A Darkness Strange and Lovely

Chapter Eighteen

I shot upright from the floor. “Did you take my carpetbag, Ollie?”

“Of course not.”

My stomach turned to lead. “Oh no.” I scrambled to my feet, lunging for the wardrobe and yanking back the door. Yet other than my undergarments and gray walking gown, there was nothing.

In a panic, I tore through the room, Oliver right beside me. Under tables and chairs, and even in the bathroom, I searched.

But my bag was gone.

I grabbed Oliver’s sleeve, on the verge of hysteria. “You are sure you didn’t take it?”

“I didn’t!” His head shook frantically. “Where was it?”

“Under the bed.”

“What?” He gripped my upper arms. “Why would you keep the letters in such a damned obvious place?”

“Because I didn’t think—”

“No, you didn’t think! Are you completely stupid, Eleanor?” He was shouting. “Anyone could bloody take them— including Marcus!” His fingers dug into me.

“But can’t you find them?” My voice was shrill. “Sense them with your magic?”

His grip loosened.

“The way you found the letters on the boat,” I pleaded.

Oliver swallowed and then nodded. “Yes. Yes, I-I’ll try that.” He released me.

“Do I need to command you?”

“No. I . . . I can simply feel for it—the same way I sense you. Now be quiet.” He closed his eyes, and the faintest shimmer of blue shone through his eyelids. Then they popped up and he pivoted around, aiming for my balcony.

I scrabbled after, and we both tumbled through the glass door.

And instantly stopped. For there were the letters, reduced to a pile of smoldering ashes. The carpetbag was open beside it.

“Oh no, no, no.” Oliver dropped to the embers and shoved his fingers in. “No, no, no— please no.”

But his hands came up with nothing but soot. Tears slid down his cheeks, and he rolled his head back, eyes closed. “This was all I had left of him, El. How could you just leave his letters out?”

“They weren’t out—”

“And they damned well weren’t hidden either.” He jumped to his feet, rounding on me. “You are an idiot.”

I skittered back into my room. “I-I’m sorry.”

“Sorry isn’t enough! I told you that I was still under Elijah’s command. I needed those letters to find the Old Man! Those letters and this locket”—he clasped the chain, his knuckles white—“were the only things I had left from Elijah.”

“Me too!”

“But he wasn’t your—” he broke off, his eyes twitching.

“Wasn’t my what?” I demanded.

“Nothing!” he roared. “It’s bloody personal, and none of your damned affair. I cannot believe you could be so stupid as this.” He twisted away from me, and when he spoke again, his voice was low. “I need a drink. I’ll be at the bar.” He released the locket and stalked to the door.

I ran after him. “You can’t just leave! What about the Old Man in the Pyramid? The Black Pullet?

Or Marcus?”

“What about Marcus?” He stopped at the door. “He’s obviously in the city, and now he has burned our only chance of finding the Old Man. You wasted away our time, and now he caught up to us.”

Oliver spun back to the door.

“Don’t go.” I grabbed his hand. “Please, Oliver. There’s no reason to be so mad.”

“No reason?” He flung off my hand. “You call losing our only clue to the Black Pullet no reason?

You call losing my only connection to Elijah no reason?”

“We do have a clue,” I snapped. “We at least know we have to go to Marseille.”

“No, Eleanor. We think we have to go to Marseille.” He resumed his stomp to the door.

“Stop!” I shrieked. “This isn’t fair for you to be so angry. I can try to remember what Elijah said!

Or I can try to set you free before the command—” I broke off. He was already to the door.

I lurched after him. “Please, please do not go. If you do, I’ll . . .”

Oliver paused, his whole body tensing. Slowly he looked back. “You’ll what, El? Command me?”

I gulped and nodded.

His eyes flashed gold. “Oh, I dare you to. I dare you to command me. Because I will fight it. I will fight it until you and I are both on the ground weeping from the pain.” He ripped open the door. “Now let me go. I want to be alone.” Then he stormed away, slamming the door behind him.

And I was left standing there, watching the empty space where he’d just been. “But I don’t,” I whispered, “I don’t want to be alone.”

My bedroom door had barely been shut for four shaking breaths when a knock sounded. My heart heaved—was Oliver returning?

The knock came again. “Mademoiselle Fitt?” a man asked—a man I didn’t know. “Est-ce que vous-êtes là? J’ai un télégramme pour vous.”

Telegram? Maybe there was word from home! I hurtled to the door and swung it wide. A startled, blue-uniformed steward gawked at the state of my gown and hair. In his hands was a silver platter atop which lay a neatly folded telegram.

