Page 16

Eleven

Lydia watched the black Citroen disappear into the distance.

The temperature had dropped in the last few hours, and a biting wind tore through her coat.

Night would be here soon. She looked up at the battered face of Chateau de Laurier.

None of her magic lent itself to getting inside, and for the first time, she wished that she could have been born a Glamourer or a Traveler instead of a Projectionist. Kitty would have made short work of a problem like this one.

No, she would need to devise a more practical method of gaining entry to the chateau in order to complete the tracking spell and find the book.

Lydia looked up, expecting to see the silver moon hanging above her like a guillotine, but there were only murky clouds. The full moon was just one day away. One day until she could reattempt the tracking spell and find the Grimorium Bellum .

As her thoughts began to quicken, she became alert to a sensation just on the periphery of her consciousness—a creeping feeling, like seeing movement just out of the corner of your eye. Lydia gave the feeling her full attention. After a moment, she smiled.

“Hello, Sybil.”

Sybil appeared a moment later, her image swimming like a drop of ink in a glass of water. “I should have known I couldn’t spy on you for long. You’ve always had a talent for spotting a hidden projection.”

“I had an excellent teacher. I’m only surprised I didn’t hear from you sooner.”

Sybil looked chagrined. “I popped in on you once or twice, after you didn’t appear for the selection ceremony. I was worried. Terrified, actually. Imagine my surprise when I found you getting a primer in spy craft from the SOE. After that I thought it best to give you some space. In case…”

In case Sybil was being watched. Lydia cringed to think how worried she must have been.

“I’m sorry, Sybil.”

Sybil’s image wavered ever so slightly. Her face was lit by yellow lamplight, making her look out of place in the fading dusk. Behind her, Lydia could see the watery outline of an enormous window, surrounded by books.

“You’re in Isadora’s study.”

Sybil’s smile faltered. “Actually, it’s my study now.” She looked slightly embarrassed, and all at once Lydia understood.

“Oh, Sybil, you angel!” Lydia had taken for granted that Vivian had been selected as grand mistress in her stead. She hadn’t even considered that the council might elect another. “Congratulations. I can think of no one more deserving. How did you manage it?”

“Through a great deal of fawning and bootlicking, I’m afraid.

But desperate times call for desperate measures.

I couldn’t simply stand by and let Vivian have it.

Not after what she’s…” She stopped, still unable to give voice to what they both suspected.

She cleared her throat. “You should know I plan on abdicating when you return. I never did have the stomach for politics.” She looked around, her face becoming serious.

“Darling, please tell me you’re not where I think you are. ”

“Where do you think I am?”

“Don’t be cheeky. You’re in France, aren’t you? You’re going after the Grimorium Bellum. ”

Lydia didn’t answer.

“Are you safe?”

“A few close shaves, but so far I’m all right.”

Sybil sighed. “I don’t suppose there’s any way I can convince you to come home?”

Lydia looked around her. Bare trees swayed in the wind, and the sky had gone as purple as a bruise. Tomorrow. This can all be over tomorrow.

“No. I need to finish this. If there’s even a chance I can prevent more carnage, then—” She stopped as the familiar serpent of grief coiled itself around her lungs.

“It won’t bring them back.” Sybil looked sad, and for the first time Lydia noticed how tired she looked, the puffiness under her eyes, the lines around her mouth.

“I know.”

Sybil huffed. “Damn your stubbornness. I won’t force you.

But I can’t help you either. Vivian and the council have left me rather toothless, I’m afraid.

The best I can do is offer you a way home.

Say the word, and I’ll have a Traveler there for you within the hour.

Unless you’d prefer to hike the Pyrenees? ”

“A Traveler would be much appreciated. Thank you.”

Sybil’s tone softened. “Please be safe.”

“I will. I promise.”

And as quickly as she had appeared, Sybil was gone, leaving Lydia under the swiftly darkening sky. For the first time, Lydia felt the true magnitude of what she was undertaking. She was alone, in occupied territory, without the support or protection of the academy.

She looked up at the chateau and held herself tightly against the cold. She had made her decision. She would need to find a way to see it through.

“Excusez-moi?” a voice came from behind her, making her jump. “Puis-je vous aider, mademoiselle?”

Lydia turned to see a man a little older than herself standing several meters off, regarding her cautiously.

