The Good Storm #6
She wore a ballooning silk gown with stripes of color, and her black hair was tucked up under a glimmering turban.
She seemed to be moving chairs about and peering under tables.
As Tessa watched, Madame Dorothea drew off her long gloves, presumably to prevent them from becoming dusty, and bent down to roll back a corner of the Aubusson rug on the floor.
Aha, Tessa thought. By the time Madame Dorothea had straightened up again, Tessa was on her way back to the suite, and Will.
—
The maid provided by the hotel, Marie, was very skilled, Tessa thought.
As skilled as Sophie at doing hair, though not nearly as good at conversation.
She put Tessa’s light brown hair up in a chignon, with curls falling to frame her face, and helped Tessa into her opera clothes: a pale blue dress trimmed with soft lace, fitted at the waist and flaring out to the floor.
The short sleeves left Tessa’s arms bare, so over the dress she wore an opera cloak, trimmed in blue and gold ribbons.
“You are lovely, madame,” said Marie, clasping her hands. “I am sure your husband will think so too.”
When Tessa came out of the dressing room, she saw Will standing by the window, all dressed in somber black with white accessories: pale gloves, a wing-collared shirt, and a long white scarf. His head was bare—Will had never liked hats. His dark hair fell into his eyes as he turned to look at Tessa.
She saw him inhale sharply. He looked at her as if he could not help looking at her, as if the shield of his unfamiliarity with her had fallen, and for a moment she was looking at her Will, the Will who loved her.
The vulnerability and the yearning in his face broke her heart and she wanted nothing more than to reach out to him, to take his gloved hands and hold them in hers.
“I married well,” he said.
There was wonder in his voice—because, of course, he did not remember marrying her. He did not remember her. He found beautiful what her Will found beautiful, but that was not enough to make them the same person.
“I am glad you think so,” Tessa said, drawing her cloak about her. “Come. We had better go, or the opera will begin without us.”
—
Tessa and Will sat together in the darkened performance hall of the Opéra Garnier. The Garnier did not have electric lighting, so the story of La Traviata was playing out upon the stage behind a veritable forest of flickering candles.
The opera itself—the story of a forbidden love between Alfredo, a nobleman, and Violetta, a dying courtesan—was deeply romantic (indeed, perhaps all opera was).
As the two lovers soared into the duet of “Un Dì Felice, Eterea,” Tessa listened to the words, feeling as if they were wrenching at her soul.
That love that is the
pulse of the universe, the whole universe,
Mysterious and proud,
torture and delight to the heart.
Tessa could not help but glance sideways at Will. He was still as a statue, his face like marble. Expressionless. He had laid one hand on his knee, his white glove shining in the dimness.
All around, Tessa could see the other operagoers in their red velvet seats, their faces turned toward the stage, all clearly enraptured by the music and the singing. Some were wiping away tears.
I don’t know how to love.
Nor can I suffer such great love.
I’m being honest with you, sincere.
You should find somebody else.
Beside Tessa, Will rose to his feet. “I cannot stand this anymore,” he said, and pushed past Tessa blindly.
She started in surprise, hastily gathering up her opera cloak and gloves.
She dashed after him, ignoring the irritated faces of the other operagoers, aghast at all the fuss. They could not possibly understand.
Tessa raced after Will, down the grand staircase surrounded by marble columns, past a statue of Pythia flanked by bronze lamps.
She fled through the grand foyer with all its gold and mirrors, then down a series of hallways, and burst out of the opera house onto Rue Scribe; as the door closed behind her, the music was abruptly silenced.
The street was dark, though it was lined with gas lamps.
There was little traffic, and all was quiet save for the usual distant city noise.
Will was there, black and white as a chessboard, leaning against a rather dirty wall.
He looked like someone who had stopped running only because he had run out of strength.
He looked at Tessa as she approached him. “Will,” she said softly. “What’s wrong?”
Though she suspected she knew the answer.
“Nothing,” he said hoarsely. “I’m not upset, I…” He held out a hand to her. “Come here,” he said. “Kiss me, Tess.”
She went to him. Because he was Will, even if not her Will, and Will had not always been hers.
She had not fallen in love with him because he belonged to her, but because she belonged to him.
She let him draw her close, his hands smoothing over the silk of her gown, her bare arms and shoulders.
