15. Be drunk
Be drunk
The Verdier brothers were waiting at the Nest, bent over the remains of an afternoon tea and pastries.
Jean-Claude hurried to offer Louna a plate of tartines spread with jam, but Louna passed it over for a crescent cookie he had picked up on his market excursion the day before.
She leaned against the counter, accepting a cup of tea from Philippe, and took a bite.
“I stopped by the jail earlier,” Philippe said, swirling a spoon in his own cup. “I pretended to be from the internet company. It’s amazing how few questions people will ask when you’re wearing a workman’s uniform.”
Louna smiled in spite of herself. “And what did you find?”
“Nothing yet,” Philippe said. “But I was able to get access to their files and their phone lines, so I can monitor them from here. If they try to set up a transfer for Mitchell or Alvarez, we’ll know about it.”
“The real State Department showed up too,” Jean-Claude put in. “In the courthouse, after you left. They want to transfer Mitchell and Alvarez to their custody so they can’t disappear like Lindsey.”
“At least there’s security evidence that Lindsey was transferred by guards,” Philippe said.
“Yes,” Jean-Claude said. “We can use that in his defense. But the prosecutors were not happy.”
Louna took a slow sip of tea. They had no way of knowing who was safe—the Romanian jail system, the State Department—Harlow could have people anywhere. He probably did. He’d taken Lindsey out from under their noses, and he wouldn’t stop there. They had to find a way to go on the offensive.
She just needed the right weapon.
“Philippe,” she said, still preoccupied with her thoughts. “What did you find about Cristian Ardelean?”
She’d given the brothers the details about the castle, the masquerade, and Tennyson’s decision to stay behind on her drive back to the city. She was sure he was listening, along with Lindsey, though neither had spoken in over an hour.
“It took me a while to find anything,” Philippe said. “Ardelean isn’t his real name. According to his social media, he started using it a few months ago because he wants to make his fortune under his own name, not his father’s.”
“Who’s his father?” Louna asked.
“Nicolae Zamfir,” Philippe said.
There was an intake of breath over the comms. “Zamfir?” Tennyson asked. “You’re sure?”
“I suppose you’ve heard of him?” Philippe said.
Tennyson paused, and when he spoke again, his voice sounded over-controlled. “He’s a jeweler, officially. Unofficially, he’s a smuggler. Possibly an arms dealer. He’s worked with Harlow in the past, but they haven’t had much contact in…”
They waited, but he didn’t finish his thought. “In when?” Jean-Claude prompted.
“I don’t know,” Tennyson said flatly. “As far as I know, over a year. When we first started working with Zamfir, we thought he was legit. I thought he was. After a few jobs, I found out that he was selling counterfeits and smuggling stolen gems out of the Balkans, and I told Harlow. He cut Zamfir off—or he said he did. But to pull something like this off, Harlow would need more contacts in the area than just Hartmann.”
“So that’s why they brought Lindsey to Corb Castle,” Jean-Claude said. “If Zamfir owns it, they can keep Lindsey in the dungeon and away from the press until the story dies down.”
“And say he’s guilty,” Louna added. “Without a defendent, they can’t have a trial. The truth becomes whatever Harlow says it is.”
Philippe scrolled down on his screen. “Looks like Zamfir is on a business trip in England,” he said. “Whatever staff he keeps at the castle would be minimal at this time of year. It’s the perfect place to imprison someone.”
Louna gave a thoughtful hum. “Cristian said his party was originally supposed to be at his estate. If he moved the location without notifying his father, he probably isn’t involved.”
“And Hartmann may not have been expecting anyone to be there,” Jean-Claude went on.
“They did bring me in the side,” Lindsey said thoughtfully. “They said if I made any noise, they’d kill the witnesses.”
An uncomfortable silence followed his words, and for the first time since leaving the castle, Louna was glad Tennyson had stayed behind. “We only have a few days to prepare for the masquerade,” Louna said. “What do you need for your cover?”
Jean-Claude took a bite of pastry and answered around it. “I found a florist here in the city who will sell us what we need. Then we only need a delivery van, and we can set up at the castle and have a big enough vehicle to sneak everyone out in.”
“Get whatever flowers you need,” Louna said, pulling a credit card out of one of the kitchen drawers and sliding it across the island to Jean-Claude. “I’ll take care of the van.”
She took her tea into her bedroom, closing the door and dropping her earbud onto the bedside table.
Her phone was in her pocket, and she drew it out and sent a text—need a delivery van—before dialing Charlotte’s number.
Paris was only one hour behind Bucharest, so Charlotte would still be at the museum, but she answered on the second ring.
“Argenis made bail,” she snapped incredulously.
Louna blinked at Wanderer Above the Sea of Fog. “What? He’ll leave for London the first chance he gets!”
