Chapter 17 #2
I swallowed, hard, pulled out of his grasp—my skin itched—and downed the rest of my apéritif.
How had I done it, with so much power? Maybe it had to do with the number of sitters…
“You heard the poet. My grandmother’s séances are popular on rue Daru.
I’ve had much practice in illusion, Inspector. That is what you saw.”
“So you admit your talents are fake.”
“That is not what I said. Just that a séance is an illusion, whether real or not.”
“Now you are talking in riddles. Did you see anything—anyone?”
“A swarm of dead people.”
“Ghosts?”
“Ghosts.” I said this flippantly. But I recalled his sister.
I wanted to ask about her, if she was the one who had wanted to be an artist, why he couldn’t move on from her death.
But that would reveal I was really seeing the dead, and I couldn’t risk that.
I needed time to see if this treasure was real and if my grandmother knew of it.
“What about the Grand Duke? Did you see him?”
“I thought you didn’t believe in ghosts. Or that the Grand Duke is dead.”
“Do you?”
“I—” I glanced away, not wanting to lie, wanting to lie, unable to decide.
The Fitzgeralds rose from their table, waving at us.
“See you soon, Allard!” exclaimed Scott.
“Though I hope not too soon!” echoed Zelda, with a knowing giggle, prompting Scott to burst out laughing.
They walked out arm in arm, their voices trailing them, dwindling to nothing but the stray drips of leftover rain.
“Something is going on here,” the inspector said at length.
“Something I cannot explain. But what is it? What is it, Zina?” He was watching me with that fathomless gaze.
“If all this is…real, and you have seen the Grand Duke, and he is dead, then who killed him? I still think he killed your mother. But who killed him?”
Not my family. “He had many enemies. Probably one of them.”
“That would mean you are a fraud.”
“I prefer to think of myself as entertainment for the exiled.” I stood, the photograph rustling in my pocket, once more reminding me of its existence. “Well, Inspector, it is late.” I needed to see if I could summon the Grand Duke without Olga and Alec, and I was suddenly anxious.
Inspector Allard stood also. “So I will see you tomorrow. I will need that orange tea, along with my chocolate cake.” His energy was dark edged. As though the tea and cake were an excuse for more snooping.
Maybe it was his darkness that drew me in, in maddening combination with his desire for truth, a glimmer of good overlaying the bad.
Our banter intensified this. So did his mind, his interest in most everything.
I leaned over the table, pressing my palms into it, the wetness cooling the itch and heat.
“Haven’t I answered all your questions?”
“Not at all.” He matched my stance, his mouth centimeters from mine.
Mon Dieu. My gaze slid down to its teasing curve, the lines of age and experience beginning to web at its corners. My heart tripped; I looked away.
In that moment, a shadow couple materialized at the table left unoccupied by the Fitzgeralds.
I recognized Mama, with a bright smile for once.
But the man beside her was not the Grand Duke, his hair lighter, his figure not as tall.
He faced her, away from me. Their heads were bent close together, as though confessing lovers’ secrets.
“What is it, Zina?” said the inspector, and the vision fell away.
It had been as fleeting as life itself. And I suddenly didn’t care that Allard was an inspector and I was me. I gave in to what I finally admitted I wanted. I closed the distance between us and caught his mouth in mine.
At first, he was as rigid as a funerary statue.
But then I felt him soften and kiss me back.
He tasted of smoke, of something sweet, as if he had just taken a bite of chocolate mousse.
I felt his scruffy cheeks against my skin, his lips warm but certainly not gentle against mine.
They pressed in with real pressure, real heat.
I broke away—to see him blinking at me, wordless for once.
I licked my lips, tasting the remnants of chocolate and sea spray and something darker, reminding me of the sour cherries we slipped into our Russian tea.
“So long, Inspector,” I said, hiding my smile, leaving him to stand there alone on the still-dripping patio.
The kiss went on burning on my lips back in the tearoom as Katya and I set up for the séance. “Baba Valya shouldn’t be back anytime soon, but God forbid she surprises us.”
