No. Not now. Not like this.
“Anson—what are you doing here?”
He stood just inside the door, stiff and unsmiling, his hands fisted at his sides. “Thia told me your opening was tonight. I need to talk to you.”
“You can’t be here!” Rory hissed. “Soline is upstairs, and she doesn’t know that you’re . . .” She paused, throwing a frantic glance up the staircase. “Please! You can’t be here!”
“Aurora, I packed . . .” Camilla’s words trailed off when she saw that Rory wasn’t alone. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize anyone was here.”
“This is Anson,” Rory explained stiffly. “He was just leaving.”
Camilla’s face went momentarily slack, her mouth parted in a silent O. Eventually, the spell lifted, and blankness was replaced with something Rory couldn’t name. “You look like your picture,” she said coolly.
Anson took a step forward before catching himself. He stood stock-still, his eyes riveted on Camilla’s face. “Are you . . .”
“Yes, I am. And you have to leave. Now.”
“I need to speak to your . . . I need to speak to Rory.”
Camilla arched a frosty brow. “Not now you don’t. Whatever you have to say has waited forty years. One more night isn’t going to change anything.”
“Please,” Rory pleaded. “Go. And give us a chance to talk to Soline. She can’t find out like this.”
The words were barely out of her mouth when she heard the rasp of an indrawn breath from somewhere overhead, followed by the dull thump of an embroidered silk clutch tumbling down the stairs.
FORTY-FOUR
SOLINE
There is a grief worse than death. It is the grief of a life half-lived. Not because you don’t know what could have been but because you do.
—Esmée Roussel, the Dress Witch
It can’t be, yet it is.
He has aged, the years softening his once-hard body, adding lines to his face and threads of silver to his hair, but I would know him anywhere.
For forty years, I’ve dreamed of seeing him again, knowing it was impossible but dreaming it still. And now, somehow, he’s here. Alive, and staring up at me like I’m the ghost. My throat is suddenly full of tears and answered prayers, but when I open my mouth, nothing comes. Because I see that something is wrong. Terribly, terribly wrong. I see it in the way Rory is looking up at me, like she’s apologizing for some unforgivable crime, in Camilla’s folded arms and rigid stance, as if she is preparing to do battle. And in the icy blankness that has stolen over Anson’s face. In the space of an instant, I have become a stranger to him. No, not a stranger—an enemy. But how? Why?
“Anson?”
His eyes connect with mine, hooded and hard. I can’t see their color, but I can feel their coldness, like a steel blade between my ribs. It is a look he used to wear when speaking of the boche. And now he’s aiming it at me.
Somehow, I make my legs move, managing to take one step, then another. But he’s backing toward the door now, holding up a hand, as if to ward me off. And then he’s gone, out into the street, leaving the door hanging open behind him. For a moment, I’m in Paris again, sitting in the back of an ambulance, watching him disappear through a small square window.
My legs go then, and I fold down onto the step like a felled bird, too stunned to utter a word or even cry. Rory is at my side, taking my hands, murmuring again and again that she’s sorry, so very sorry, as if what just happened is her fault. I look at her, trying to make sense of what I see in her face. Sadness. Pity. And . . . is it guilt?
“I was going to tell you. After the opening, we were going to tell you everything.”
We?
I look to the foot of the stairs, where Camilla is staring up at me, clutching the newel with both hands, and I see it there too. The same guilt. But I can’t make sense of it there either.
“Going to tell me what?”
“That Anson was alive. I’ve known for a while now, and—”
“How long?”
“A few weeks. Maybe a little longer.”
I drag my eyes back to Camilla. “You knew too? And said nothing?”
“We wanted to tell you,” Rory blurts before Camilla can get a word out. “We were just waiting for the right time to break the news. I’m so sorry. I never dreamed he’d show up here. When I left him in San Francisco, he made it clear that he didn’t want to see you.”
“You went to San Francisco? To see Anson?”