He cupped the back of her head before he kissed her, as he often did, his gloved fingers finding their way into the softness of her hair.
He folded her against him, his lips brushing hers, first gently and then harder.
He pulled her to him tightly. The kiss deepened, and as it had been long ago, she could feel how much he desired her in the tremors of his body, his shaking hands as he drew her closer.
And for that moment she lost herself in him, the familiarity of his mouth, the silky dark waves of his hair, his lean, strong body hot against hers.
It was like kissing Will for the first time.
She half expected to taste holy water on her lips.
And yet.
It was like kissing Will for the first time.
When he had not known and loved her, when they were still finding their way to each other.
He had wanted her then, and wanted her now, but want was not love.
Even the way he kissed her, while it still sent sparks of pleasure through her veins, was not the way they had learned to kiss each other now—knowing everything the other person liked, knowing what would make them melt in seconds, what would set fire to their very bones.
Tessa drew away. Will looked down at her, his blue eyes dazed. “Tessa…”
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “It’s like kissing a stranger.”
He plunged his white-gloved hands into his hair and for a moment stood stock-still, staring at her, his face flushed but nearly as expressionless as it had been in the theater.
“I understand,” he said then, to her surprise. “And I’ve made up my mind. I made it up inside the opera house. I want my memories back, and I want them as soon as possible.”
—
The discreet brass plaque on the door said ace dupin, détective privé. Even Tessa, with her poor French, could translate that.
They had taken a fiacre, a private cab, straight from the opera to the address listed on Dupin’s card.
They found it to be a small and slightly shabby building tucked away on Rue Guisarde, in the Saint-Germain-des-Prés neighborhood.
Up a narrow flight of stairs was Ace Dupin’s office.
A thin strip of light showed under the door, but when Tessa knocked, there was no response.
She frowned, and knocked again. Still no answer.
Tessa turned to Will. “Do you have your stele?”
Will reached a hand into his jacket and drew out the shimmering instrument. He looked at Tessa inquiringly.
“Draw an open rune on the door,” she whispered. “Break it down.”
“Wonderful.” Will brightened. “I do love crime.”
He slashed the dark rune across the wood of the door, and Tessa heard a raised voice from inside.
Too late for the occupants to hide, though—the door flew wide, and Tessa and Will stalked into the office to find Ace Dupin seated in an armchair.
And opposite him, wearing a loud fuchsia dress, was Madame Dorothea.
Ace leapt to his feet. “Ahem,” he said, gazing from Tessa to Will. “It is excellent that you are here. I was about to arrest this criminal!”
He pointed at Madame Dorothea, who rolled her eyes.
“Ace,” she said, and her voice was no longer the posh British voice Tessa had heard earlier in the reading room.
She sounded more like an East End fishwife.
“Give it up, Dupin. We’re caught.” She settled back in her chair, her eyes on Tessa. “What do you two want?”
“We want your help,” Tessa said, crossing her arms over her chest. “We need you to remove a spell.”
Madame Dorothea looked amused. “And why should we help you?”
“Because if you don’t,” said Will, “we’ll have to report your criminal behavior to the High Warlocks of Paris and London.”
“That’s right,” Tessa said. “They’re good friends of ours. As is Magnus Bane.”
“Lies,” said Dupin. “Lies meant to trap and ensnare us. Besides, you can’t prove anything.”
“Can’t I?” Tessa said. She turned to Dorothea. “Last night, when you were setting up for the séance in the reading room at the Meurice, I hid in the shadows and observed you. I saw your warlock mark. Hold out your hands.”
With a curl of her red-painted mouth, Dorothea held up her left hand. Centered in the palm was a single human eye, unblinking. Will made an unsettled noise.
Tessa went on. “I knew then that if you were a warlock, you must have used a spell to see into Will’s mind. That’s how you knew about Ella. It’s how you trick all your customers into believing you’re speaking with their dead loved ones.”
“It is a trick that relieves their minds,” said Dorothea. Dupin had settled back into his armchair and was sulking. “I am doing them a kindness.”
“Nonsense,” said Tessa. “I think you have the ability to see a few things—it’s how you knew about Dolgellau and the berries—but you certainly cannot communicate with the dead. All that nonsense you told Will about Ella being trapped between worlds, suffering—that was all lies, wasn’t it?”