. It’s time to blow this icicle stand.”
“Pomme,” said Grisaille again.
Pomme paused at the door. “Don’t try to stop me, Grand-mère,” she said.
Then she ducked into the corridor and disappeared. Shenanigan ran after her, but took one look at the hallways twisting off in three directions and knew she had no hope of following.
The party broke up after that. The children were escorted back to their rooms. Any hope of staking out the Galerie Valerie was dashed.
Several hours later, Ouvolpo struck again.