Worse—and what truly scared me—was that for all my proclamations of not casting more spells, I desperately wanted more.
We reached Le Havre five days later on a bright Tuesday morning. I still refused to learn necromancy, and Oliver still refused to meet the Spirit-Hunters—though, it was not so hard to understand why. They had been Elijah’s enemies, and they did hunt creatures such as him.
The closer we got to France, the more a strange panic seemed to boil in my chest.
One would think that the safety of the Spirit-Hunters would soothe my anxiety. Certainly Joseph’s solid reliability was welcome—as was Jie’s friendship.
But Daniel? Our awkward final moments had been bad enough. Add in my constant waffling from indignant hate to pathetic longing, and I was a veritable typhoon of contradictory emotion. Half of me was desperate to see him; half of me hoped never to lay eyes on him again.
“Shakespeare had no blasted idea what he was talking about,” I growled, leaning against the promenade deck’s rail. I had given up my pride and let Laure convince me to sneak up with the first-
class passengers so we could watch our arrival in Le Havre.
“Pardon?” she asked. “What about Shakespeare?” She pronounced the name “Shock-eh-spear.”
“I said, he had no idea about love or anything.”
“You’re in a fine mood,” Oliver said, coming to the rail beside me. “Something the matter?”
“No,” I growled, swatting a bonnet ribbon from my face. Laure and Oliver exchanged mocking glances, and with a groan, I marched away from them. They’d become the best of friends ever since discovering their mutual interest in flirting. And, while I’d been grateful to have the demon occupied elsewhere, I had begun to find their tendency to gang up on me thoroughly insufferable.
I moved to another empty spot on the handrail and focused on the approaching city. The climate was perfect, thanks to the sea—sunny, yet cool—and the view was absolutely picturesque. Le Havre was a city of white buildings that hugged the shore while great, black ships paced the harbor in front.
Sunny quays with shady streets gave it the look of an old watercolor Mama had once hung in our parlor.
Less than an hour later, I found myself handing over as much as I could spare in tip to the stewardess and disembarking onto French soil—into a world unlike anything I had ever seen. Truly, no amount of reading or daydreaming could have prepared me for the city.
For one, Le Havre was old. I’d always fancied Philadelphia a historical city, but in comparison to
Le Havre—and the rest of Europe, I supposed—Philadelphia was just a newborn babe.
Every building looked as if it had defied the test of time for centuries. Every steep-roofed house seemed to have a story, with the colorful gables and shutters and the flowerpots draping from each window.
As Laure, Oliver, and I stood at the end of the pier, local women in their white caps and fishermen with nets draped over their shoulders streamed around us. On the cobblestone street before us, travelers and coaches clattered by.
And it was all so lovely, I felt compelled to wander the city slack-jawed. Fortunately, Oliver and
Laure were completely unimpressed. The demon took my carpetbag on his arm, and Laure motioned to a road leading straight into the city.
“The train station is that way,” she told us, “but the Paris train will not leave for many hours. You must join me for lunch—I know the perfect place, and I will even go so far as to pay.”
At the word “lunch,” my stomach gave a stormy bellow. “Food would be nice,” I said. Free food even more so.
“Très bien. Then it is decided.”
“Are we going to walk?” Oliver asked, looking longingly at a passing cab.
“Bien sûr. Of course.” She poked him playfully with her parasol. “You ’ave been in America too long. Over here, everyone walks. It is said to be a way of life. Now”—she popped open her parasol and hooked her arm in Oliver’s—“follow me.”
The pair set off down the wide street, and I followed. I let them continue in front of me the entire time, thereby allowing me to keep my right hand out in the open. I even drew off my glove so I could enjoy the sheer pleasure of sunshine and breeze on my fingers.
By the time we reached our destination, sweat trickled down my spine, and I had decided the
French had drastically different ideas of time and distance than Americans.
“Only two steps away!” Laure had insisted over and over, yet it still took us at least twenty minutes to get to a tiny inn, called Le Cupidon Belle, that was set apart from the main bustle and blessedly well shaded.
The restaurant was actually situated inside an open-air courtyard around which the inn stood.
Bubbling happily amid rickety wooden tables was a fat, stucco fountain shaped liked Cupid. A little white-capped boy seated us directly under Cupid’s gaze, and then a round-faced, wide-hipped landlady took charge of serving us the day’s meal, beginning with a platter of fruit.
When the first grape exploded in my mouth, I almost wept, enraptured by the tart sweetness of the fruit.
Then came the bread—a simple baguette—and my eyes really did fill with tears. Such a flaky, crisp crust around the fluffiest, saltiest bread I had ever tasted. I closed my eyes and simply breathed in the scent of it.
“Eleanor,” Oliver said, sounding alarmed, “are you all right?”
I nodded, almost frantically. “It’s just so amazing.”
Laure laughed happily, and when I opened my eyes, I found her cheeks pink with pleasure. “France
’as the best food in the world, non?”
“I believe you’re right.” I moaned, ripping off another bite of baguette.
She gave Oliver and me a pretty pout. “I will be so lonely traveling to Marseille by myself.” She then told us about an inn her family ran outside the city and a fishing boat her uncle had. As we worked our way through six courses of food—mussels and fish and apples and more bread—she forced us to promise multiple times that we would come visit.
The remainder of our meal—cheese and wine—passed amiably, though I was sad when the last plate was cleared away and Laure wrote out her address. It was all so final.
The walk to the train station was shorter than our journey to the inn. Before I knew it, we had reached the Le Havre depot, a long, modern building that was disappointingly identical to the stations back home. Enormous, multipaned windows stretched from floor to roof, and running beside the station were the tracks. Oliver and I quickly navigated the crowds, exchanged the rest of my money for francs, and purchased two second-class tickets to Paris. The train didn’t leave for another hour, so
I used the time to mail my letters to Mama, Mary, and Allison and to telegram Jie my intended arrival time in Paris. I didn’t expect her to meet me at the station, but I also didn’t want to arrive at the Spirit-
Hunters’ hotel with no warning.
When Oliver vanished for a time, I took the opportunity to relax and digest on a shady depot bench. Oddly enough, hunger still writhed in my stomach. I knew I was full, yet somehow I wasn’t.
So I decided to distract myself. I closed my eyes and focused on my heartbeat. Its rhythmic thump was pleasant, like the gentle rock of the ship. I inhaled, filling my lungs until they pressed against my ribs. My chest buzzed with air—
No! I snapped my eyelids open. That wasn’t only air. I had drawn in spiritual energy! I dropped my head, and sure enough, I could see a dull glow in my chest where I’d accidentally gathered my magic into a well. For several moments it just sat there, pulsing.