Katya gave a bark of a laugh, startling a dozing Zefir, whom I hadn’t ousted from the séance this time. “She would force us to sleep at the cathedral, with how many crosses she has hung all over Samovar.”
I gave a noise of assent, and we went about the consulting room, lighting candles, gathering lilies from the myriad arrangements Baba Valya had put out.
I burned a pinch of lemongrass and a cinnamon stick to dispel the powerful aromas meant to mask the rot—Baba Valya had strung up herbs, scattered mustard seeds and salt, and forced Katya and me to wear foul-smelling amulets.
Our argument was still fresh in my mind, still rankled.
I propped up the Grand Duke’s stolen photograph.
At least with the additional wards, we hadn’t seen the spirit.
Katya and I sat across the table from each other, throwing our bravado between us like a football before joining hands.
I closed my eyes, envisioning the Grand Duke, thinking about him.
“Are you with us, Grand-Duc? I, your—daughter wishes to speak to you.” Nothing happened, and I assumed the worst. That I couldn’t hold a séance without Olga and Alec, the attempt to summon Mama telling.
But a few seconds later, I felt the dark light spark to life in my chest, a waft of cold against my face.
A jolt went through me when I opened my eyes.
I was no longer in the consulting room with Katya, but alone in our garden.
The wind howled through the empty shrubs and trees. All was filmy, the garden real and not. It appeared as an approximation, somebody’s sketch or memory, holding none of its usual comfort.
Another jolt went through me when my gaze grazed the shadow Grand Duke standing at the fence, half-hidden by twisting branches and roots. He lacked the definition of his previously materialized spirit. The wind could snuff him out like a fragile flame.
“What happened to you?” I said over the wind. “What does Samovar and my family have to do with it? Is there really a fortune?” He stared at me impassively. “Explain yourself. Stop tormenting us, haunting us!”
The spirit’s eyes gave a flicker, a lick of that unnatural light, before he vanished and reappeared centimeters away. Dig two meters down—and you will find it.
My world twisted, dimmed, and I thought I would be ill—instead, I found myself sprawled on the floorboards, back in the consulting room, looking up at Katya’s worried face.
When I could speak, I assured my friend that I was all right before hurrying her out of the tearoom as politely as possible.
God only knew what I would find two meters down, likely something criminal and related to the shadowy secrets Samovar and Baba Valya had kept so well.
This was my burden, not Katya’s. I took up a shovel from among our collection of tools and marched into the garden, still feeling that twisting, dimming sensation.
The wind was scattering dead leaves, their dried-up corpses hastening past me in gusts.
The sky was black, cloudless. Moonless, too.
No stars showed through the thick night.
As though the tearoom’s oppressive atmosphere had poisoned the air outside its walls.
A huge black rat scrabbled past; a magpie cawed.
I swallowed, craving a cigarette, absurdly recalling sharing one with Inspector Allard. I craved his lips on mine, too. I forced myself to keep walking until I reached the spot where I had seen the spirit.
Before I could talk myself out of it, I pushed the shovel into the hard earth.
I hoped it would also push back the horror of what I was doing and of what I might find below.
As I dug, perspiration misted my forehead until I shed my coat.
Still, I was hot with exertion. I took several breaks to slow my ragged breathing and rededicate myself to my task.
Finally, the shovel struck something frozen.
I myself froze, from the tips of my toes to the crown of my head.
The air was soaked in rot, like the tearoom but worse. Like how I imagined death smelled.
My arms shaking, my whole body numb yet covered in cold-sweated fear, I scraped away the dirt.
The breath died in my throat.
I saw dirty linen, the shape of a head. It was a body, a dead thing lying alongside our marigolds and rosemary, waiting in stealth beneath our tomatoes and cucumbers. Was it the Grand Duke, his fortune buried with him?
I backed away, senseless, the wind losing its sound and might.
My stomach writhed as if riddled with the worms from the ground; my brain struggled to comprehend how this was possible.
Bile rushed up my throat. I dropped the shovel and crouched beside the grave—for that was what it was—and was ill like never before.