“Oh! I was just—”
“Quite. Very sensible.” He surveyed the room, then led her by the hand to the bathroom. “This calls for hot water.”
He would say nothing else, and Sophie could think of nothing to do but to sit curled on a pile of towels, hiccupping and sniffing, while he put every pot they owned on the stove downstairs to boil, and added dried lemon peel and mint to the tub until it steamed. “Stay in for half an hour. I have some things to attend to.”
Sophie couldn’t bear to sit still in the tub. Instead she stamped to the window and back again, and thumped the wall, until Charles’s voice floated up the stairs. “Get in the tub, Sophie, and do some splashing. You will be surprised at what a difference splashing can make.”
Sophie had forgotten that the bathroom floorboards were directly above the kitchen. She sighed, and undressed, tugging vindictively at her boots. “All right!” she called. “I’m in now.”
Having said it, she had to get in or it would be a lie. The hot water came up to her belly button, and the lemon peel lapped against her legs. Once her body was covered in hot water, all the fight seemed to go out of it. Sophie sagged, and lay in the tub. Her heart sagged too. She could think of nothing.
When, at last, she clambered out, she made it only as far as her bedroom rug before her legs collapsed and she dropped down, still wrapped in her towel. She lay there, half-awake, and went on with her staring at nothing.
Gradually, the nothing changed into a something. A small dot of light was playing against the wall, and she had been staring at it unseeingly for many minutes.
She turned back to the pile of splintered wood that had once been her cello case, to see what was casting the reflection. Then all the blood returned to her, and Sophie leapt up.
Still half-glued to the green baize lining was a long shard of painted wood. Sophie seized it, catching a splinter in her thumb. “Ach! Damn.”
Under the green baize, there was a brass plaque nailed to the wood. The light had been glancing off it and reflecting a pinprick of sun on the far side of the room.
On the plaque was an address. It was not in English.
Sophie had to lay the scrap of wood on the table to read it. Her hands were shaking too much to hold it steady.
FABRICANTS D’INSTRUMENTS À CORDES
16 RUE CHARLEMAGNE
LE MARAIS
PARIS
FRANCE
291054
Sophie found Charles in his study. He was sitting by the window with a newspaper in his hands, but his eyes did not seem to see it. Rain was blowing in and blurring the print on the front page, and he was doing nothing to shield himself.
Sophie ran to him, but he did not turn around. He only blinked, and his dark eyes were blank. Frightened, Sophie clambered onto the arm of his chair, tugged at his sleeve. She later thought she might even have chewed at his eyebrows in a bid to get attention.
“Look! Charles, look!”
Slowly, his eyes woke up. He smiled, just a little. “What am I looking at?”
“This!”
Charles looked about for his glasses, then, when they did not appear, held the piece of wood very close to his nose. “Le Marais, Paris. What is this, Sophie?”
“It was French! The cello was French!”
“Where did you find this?”
“We have to go to France! Right now!” She was choking and breathless. “Today!”
“Sit down, Sophie, and explain.”
Sophie sat—on Charles’s feet, so he would not be able to move. Her mouth was dry, and she had to chew on her tongue until she had enough saliva to talk. Then, as steadily as she could, Sophie explained.
It took Charles less than a second to see her meaning. He leapt to his feet, spilling Sophie into a heap on the hearth rug.
“My God! Sweet singing salamanders, Sophie! You brilliant creature. Why didn’t it occur to me that she might be French? I feel I need some whisky. Oh, good Lord.”
Sophie turned a backward roll under the desk. “What if she’s living in Paris?”
“What indeed! It’s possible, Sophie. I don’t say it’s likely, my darling—you know that the cello case still may not be hers—but it’s just possible. France, of course, my God!”
“And never ignore a possible!”
“Exactly! Oh, my darling creature, what a discovery.” He looked at the letter, still lying on the desk. “We need to get out of here, at any rate.”
“To Paris?” Sophie crossed every finger and every toe she possessed.
“Of course. Where else? Paris, Sophie! Quick! To packing! Gather up your best pants and your whitest socks!”
