I wait until Anson’s breathing grows even, then slip from the bed. It will be light soon, and there’s packing to be done. I know about the journey that awaits me. I won’t need much—plain clothes that are easy to move in, sturdy shoes with low heels, a few personal items. But there are other things too, things I can’t leave behind.
I’m careful not to wake Anson as I move about in the darkness, gathering Maman’s rosary, the locket containing Erich Freede’s photo, the packet of letters I saved after Maman died. They’re her legacy to me, a reminder that once upon a time, there had been happy endings and, just maybe, there would be again.
Downstairs, in the workroom, I flip on the light and stand staring at the dress I began sewing a seeming lifetime ago. It’s been finished for months, languishing in a darkened workroom, denied its moment of triumph. But the dreams I had when I began it were very different from the dreams I have now. I’m leaving Paris—for good it seems—and there’s something I must do before the sun comes up.
I gather what I need: a white candle, a pen and paper, a bowl of water, another of salt, a needle, a spool of white thread—and the dress. I light the candle and close my eyes, then slowly begin to breathe, waiting for something to come up. I scribble a few words, cross them out, begin again, wishing I’d paid better attention to Maman’s instruction about charm writing. There’s so little time, and I still have the stitching to do. I try again.
Finally, I’m ready to begin. But my hands are damp, and I have trouble holding on to the needle. Maman’s voice is in my head, scolding. You haven’t prepared properly before beginning. Your charm is clumsy and overly broad. Your stitchwork is abominable. Every word is true, but at last I lay down my needle and survey my handiwork.
Over distance, over time,
Whatever trials might come,
May the echoes of these two young hearts
Be forever joined as one.
The untidy needlework is bad enough, but I’ve managed to prick myself several times in the process, leaving tiny smears of blood on the lining of the bodice. It feels like an omen. I feed the remaining thread to the candle and snuff out the flame. The work isn’t up to Maman’s standards, but I’ve done my best. The rest is in fate’s hands.
TWENTY-TWO
SOLINE
To be effective, one must know one’s treatments and when to use them. A charm is a spell used to create opportunities . . . a series of serendipities meant to help fate along, while a fascination or glamour is an instrument of deception meant to distort natural events.
—Esmée Roussel, the Dress Witch 28 August 1943—Paris
I’m already dressed, sitting in a chair near the window when Anson stirs. His eyes open heavily, the corners of his mouth lifting in that lazy American smile I’ve come to love. I try to smile back, but I can’t manage it. All I can think about are the minutes ticking away.
He dresses in the dark, then follows me to the kitchen. I scrounge the last of the coffee Maman hoarded before the war, managing two nearly full cups. It’s stale but better than nothing, and helps wash down the crackers and jam that serve as our breakfast.
Anson drains his cup in one go and carries it to the sink. “It’s time,” he says grimly. “The sun will be up soon.”
I nod, not trusting my voice. I’m afraid that if I open my mouth, I’ll beg him to let me stay, and we’ve covered that territory already.
He nods in return. “I’ll wait for you downstairs.”
I take one last walk through the apartment, checking windows and turning out lights. Ridiculous, since I’m leaving everything behind. What does it matter if someone comes in? It isn’t mine anymore. I close the door to my bedroom and go downstairs.
Anson is standing near the door, peering through the split in the blackout curtains. He turns as I reach the bottom of the stairs, frowning at my empty hands. “Where’s your suitcase?”
I point to the dress box near his feet.
He glances at it, then back at me. “A cardboard box?”
“It’s a dress box,” I correct, as if that explains everything.
“Soline, you can’t carry that. You need a proper suitcase.”
“I don’t have a proper suitcase.”
“Well, that won’t work. You need something sturdy. Something you can carry easily.” He scrapes a hand through his hair. “Don’t you have anything else?”
“I’m taking this.”
He glances at his watch, then nods grudgingly. “All right. Let’s go. Don’t talk. Just keep your head down and keep walking. No matter what happens, keep walking and don’t stop until you get to the hospital. Your ride will be waiting.”