“Apparently the judge doesn’t think so,” Charlotte said, her voice hard with anger. “Argenis has been ordered to remain in the city. At least his career is over. The V&A has already made the announcement.”
Louna had read the article on her phone that morning: “Director of the Victoria and Albert Museum Arrested in Paris.” His removal was her original goal, but she was annoyed that he’d weaseled his way out of jail.
Although... his resources would be limited, once he went on the run. He may return to old allies for help.
Allies like Harlow.
Maybe she could kill two birds with one Stone.
“Never mind him,” Louna said, matching her friend’s sullen tone. “Justice will catch up to him eventually. How are things at the museum?”
Charlotte clucked her tongue. “Gérard and I have it all under control. You just worry about your plan.”
Louna went still. “What plan?”
“You must have one,” Charlotte said. “I know you didn’t leave for a family emergency.” Louna started to argue, but Charlotte raised her voice to speak over her. “No, no—I don’t need to know. Just focus on whatever you’re doing. And if you need anything, ask. Please.”
Louna let out a breath. “When was the last time I told you how amazing you are?”
“I’m happy to take payment in the form of gossip,” Charlotte said suggestively.
Louna paced toward her window, looking out into the darkening sky. “What do you want to know?”
“You know exactly what I want,” Charlotte pouted.
A chill rose up from the window, and Louna closed the shutters to keep any light from escaping into the gathering darkness. “There’s nothing to report,” she said, striving to keep her voice even.
“Have you talked with him at least?” Charlotte pressed.
For a long moment, Louna hesitated. Charlotte had already guessed that she’d gone after Tennyson, but how much did she want to admit?
She recoiled from any display of vulnerability, and that was exactly what this felt like.
Like she was putting her insecurities on display for Charlotte to pick apart.
And yet… that was what friendship was, wasn’t it? Louna had kept Charlotte at arm’s length for most of their relationship, but the older woman had never held it against her. She’d waited patiently, offering a listening ear without pushing for information.
Louna took a fortifying breath. “He told me to leave.”
Charlotte let out a string of curses that would have made Tennyson blush. “Why?” she demanded at last. “What did he say?”
“He doesn’t want to trouble me,” Louna hedged.
“You are already troubled,” Charlotte said.
“Ha ha.”
“You went through the trouble to find him,” Charlotte clarified. “Did he really want you to leave?”
No. He’d told her as much—and last night, when she’d teased him too far and he’d pinned her to the bed—when he thanked her for helping him. He wanted her to stay, she was sure of it.
But he was afraid. And even after everything they’d been through, he did not believe she could stand with him.
“He’s worried,” Louna said at last. “He wants to spare me from some things he’s working through right now.”
“But you want to help him,” Charlotte said.
It was not a question, so Louna didn’t answer. Instead, she sat on the bed and pulled her sketchbook out from under her pillow.
“You will stay, of course,” Charlotte said.
“Why should I?” Louna said, tearing at the page as she turned them. “If he wants me to go, why should I fight to stay?”
Charlotte made a dismissive sound. “Men do not know what they want.”
“Then what should I do?” Louna asked, her voice rising slightly.
There was a pause while Charlotte considered, and then she laughed. “Be drunk.”
“Be serious,” Louna countered.
“No,” Charlotte said. “The poem. Baudelaire. You know it, yes?”
A frown pulled at Louna’s lips. “I didn’t realize you were a fan of the Gothics.”
“Not usually,” Charlotte said. “But with a title like ‘Be drunk’, I could not help taking notice.”
Louna held in a laugh. “Go on then. What wisdom does Baudelaire have for me?”
Charlotte spoke without rhythm, repeating the advice given to the speaker of the poem. “He says to be drunk, and to stay drunk, ‘on wine, on poetry or on virtue as you wish.’”
“So you want me to be figuratively drunk,” Louna said slowly. “On love?”
“On adventure,” Charlotte said. “So your man is facing troubles. When have you ever run from a fight? You love to fight. You live for it. Look at how you have dealt with Argenis. If your Tennyson has a fight, then fight beside him, and be drunk on it.”
“‘So as not to feel the horrible burden of time,’” Louna quoted, sighing.
“So as to enjoy the time you have,” Charlotte said. “You’re there anyway. Why should you not enjoy it?”
In spite of everything, a smile worked its way to Louna’s face. “How could I argue such logic?”
“You cannot,” Charlotte said. “And you should stop trying to use logic at all. You have so many better qualities.”
Louna blew a kiss into the phone. “As you say. Go be drunk, Charlotte.”
“Give Tennyson a kiss for me.”
Louna ended the call with a laugh and checked her other messages to make sure the van would be ready for Saturday. When that was settled, she sent one more text to ask if Polina had found anything more about the ring.
Then she sighed, set aside her phone, and began a design for her masks.