A roosting crow swiveled its head toward her.
Slowly, shakily, she put down the burlap sack and then stood with her arms outstretched for balance, feet unpracticed in the stiff oxford shoes. She cast an uneasy look at the dome of night. The stars shimmered like broken bits of mirror. She’d seen them from inside, but only through the boxy frame of a window. She spun, trying to count them, ten, twenty, two hundred . . . and found herself at the edge of the roof, clutching the wrought-iron cresting with white knuckles, the crow perched beside her. She leaned out farther, transfixed. At the near end of the Rue des Amants, two cars had bumped into each other. The drivers were in the street, throwing their hands up in the air.
She smiled.
And then laughed aloud. This was Paris. Out there were thousands—millions—of girls and boys and parents and old people asleep in their beds, or smoking at upper windows, or deep in conversation at corner cafés.
“So pretty,” Anouk whispered.
The crow took off in a flutter of wings. Someone was opening the trapdoor. She spun around to see Beau’s sandy head pop up between the roof tiles.
“Beau!”
“What in the devil is going through your head, cabbage? Get back from the edge before you fall off.”
She dared a glance down to the street below.
He climbed out and kicked the trapdoor closed with his shoe. He had a decanter of scotch in one hand and two glasses in the other. He barely glanced at the city lights as he crossed the roof; he was used to being outside. He handed her a glass. “Viggo told me what happened. It was cruel of them, letting you think you could leave the house.” He held up the decanter. “I thought this might help.”
“That’s the Mada’s 1972 Balvenie. She’ll skin you.”
He herded her away from the edge of the roof, and then poured her a glass. He seemed unconcerned about the possibility of being skinned. “I swapped it out for some Glen Moray from the liquor shop. They won’t notice the difference—they’re already deep in their cups. Here.”
She sniffed the liquid and recoiled. Then she shrugged and took a deep sip. Fire erupted in her mouth.
Beau grinned as she doubled over to cough. He poured himself a glass. “Lovely view up here.”
She wiped her mouth.
Beau gazed out over the city. “Mada Vittora’s almost succeeded in undermining all the other witches in France. There are only two left who have any real power, the Crémieux Witch and the Rébeval Witch, and they’re both far south, along the coast. The Lavender Witch is strong, but she’s been banished to Montélimar, cast out of the Haute for insubordination—though there’s a rumor that Mada Vittora set her up. I’ll bet you the rest of that scotch that’s why the Royals are coming for tomorrow’s party. The Mada is going to try to convince them to grant her exclusive claim over the city.” He waved his glass toward the street. “All those Pretties down there, hers for the swindling. They buy their flower bouquets, sip their coffee and their wine, wear their golden jewelry, and have no idea the Diamond Witch’s magic has touched each piece. That they’re pawns of the Haute.” He laughed darkly. “The Royals’ greatest achievement is convincing Pretties they want things that the Royals want themselves.”
Below, a fashionable couple were tipsily making their way along the sidewalk. A diamond bracelet glittered on the woman’s wrist, a gold watch on the man’s, or so it seemed; in fact, they were just common stones and base metals, enchanted to appear desirable. Other witches controlled other industries—fine wines, luxury cars, even the exotic-animal trade—but Mada Vittora oversaw the jewel division of Paris, the most lucrative. Diamonds hadn’t been worth a second glance before some ancient Haute queen centuries ago had taken a fleeting liking to their sparkle. But they were hard to extract, and the Royals too superior for manual labor, so she’d had Goblins whisper in the Pretties’ ears that they wanted jewels, and thus the modern mining industry began. Not for iron, not for copper (those came as fortunate but accidental discoveries later, and the Royals were more than happy to siphon off the benefits), but to suit one queen’s whim. The same with art, architecture, airplanes. The Royals whispered in Pretties’ ears, and then they took for themselves the best of what the Pretties produced. All the Pretties in the world worked for the Haute in one way or another. They just didn’t know it. And to justify such a system? The Royals called themselves the silent monarchy, gods to a world of children who couldn’t be trusted to keep their own politics and technology and economies in balance without the secret hands of benevolent rulers.
The couple disappeared around the corner. Anouk leaned as far as she dared over the cresting, but even from this height, she couldn’t see the fountain at the end of Rue des Amants. She sighed.
“It’s ironic,” Beau said. “Pretties walk by every day in search of fake magic from that wishing fountain and have no idea there’s real magic under this roof.” He glanced down at Anouk. “Sit with me? Easy there. Careful.”
They cautiously settled on the edge of the roof, legs through the wrought-iron cresting. She rested her head on Beau’s shoulder.
A nice night, but Luc should have been there. It was always the three of them together, the members of the house staff: Beau, Luc, Anouk. “I miss him,” she said.
Beau cleared his throat as though he too felt Luc’s absence. “I think . . .” He stopped, then started again. “I think . . . never mind.”
Anouk’s left hand clutched her glass. Her other hand went to her shoes, and she toyed with the laces, the pretty bow. “You think Mada Vittora has something to do with his disappearance, don’t you?”
He didn’t answer right away. “We’re bound to her as long as she has our pelts locked in that closet. Luc couldn’t have run off any more than you or I could. We aren’t like the Pretties out there. We can’t come and go as we please. She made us and she owns us.”
It was true. Cricket had once tried to run away with a Pretty surfer boy from Portugal, and as soon as Mada Vittora had learned of it, she’d gone to the library with the pelts and a tonic of rose-infused blood, and the next day, mystifyingly, Cricket was back in Paris and fuming.
Anouk took a shaky sip of scotch. “You don’t think she . . . would have killed Luc?”
“Killed? No.” He paused. “She couldn’t. The magic would backfire on her.”
“You mean the vitae echo.”
He nodded. “Besides, if she was going to kill one of us, it would be Cricket or me. We’re the ones she can’t stand. Luc’s always been loyal; he was her first.” His face darkened. “But beasties don’t just disappear.”
Anouk gazed into the syrupy remains in her glass, feeling queasy.
Luc was much more than a gardener to them. He was the closest thing they had to a leader in their misfit household; he was the scholar, the storyteller, the big brother who always knew what to do. The one to resolve the various disagreements that sprang up between them and clean up their messes. Every week, it seemed he was sewing up Hunter Black’s latest wounds or sneaking Cricket out the back door before Viggo saw her and got that famished haunt to his eyes. Luc was the light they sought out when things grew dark, there to wipe away tears or tend to scrapes, to sit on the edge of the bed and tell them stories of magical places and beautiful people.