“A map is not for those who stay in one place,” she told him. “You have the sight. Use it.”
Dodger hopped onto Vincent’s lap at the breakfast table—the dog could be a clown, but he was empathetic and could chart his new owner’s moods—and Vincent stroked his head as he thought about his dream. A treasure map signified he was meant to find something, although he had no idea what that might be. Later that afternoon, when the post arrived, there was the letter with Jet’s familiar sloping handwriting, written the day before she died. Vincent stood by the window and read his sister’s last message to him. I could not love you more. Come home if you wish. You have always been able to find the way. Inside the envelope was the key to the front door of the house on Magnolia Street. He threaded the key through a silver chain he wore, looped around his neck. The key grazed his heart and he could feel its pressure and its warmth. He had not used the sight in more than fifty years, but he understood that this was the key in his dream.
The harsh sunlight of the day hurt his eyes and his battered soul; he winced in the glare of the day and waited for dusk before making his way to the stationery store where he bought a creamy white card and envelope edged in black. Paris was so beautiful at this violet hour that his heart ached. Dodger waited for him outside the shop while he made his purchase, then together they walked to the Tuileries, where they sat in the garden near the playground. The view was lovely here, with shafts of orange light streaming through the plane trees as the day fell away. The voices of children rose and fell in their last hour of play. The clouds moved slowly above them, turning gold and then red and finally ink blue. Time had not moved as slowly. It had been a whirlwind, and Vincent had been caught up in it. Had he really thought they’d be young forever? What was over, was over. What was to come was just beginning. He had written to his sisters after William’s passing. But he’d remained in hiding, not disclosing his whereabouts, used to being guarded. Now he wrote again, this time to one sister alone.
My darling Franny. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for Jet. I was gone for all of it, and I have missed you.
On his way back to Agnes Durant’s house, Vincent stopped at the post office and tapped on the window. The postman, who ignored most people, and could be downright rude, came to open the door for Vincent as if enchanted. Vincent still affected people that way, without even trying. At the last moment, before mailing the note to Franny, Vincent jotted down Madame Durant’s address on the back of the envelope. Just in case he was meant to be found. There was no point in being vigilant anymore now that William was gone. He could peel away all of his deceit.
He decided to walk to a shop he’d discovered years ago, Amulette, set on a small winding street on the Left Bank beyond the ?le de la Cité. It was a plain-looking shop, with a few books messily stacked in the window. If a passerby didn’t bother to read the titles on the spines, he might think it to be an ordinary junk store that featured old volumes and antiques. But The Magus was there, in plain sight for anyone who stopped long enough to peer through the glass. This was the book that had first introduced Vincent to magic when he was young. He’d been a boy when a vender sold it to him, warning him that once he opened The Magus his life would never be the same.
Dodger accompanied him inside. Bells rang and there was the scent of mint, the green-black fresh aroma that signaled the start of spring in Paris, though the weather could still be blustery. A young handsome man was at the counter. He knew who Vincent was, everyone who practiced magic did, but in this shop it was a courtesy to give people their privacy.
“What can we do for you, monsieur?” the clerk asked.
You can set back time, Vincent thought. You can make me twenty again. You can bring William and my sister back from the dead.
Life all happened so quickly; people tell you it will, but you won’t believe it until it happens to you. Cry all you want, being young will slip through your hands and you will be left standing there, you who were once so young, not recognizing yourself or your life.
“I’d like a mirror,” Vincent said, already reaching for his wallet.