Page 8 of The Crimson Lily

“The legend goes that the dagger has the power to put people under an undying love spell,” she says with a smile.

“They say Catherine the Great came into the possession of the dagger and used it to conquer the hearts of her many lovers. But besides legends, they say that dagger is worth somewhere in the tens of millions.”

It starts to make sense—why the Bratva can possibly be bothered with a dagger of glass. One, it’s Russian. Two, it’s worth millions. Two conditions to make the Russian mafia drool for the relic.

“Something the Bratva can’t let be, I guess,” I say. “But why am I involved, and what is William’s part in all this?”

Béatrice bites the inside of her cheek in hesitation.

“I’m not sure, but William was going to negotiate with the Met.

I just know you didn’t like the idea of keeping the dagger at Columbia for too long, but I can’t believe you would have made a deal with the Bratva. Not without a good reason, at least.”

“I’m not sure of anything anymore, Béa.”

I’m calling her Béa like I always have. It comes naturally, as if it’s meant to be this way. She smiles, and so do I. Then we stay smiling for a moment of stillness, enjoying this reunion on a beautiful summer day. She finally starts sipping on that cappuccino.

I recline in my seat. “William is in Paris with the dagger,” I say. “I suppose it won’t be going to the Met.”

She raises her eyes to me and detaches her full lips from the cup. “I didn’t know William was here, but if he is, then he’s probably with his Louvre friends. I know there’s a big reception on Friday with all the artsy people.”

I now realize Béatrice has not been in contact with William, probably since June 16. I do wonder, briefly, if the fact she was fired a day after my accident is a coincidence. It’s as if Béatrice has read my thoughts.

“Liliana…” She says my full name and pauses, hesitant to continue. Her eyes cock left and right to make sure no one is listening, then she leans in closer again. “How sure are you that it was an accident?” she asks, almost whispering.

One answer: I’m not anymore. I shake my head and tell her exactly that. I don’t want to linger on this idea further, so I raise another question. “What are you doing these days, Béa?”

She doesn’t let me divert her attention. “What if the Bratva had something to do with this?”

No—I don’t believe that one bit. Call me na?ve, but that isn’t true. “No, they were pretty pissed I’d been in that accident.”

I don’t know if she noticed the bruise, but her gaze has remained the same, so I assume she didn’t. I do see in her eyes that she will not let this one slide easily. She complies and doesn’t ask more on the matter, but deep down, I know she’ll be doing some investigation of her own later.

“Do be careful, Lili,” she advises in a tone that begs me to be cautious. “I don’t want you around these criminals for too long.”

“Well,” I begin with a shrug, “I’m staying alone in the hotel suite, if that reassures you. But I’m not too worried. If they wanted me dead, I wouldn’t be here.”

She raises an eyebrow as a response. Béatrice definitely looks perplexed that I’m not a little shaken by my last words. Actually, she’s probably surprised I’m not too bothered by being here on Bratva’s orders.

“And what about that bruise on your cheek?” Béatrice asks, hesitant but inquisitive.

Ah, she did notice. I don’t want to make her any more worried than she is already, especially since that bruise did come from a Bratva encounter. And especially since the perpetrator came with me to Paris.

“Oh, yeah, I also forgot how to bike,” I bluff with an awkward chuckle. A surprisingly good bluff, actually, because she seems to believe it and relaxes her stance.

Béatrice inhales deeply and changes the subject, answering what I asked a few questions ago.

“I got a postdoc position here, at Paris 1,” she says with a proud yet wistful smile.

“Remember the one I denied after I got my PhD? It was open, and they still wanted me for the job! I’m staying with my family until I find an apartment here in Paris. ”

Béatrice was given an offer from Paris 1 after graduation, but she wanted to stay at Columbia.

I remember something else now. William was never really fond of Béatrice.

I spent days and nights fighting with the board, bypassing the William tollgate, to let her have the job she more than deserved.

Béatrice was the only logical choice for this postdoc position.

I remember feeling frustrated and helpless because my best friend was being discriminated against. In the end, I won the battle.

William got a warning from the board, and I still savor my victory to this day.

Except that now, Béatrice was fired by the same asshole, and a day earlier, I was found by the side of the road with a darn bad concussion.

“I need to head back,” Béatrice says as she calls the waitress over. “I have a class to teach!” She then holds out her hand to me. “Give me your phone, I’ll give you my number.”

I unlock my cheap hundred-dollar good-for-Twitter device and hand it to her. She types +33 and nine other digits, then gives it back with a careful look in her eyes. “Please keep me updated with whatever you’re doing,” she requests.

I nod furtively. I’m definitely going to do that.

If it were up to me, I’d be texting with her the whole time from now on.

I don’t want to let her go, but her job calls.

She pays for my coffee and I thank her a thousand times for meeting with me.

She gives me two pecks on the cheek and heads back up the street toward a giant building in the distance that looks like a Greek temple.

That’s probably the Panthéon. I don’t know for sure, but the name has etched itself into my mind.

I make my way back to the hotel, very slowly, on foot.

Something tells me I don’t like the metro much.

When I cross the majestic Pont des Arts, I see the Notre-Dame citadel in the distance.

The scenery is simply…?mesmerizing. I stay at least an hour looking at the view, cherishing it, because it’s the first time in this new life that I see this.

I want to capture the moment, to carve it in my memory and never forget about it again.

Despite the memory loss, I still remember this city, almost by heart.

It’s a long way back, and after a few wrong turns, I arrive just in time for dinner.

I decide to order room service, as I’m not really in the mood to have people around.

I order a simple plate of pasta funghi and put myself in front of French TV.

I don’t understand a thing, but I enjoy every minute of whatever show is on.

The pasta comes in, and when I ask if I can pay by card, the attendant tells me the meal has already been put on the room.

I insist on paying for it myself, but he can’t change it anymore, and his English won’t help us there.

Oh well, I’ll figure it out later with Mr. Business Class.

Speaking of which, the Bratva phone beeps, making my brown purse sound like a house alarm.

I check it, knowing exactly what sort of message I’ll see.

More instructions, from a French number.

The reception starts at 20:00.

Clear, precise, and to the point. I instinctively save the number on both my phones, thinking it’s probably Maksim’s burner.

Maybe I’ll need it at some point. I also understand exactly what the message means but doesn’t state.

He needn’t add a be on time or don’t be late .

I have to be on time, and I have absolutely no choice in the matter. At least the pasta funghi tastes nice.