It was like a bugle call. Sophie sprang up. Then she said, “I don’t think I’ve got any that are still white.”
“Then we’ll buy new ones when we get there!”
“Paris pants! Yes, please.” Sophie laughed, but the letter from Martin Eliot was lying on the desk. It seemed to watch her. She said, “Will they come after us?”
“Perhaps. Yes. Quite probably. That’s why we’ll leave tomorrow.”
“What, really?”
“Yes.”
“But truly?”
“I wouldn’t joke about such things.” Charles spread the newspaper open at the page with notices of trade, weather, ship departures. “And if they do choose to follow us—or, which is more likely, alert the Paris police—it won’t be for at least two or three days.”
“Days?” Sophie had hoped for weeks. Surely, it would be weeks.
“Days. We need to be wary, Sophie, but we are at an advantage.” He scratched an X next to a column of boat times and high tides, and closed the paper. His eyes were glinting with such excitement that it was like warming herself at the fire. “Organizations, Sophie, are much less clever than human beings. Especially when that human being is you. Remember that.”
6
THE JOURNEY WAS not Easy. Very Few journeys are, Sophie thought, and they are made even more difficult when you are planning to skip a country illegally in broad daylight.
“Pack light,” said Charles. “If we are seen leaving, we must look like we’re going to the dentist.”
“The dentist? We never go to the dentist.”
“To a concert, then. One bag and nothing else.”
So Sophie took only her cello; she rolled up jerseys and trousers as tightly as she could and squeezed them into the corners of the cello case. When she was finished, there was room for only one thing more: Should she take her notebook, or a dress, for just in case? “A dress is camouflage,” she told herself. “You never know when you’ll need a disguise.” Grudgingly, Sophie added it, and snapped shut the case.
Charles carried only his briefcase. Judging by the way he loaded it into the taxi cab, it was heavy. As they pulled away, Sophie thought she saw the curtain next door drop back, and a figure jerk out of sight. She gasped and looked straight ahead. As they clattered down the street, she crossed her fingers and sat on them, for luck.
The train station, when Sophie pulled her case into it, was too full of shouting people and steam. “Oh,” said Sophie. “Oh, no.” She said it very softly. Crowds made her ache. They were too much like a sinking ship. “Oh, help.” She felt a strong urge to scramble up the walls and hide behind the station clock.
Charles, though, was unworried. His eyes were very bright. He said, “Lord, it’s impressive, isn’t it? Smell that smell! Engine oil, Sophie!” Then he took in Sophie’s taut face and clenched elbows.
“All serene, my child?”
“Of course! Sort of. Almost.” Sophie winced as a horde of boys went roaring by, hitting each other. “Not really.”
“Do you know, I think the best thing to do in stations is to buy a handful of your favorite food, and then find a corner to sit in and stare at the ceiling.”
“Stare at the ceiling? Why?”
“Railway stations tend to have fantastically beautiful ceilings.” Sophie tilted her head, and her hat fell off. It wa
s true. The ceiling was a maze of glass and bright iron. It looked like a hundred pianos.
Charles felt in his pockets. From a jumble of string and paper and boiled sweets, he extracted some coins. “Here—there’s a sixpence. Or, wait—there’s a shilling, and you can buy some tea. Ask for it hot enough to burn your pipes, or it won’t be drinkable.”
“Yes—thank you, of course—but wait, Charles! Where are you going?”
“To find a porter and secure our tickets.”
“What if I lose you?”
“Then I will find you again.”
“But what if you can’t find me?” Sophie laid a hand on his overcoat. “Charles, wait, don’t go!” She hated herself when she was like this, but her nerves were chewing at her insides.
“Sophie, you have hair the color of a lightning bolt!” He smiled. His smile, today, was a very good one. “You are not easily missable.”
At the food stall, Sophie hesitated between an enormous Chelsea bun and those round cookies with red-jam centers that Miss Eliot said were for common children. Sophie had never tried them, but they glinted like rubies.
