Facing away from the scene of their crime, Julien set about counting the abundance of headstones in his peripheral vision, focusing on the task like his life depended on it.
But even so, he heard it all.
The creak of the casket opening.
The tearing of clothes.That awful blue dress Père insisted she be buried in.
Cinn’s strained grunts of effort.
And finally, the heart-wrenching snap of bone.
Julien didn’t turn around until the rhythmic thud of Elliot redepositing earth on top of Béatrice’s coffin rippled through the night.
When he did, he found Darcy cradling a canvas bag close to her chest, hugging it delicately, eyes shining with tears.
If the bone turned out to be useless as a magnet item, Julien would suffer some serious guilt from the PTSD he’d surely inflicted upon everyone tonight.
Cinn moved away from the grave, approaching Julien with slow strides.
When he was close, Julien reached for Cinn’s arm. “What… what did she look like?”
Cinn gazed straight at him with those amber pools, and for a moment Julien basked in their golden warmth. “Beautiful,” he said, solemn and soulful. “She looked beautiful.”
Without overthinking it, Julien reached over to wipe a dusting of mud from Cinn’s chin. He didn’t restrain his hand from lingering on his face. “Thank you,” he whispered.
sixteen
Julien
“What now? Back to your father’s party?” Cinn asked Julien.
He blinked, unsure for once; he’d reached the end of his roadmap for their night.
“Let’s go out,” suggested Darcy. “Show Cinn Parisian nightlife.” At this, she grabbed his hand and spun herself around into his arms. He looked far less than comfortable.
“Well, there’s no way we’re going anywhere playing trashy pop music.” Elliot gave one long shake of his head. “No offence to that crap that leaks out of your headphones, Cinn.”
“It’s mostly R’n’B, actually,” Cinn mumbled.
“What about Café Crescendo, that jazz fusion bar we found last winter?” Julien interjected and was promptly ignored.
“And I’m not going to any of Darcy’s places,” Elliot continued. “Shit gets crazy in her drum and bass basements.”
“God, that was one time!” Darcy moaned, rolling her eyes. “And nobodyforcedyouto take that random pill from the stranger you met in the bathroom.”
Cinn shuffled on his feet. “I second no drum and bass. Tyler’s dragged me to a few gigs, and I hated every second of them. There’s no—”
“There’s no soul,” Julien chimed in. “We want none of that synthetic beat nonsense. Café Crescendo has the perfect vibe—smoothjazz, low lights—”
“No!” shouted Darcy and Elliot simultaneously, so loud Julien flinched.
“Sounds like you’re picking then, Elliot, doesn’t it?” Julien wouldn’t sulk. It was beneath him.
After flagging down a taxi, and taking a quick detour so that Darcy could store Béatrice’s rib in her hotel room, and change out of her muddy heels—why did she never listen to Julien?—they were dropped in the heart of Paris’s Le Marais district, which Darcy argued would please everybody.
Tall, centuries-old buildings lined the narrow road, with people smoking out of balconies and wooden shutters, leaning their bodies over to watch the merriment below.
One look at the neon lights, rainbow flags, and scantily clad revellers spilling out into the cobblestone streets, clinking drinks and shouting loudly, and Cinn took a full step backwards, as if he was about to take flight.