I snatched it from him—“Merci, merci! ”—and then I kicked the door shut, already unfolding the telegram.

In Le Havre. Will reach Paris Saturday. Have news.

Allison

My jaw went slack, and for several moments I could do nothing but reread the message again and again.

Allison Wilcox was coming to Paris. On Saturday . . . that was tomorrow!

“Have news,” I whispered, my eyes searching the scant message for some sort of sign; but there was nothing to be found.

Why hadn’t she telegraphed from Philadelphia? To be arriving so soon could only mean she had left shortly after me—on some indirect voyage, I assumed. Yet . . . what could have possibly prompted such a trip?

Panic began to creep in. Panic and guilt and a growing shroud of black dread. Allison was coming tomorrow with news. I had almost killed Laure. I had threatened the Spirit-Hunters. I had raised a hundred animal corpses by accident. I had left Elijah’s letters out, and now someone had destroyed them. And my demon—the one person I thought I would have left—had abandoned me.

And Allison Wilcox was coming tomorrow. Oh, why, why, why? What news could she have?

Nothing good, nothing good . . .

The sound of rustling paper hit my ears. I blinked. My hands shook violently, and my stomach churned. I staggered toward the bathroom, certain I would vomit. Certain I would collapse at any moment.

I paused at the door, clutching at the frame. “What have I done? What have I done?” I slid down to the floor. Daniel was right. I was disgusting for being so foolish . . . so weak.

And now I was alone too, and very, very lost.

Without thinking I pulled in my power—what few traces had returned since raising the corpses . . . since healing Laure. There wasn’t much, but even that little trickle was enough to soothe me. It was like a prayer to a nun, and simply feeling the blue energy slide into my heart. . . .

I summoned the only spell I knew. “Hac nocte non somniabo,” I whispered. The magic eased out of me, taking my dread and my panic and my problems with it. I exhaled slowly, sinking into the heady feeling and savoring it.

Take a nap. Just a small nap until Oliver returns.

Using the doorframe, I dragged myself up to stumble to the bed. And as I drifted off into a dreamless sleep, a smile played on my lips.

For I was not completely lost. I still had my magic. . . .

I awoke to another knock at my door. Terror rose in my chest, bright and paralyzing. Was it the

Spirit-Hunters? I snapped my eyes open, only to find that the sun had barely moved.

“Who—” I tried to call out, but my voice cracked. I swallowed and tried again. “Who is it?”

“Mademoiselle Fitt? It is Madame Marineaux.”

I shot upright, my fear receding with each heartbeat. Here was someone who did not hate me.

Someone who did not know all the horrors of my life, who sought my company simply because.

I bolted toward the door, black briefly clouding my vision . . . but then it receded, and I staggered to a stop. I was still wearing my ruined brown gown—the gown she had given me! And my arms were coated in animal blood, and my hair—

“Mademoiselle Fitt? May I come in?”

“Uh . . .” I crept to the door.

“The Marquis told me you were caught in the hotel’s Morts.”

I reached the door and with great care cracked it barely an inch. “Yes, Madame. I fear I am a terrible mess. Perhaps you ought to return later.” Through the space, I saw her face tighten with worry.

“Nonsense, Mademoiselle. If you are hurt, then I can help. Please, let me in.”

I reluctantly spread the door wider, taking in the Madame’s impeccable silver-gray gown and feathered hat.

As she examined me, her hands flew to her cheeks. “Oh no! You are injured!”

“No, I’m fine,” I rushed to say, but she had already shoved in.

“You are covered in blood!”

“It isn’t mine. I assure you, Madame, I am not hurt.” Not on the outside, at least. I gulped and pushed away the thought.

“Then let us clean you up.” She grabbed for my arm, then—clearly thinking better of it—withdrew her hand and motioned toward the bathroom. “The dressmaker will be here any moment for your final fitting before the ball.”

I flinched. “The ball? Oh no, I cannot possibly attend.”

She tutted and bustled toward the bathroom, not even bothering to see if I followed. She seemed to know I would . . . and I did—though slowly.

“You will attend the ball,” she said lightly. “It will be the best solution to your afternoon of horrors.” She paused at the bathroom doorway and finally glanced back at me. “Trust me, Mademoiselle Fitt. I know these things.”

“A-all right,” I stammered. Even though I was determined to avoid the ball—Jie still needed finding, and Oliver . . . who knew when he would return? But in the meantime, I could at least enjoy a bath.

Her lips curved up, making her bright eyes crinkle. At that smile, my chest loosened. Some of my earlier worries pulled back, almost as if . . . as if I were using my magic.

And it occurred to me that maybe friendship was a better balm for my problems than magic.