The woman behind the counter was a reassuring presence. She had a red rash on her cheeks, and nice eyes.
“Chelsea bun, love? Éclair? Strawberry cookies?”
The thought of what Miss Eliot would say restored Sophie’s courage. “Cookies, please. Six.”
“There y’are, love. Don’t eat them all at once, pet, or you’ll be making a closer acquaintance with the station privy.”
Sophie nodded seriously. She bit into one, and found it glued her teeth together in a wonderful way. It did not taste remotely like strawberries, but it did taste like adventure.
“Going anywhere exciting, dear?” said the woman, clanking around in her apron for change.
Sophie tried to say, “Paris,” through her sticky mouthful. She glanced at the station clock. “Half an hour and counting.”
“Hunting, did you say? That’ll be nice.”
Sophie’s teeth were now well and truly jammed shut. She only smiled gooily and nodded. It was true, in a way. She was going mother-hunting.
“God and good luck go with you, then,” said the woman. She wrapped a Chelsea bun in newspaper and slipped it across to Sophie. “For luck. Most luck happens on a full stomach.”
The train was twice the size Sophie had expected, and green. It was the green that emeralds and dragons usually come in, which felt to Sophie like a good omen.
“Look for carriage six, Sophie,” said Charles. “You are Compartment A. I am told it is usually reserved for the children of the Duke of Kent, but this summer they are shooting things in Scotland. You have it to yourself.”
They edged past porters with straight backs and starched collars, toward the front and the engine. There was a narrow corridor running the whole length of the train, with sliding doors leading to the compartments. Sophie tried not to get in the way, and tried not to look too excited, and tried not to look too much like an illegal runaway. None of the three was easy.
“Here!” Charles maneuvered her cello case through the door, and turned. His whole face was sparking. “It was the only one left, Sophie. I hope you don’t dislike it.”
Sophie peered round his shoulder. Then she stared. “Dislike it? It’s like an imaginary game!” People were pressing past in the corridor outside; Sophie ignored them. “It’s so . . . gilt. It’s a palace!”
Charles laughed, and pulled her inside, and shut the door on the rest of the train. “A very small palace. The travel-size version, perhaps.”
The carriage was beautiful. Everything was child-size, and made with the delicacy and detail of witchcraft. Sophie tried to look as if she were used to such things—at least while the porter was watching them—but it was impossible, for it was the most polished-clean, gold-edged thing she had ever seen. The cushions were as round and fat as a goose’s stomach. The mirror was edged in gold; in fact there was almost as much gold edge as mirror. Sophie tapped the edge. It sounded solid.
“And see your chamber pot,” said Charles. “It’s worth a look.”
She squatted to look. There, buckled securely to the wall, was a golden chamber pot with red carnations painted round the rim.
“See?” said Charles. “Even your peeing is accessorized.”
“But where will you be? Here, also?” The carriage had two bunks, but they were child-size. Most of Charles would dangle off the end.
“I will share a compartment with an undertaker from Luxembourg. A lugubrious sort of fate, but I won’t die of it; and after all, it could have been worse. He could have been Belgian.” Charles smiled down at her. “They were the only tickets available for three weeks. I thought it would be better than the itch of waiting.”
“Yes!” Waiting would have been impossible, she thought. She would have died. “Yes, thank you!”
“Now, all serene?” asked Charles. Having no handkerchief, he fished out a clean sock and blew his nose on it. It sounded, to Sophie, like the trumpet of hope. “You have everything you need?”
“Yes, I think so. Although, actually”—her stomach rumbled—“have we got anything to eat?”
“Of course! How could I forget? The best part of any journey is the food. There’s a restaurant car, but it won’t open for a few hours. I smuggled in as much as I could.” Charles crossed to the wooden desk set into the wall and began to empty his pockets. First, six apples; then sausage rolls, shedding their pastry all over his coat; and a thick slab of yellow cheese. From the back of his fob watch Charles extracted a screw of salt. Finally, like a conjuror, he took from under his hat half a roast chicken, wrapped in oiled paper.
