Anouk’s hand flew to her throat, to the small token tucked just beneath the collar of her dress. Leave it to Hunter Black to spot the peek of gold that no one else had. Guiltily, she fished out the charm and worried it between her fingers: an old franc coin, worthless now, with a hole punched in it. She’d strung it on a chain.
“It’s . . . it’s from Luc,” she stammered. “I mean, I found it in his room. He wouldn’t mind me taking it.”
And he wouldn’t. She knew that if Luc had been there and seen her show even the slightest interest in it, he would have tossed it to her with a wink. She’d found it that morning, caught in the crack between two floorboards when she’d gone to his attic to fetch a vial of vervain. His rooms had felt suspended in time without him. The lingering smell of summer on his garden shears, the still-rumpled sheets on his bed, the desiccated herbs tied up in the rafters, English thyme and rosemary and rue, awaiting his hand at the mortar and pestle. It had been a week since he’d disappeared.
She toyed with the franc coin, working her worries into the etchings. It still smelled of thyme; of him.
Hunter Black’s gaze went to Mada Vittora in the hall.
“She wouldn’t mind either,” Anouk said quickly. She tucked the necklace back under her dress collar and cleared her throat. “I’ll hang up your coat, if you like.” She set down the oubliette and held out her hands.
Hunter Black gave a gruff sort of cough and sauntered off behind Viggo. She let her waiting hands drop. That had gotten rid of him, at least. It could be ninety degrees outside, and still he wouldn’t remove the coat unless someone forced it off him at knifepoint. The three of them disappeared into the salon, discussing business and gossiping and speculating over tomorrow’s party. She brought them drinks and listened to their glasses clinking as she returned to the foyer.
“Hello, cabbage.”
Wet lips brushed Anouk’s cheek, and she jumped. She whirled on Beau. The driver’s hat was askew on his head, a boyish grin on his face. She smacked him on the arm and then made a show of smearing away his kiss with the back of her hand.
“You’re awful, Beau.” She picked up the oubliette and turned to the closet. Carefully, reverently, she stepped onto the stool, stowed the oubliette on the top shelf, and then climbed down and dusted off her hands. She lowered her voice. “What are they doing here?” She jerked her chin in Hunter Black and Viggo’s direction.
Beau let out a long sigh as he tugged off his driving gloves. “Things went sour in London, I take it. The Trafalgar Witch didn’t want to agree to the new terms. Sent them packing as soon as they arrived. Viggo’s in a mood.”
“Viggo’s always in a mood.”
“Mada Vittora said something in the car about more pressing matters here. I don’t think she was referring to just the dinner party.”
“Great,” Anouk muttered. “The last time we had pressing matters, more than one body was found in the Seine. At least Hunter Black wears dark clothes. Viggo’s shirts are impossible. Don’t they understand how hard it is to get blood out of white linen?”
“Laundry might not be the first thing on his mind, cabbage.” He tweaked the strap of her apron with his thumb, using the silly little nickname that always drove her mad. “But maybe it should be on yours.”
She looked down to find streaks of dust across the apron’s front. “Impossible—?this is a fresh apron!” She wiped at the stain uselessly while Beau chuckled. Dust, dirt, crumbs . . . it was her job to clean the house from top to bottom, but even for a maid, she managed to collect a shocking amount of grime in the shortest span of time. She untied the apron’s bow at the back of her waist, fighting with the ruffles and ribbons. She pulled the apron over her head and balled it up against her plain gray dress.
“What about Luc? Did they say anything about him in the car?”
Beau’s expression darkened. He shook his head. “Nothing.”
“It’s been a full week. People don’t just vanish.”
Beau clutched his gloves in one hand and rested the other on her shoulder. “Let me worry about him, okay? I’ll figure it out.”
Anouk’s fingers twisted in the apron’s straps. Movement outside the window caught her eye. Another couple strolling down the lane, arm in arm. Parisians, by the look of them. Her hand went to the franc coin at her collar.
“I’d throw a coin in the fountain if I could. Wish him back.”
Beau kneaded her shoulder. “You know wishes made in the fountain won’t come true,” he said softly. “It isn’t real magic, not like Mada Vittora’s. It’s just a silly thing they believe in the Pretty World. Daydreams and fantasies to keep themselves entertained.”
Anouk didn’t answer, sliding the smooth franc between her fingers. Outside, the sad wilted tree dropped a leaf. The rosebushes along the street were dying too, without Luc there to care for them. From some upper room, the smell of English thyme drifted down.
“Anouk.”
Hunter Black had returned to the hallway, his dark hair falling in his eyes. He didn’t bother to brush it away. He never did. “Mada Vittora wants a word.”
Beau’s hand fell off her shoulder. His look said he wouldn’t want to be her. “I’ll see you after dinner. I’ve got to wash the car anyway.”
“Give the tree some water while you’re out there? And the roses?”
“Sure.”
Hunter Black inclined his head ever so slightly toward the salon, where Mada Vittora waited, but then he cleared his throat and motioned to her dress. He knew as well as she did that the Mada insisted Anouk always be in full uniform with one of the ruffled aprons. Hair pulled back in a matching ribbon too. Anouk stuffed the soiled apron in the hall closet and went to the kitchen for a fresh one. She looped it around her neck and started to pull her hair back in a black ribbon as she followed Hunter Black to the salon. Mada Vittora’s husky laugh mixed with the notes of clinking ice.