He was tall, well over six feet, lean but broad through the shoulders, with dark brown skin and closely cropped black hair.

He was dressed for hiking, and carried a walking stick in his hand.

“Bonsoir, monsieur. Je suis désolée d’imposer—”

“You’re English.” He eyed her suspiciously. Lydia silently cursed every instructor who had ever praised her accent.

“And you’re American,” she replied. His voice was deep and soft, with just a hint of some regional inflection she couldn’t quite place.

The man looked around warily, as if he expected the Gestapo to jump out of the bushes at any moment.

Lydia set down her bag. “I came alone, Mister…”

“Boudreaux. Henry Boudreaux.”

So, this was the curator, the one Kitty had mentioned. And not a French Henri , as Lydia had thought, but an American Henry.

She had an idea. A bad one, possibly, but with the temperature dropping and the sun going down, it would have to do. She extended her hand. “Lydia Polk. From the British Museum in London. Mr. Boudreaux, I’d like to talk to you about your art.”

···

It was nearly as cold inside the chateau as it was outside, with a chill that seemed to radiate from the stone walls themselves.

The kitchen had been wired for electricity, but otherwise appeared exactly as it might have in the fifteen hundreds.

Centuries of soot blackened the walls and ceiling above the hearth, giving the room a dingy feel.

The furniture was a hodgepodge of old and new, and not enough of it to properly fill the space.

There was something profoundly sad about the place.

Henry lit a fire. “I would offer you a cup of tea, but we’re fresh out.” Lydia could sense his wariness, and noticed how he kept his distance from her, even after he’d invited her inside.

“Quite all right. I’ve actually always preferred coffee.”

“Are you sure you’re a Brit?” It sounded like it was meant as a joke, but he didn’t smile.

“Last I checked.”

The fire crackled as he watched her. The air in the room was heavy with the smell of damp and wood smoke.

“I understand you were with the Louvre, before the evacuation,” Lydia said. “You must be very good at what you do. The French can be rather superior, I shouldn’t think they typically hire—”

“Colored men?”

Lydia felt a flush of embarrassment. “I was going to say Americans, actually.”

Henry gave her a long look. “My aunt’s a singer.

She came over and made a name for herself in Paris after the Great War.

Easier for a Black woman to be a respected artist in Paris than stateside these days.

I came to live with her while I finished school, then applied to the école du Louvre.

I was apprenticing under one of the curators when the Nazis invaded, and the museum was evacuated.

He told me I should go home. I refused.”

“And you’ve been here ever since?”

Henry didn’t answer. He doesn’t trust me , Lydia thought. She suspected he hadn’t had much reason to trust anyone in a very long time.

“Forgive me, but how does Lydia Polk from the British Museum make her way, alone, into the middle of Nazi-occupied France?”

Lydia opted for something close to the truth.

“I crossed the channel on a fishing boat late last night. And I’m not alone, strictly speaking.

The museum has partnered with the Special Operations Executive to locate and extract world treasures from the country so they don’t end up on the wall of Hitler’s mansion or, worse, destroyed.

My SOE counterpart is setting up operations nearby. ”

“And you?”

“Doing inventory.” Lydia smiled her warmest, most disarming smile. “I’m to make a list of which pieces are here, then report back. Arrangements will be made for the safe transport of the art out of the country until after the war, at which point they will be returned to the Louvre.”

“And where exactly will you be taking them?”

“I’m afraid they don’t tell me those sorts of things. Not London, for obvious reasons. Somewhere safe.”

Henry crossed his arms. “Miss Polk—”

“Lydia, please.”

“Miss Polk. With all due respect, I don’t know you. I don’t know who you work for. Who’s to say that once I hand over these pieces, you won’t take them straight to Berlin? Or burn them in a bonfire if they aren’t to Hitler’s taste?”

Lydia stood a little taller. “With all due respect to you , Mr. Boudreaux, how do you think we knew where to find you? Your presence has not gone unnoticed in the village. The Germans will discover you soon enough if they haven’t already.

If I leave here empty-handed, rest assured, your next visit will undoubtedly be from the SS.

And I promise you, they will not ask permission before taking what they want. ”

Lydia waited as Henry considered her. She imagined that moon again, hanging above her head like a blade, ready to fall.

“Please,” she said. “Let me help.”

···