“Oh, heaven! Oh, wonderful!” Sophie added her cookies to the pile, but kept back her Chelsea bun for later. She arranged the rest into a tower. “There!” It reached up to her nose. “This is perfect.”
“Now, have we got everything?”
“Um.” Sophie had just taken a mouthful of cheese. The taste was fantastic—salty and creamy, both, together. The train shuddered, and began to steam forward. She had Charles, and roast chicken, and an adventure. Sophie spoke around her mouthful. “Everything,” she said.
At Dover, they changed from the train to a boat. The weather was choppy. The sea rumbled in front of them. It was gray, and smelled wild. Sophie tried not to look down at it. She tried not to think of dead women.
“All serene?” said Charles.
Sophie nodded, but she couldn’t speak.
To make things worse, amongst the passengers on the boat was a policeman. It was impossible, she told herself, that he had come for her; he was probably on vacation, but he still made her shiver. To be out of his sight, Sophie inched away down the boat until she was alone on the outside deck. She tried to ignore the sea. Ignoring the sea, though, is like ignoring a man with a gun: It cannot be done. It stretched out as far as the horizon, and though she squinted, Sophie couldn’t see France. She gripped the rail and tried not to panic.
Charles saw her face from halfway down the ship. His footsteps made no sound, and the hand he laid on hers was as gentle as a mother’s.
“Listen!” he said. “Can you hear that?”
Sophie could only hear the sea. “What?” Fear made her more snappish than she had wanted to be. “What am I listening for, anyway?”
“A murmuration!” said Charles. “A good omen.”
“A what-eration?”
“A murmuration. When the sea and wind murmur in time with each other, like people laughing in private. There, again! Did you hear that?”
Sophie was not convinced. “Only people murmur. Sea roars. Wind blows.”
“No. Sometimes the sea and the wind murmur. The two are old friends.”
“Oh.” Sophie unpeeled her hand from the rail and gripped Charles’s. She breathed in his overcoat smell and straightened her spine.
“When they sound together,” he said, “it means luck. A murmuration. A good omen.”
7
<
br /> THE OBVIOUS PROBLEM did not Occur to Sophie until she was standing next to Charles in the Gare du Nord with her cello case clutched to her chest.
The English porter from the train was watching the sky. “It’s due to storm again soon, sir. I hope you brought umbrellas.”
Charles said, “I am an Englishman. I always have an umbrella. I would no more go out without my umbrella than I would leave the house without my small intestine.”
“Then I’d get yourself to your hotel before the hour’s up, sir. I don’t like the look of the sky.”
It was then that the problem occurred to Sophie. It startled her that she had not thought of it before, but she had not, in the rush, imagined farther than the English border control. “Charles,” she said, “where are we going to sleep?”
“Very good—”
“And,” she interrupted, “and also—what are we going to do next?”
“Very good questions, both,” Charles said. “The first is easy. The undertaker was very helpful. He recommended a very good little hotel, near the River Seine.” He hefted his briefcase. “We’ll take a taxi cab.”
There was a row of carriages waiting by the train station. They varied in smartness: some had interesting bits of carriage-gut hanging down underneath, and others gleamed and smelled of carbolic soap. There was one painted gray and silver that Sophie liked immediately. The horse matched the carriage, and its face was thinner and wittier than the others’. It looked like Charles, though Sophie decided not to say so.
“Can we take this one?” Sophie held out a sliver of chocolate to the gray mare. “The horse looks like he’s bored.”
“Of course.” Charles handed the driver some coins, and the man began to load the carriage with their sparse luggage. “I must say, French horses are very good-looking,” said Charles. “Paris is making me feel that I should brush my hair.”
Sophie looked about, at the tall trees towering over the buildings, and the cobbled streets curling off in every direction. The women’s skirts hung differently from those in London; the women seemed to glide, somehow, as though they were underwater. “Yes!” she said. “I know what you mean. Even the pigeons are more chic than in London.” She found her insides were shivering in that way they did before Christmas. She said, “And when we’ve gotten to the hotel? Then what do we do?”