Chapter 18
Eighteen
Thwarted
Maximilien waves off the taxi driver and strolls into an alleé near Parc Monceau.
Moments later, he re-emerges as mist, floating undetected down the otherwise sedate street towards the building no one can miss: Maison Loo.
Just after it was built, the neighbours mounted an unsuccessful petition to demolish it, but just as the iron folly Gustav Eiffel built still stands, so does the garish eyesore with its glazed green cylindrical roof tiles and yellow latticework windows.
At least all those windows provide a welcome entryway into the house.
Maximilien mists towards the first floor, finding a suitably empty room.
A few inches from the window, a searing pain lances through him which causes his mist to contract.
He nearly collapses into his body, right there in the front garden, in plain view of the entire street.
Forcing his mist to expand, he frantically searches for safe shelter.
The door to the neighbouring building swings open, a woman in a hat steps smartly onto the pavement.
Maximilien mists through the closing door into a small vestibule.
Benesangue, the vestibule and hall are empty.
When the door opens again, Maximilien steps out, safely back in his body, grey eyes flat.
Hopping over the iron fence, Maximilien ducks behind a tall bamboo grove on the side of the house which shields him from passers-by.
He twists off a section of bamboo and prods at the red wall.
Nothing happens. He tosses the bamboo and carefully pats the air, inching closer until he feels a slight resistance, not unlike the hum of electricity.
He presses against the resistance; immediately his insides cramp, but he doesn’t let the pain stop him.
From ten years old, until he was gifted benesangue at twenty, the Durand’s motto perfer et obdura, endure and persist, was drilled into him in every lesson and every test. He presses harder.
The cramping intensifies until he can barely breathe.
A ward. Rage incinerates logic. How dare the Celestials presume to bar his entry. He slams his hand against the wall.
White-hot pain explodes inside him and he’s thrown backwards.
Curled on his side, head spinning, he fights for breath.
He doesn’t notice the subtle sheen clinging to the zinc tiles on one side of a neighbouring turret.
He’s in too much pain. Everything hurts, like he’s been set on fire.
He tries to undo the bottom of his cuff, to check his arm, but it’s all he can do not to scream as the cotton of his sleeve grates against his skin like sandpaper on a sunburn.
In humiliation and fury and pain, he staggers from the front garden and hails a passing taxi home, followed at a safe distance by a subtle shimmer on the wind.