Chapter 17
Five years old, inspired for one of the first times in her life, Nelle searched the crayon box for Midnight Blue. She settled for turquoise, leaned as far as she could over the kitchen table in that house on Blackwood Road, and colored in the sky behind the tower. She liked drawing the moon and stars more than the sun, but daytime would do. Blue for the sky and black for the tower. A girl-shaped smudge stood at the top, holding the hand of a man.
“What’s that?” asked Father, his voice like snow sluicing off a roof. Dripping down her neck.
Nelle held up her drawing. “It’s for you.”
He inspects the page. “Where’ve you seen that before?”
Nelle pointed to the top of the tower. “That’s me there, and that’s you beside me. See?” Hands trembling, she set the paper back down. “Will you ...” She paused to twist her ankles, gathering courage. “Will you take me there one day?”
This was one of the unfortunate mornings she encountered Quill’s inner monster. He snatched up the drawing, slashing her trust in him alongside her dreams. He may as well have yanked out her heart.
All she could do was squawk in protest as he tore it to pieces, scattering featherlight fragments across the ground. She didn’t cry, though she wanted to. She didn’t scream, though she was steaming like a kettle. She sat back and faced the fact that she could do absolutely nothing. She couldn’t even rise off her chair without his permission.
“You will never see this place.” Quill was nearly growling. “Ever.”
Nelle stared at him, then at the blue and black scraps scattered over the hardwood, and blinked.
“You’re the meanest person in the world,” she said.
The words must have stung because he locked her in her room and banned her from reading or painting for six months.
Nelle clutches her armrests as the plane shudders.
“After that day, he changed,” she says. “The punishments got worse.”
James turns from the window, where his favorite city fades beneath the clouds. “No amount of anger justifies that kind of treatment.Nothingjustifies it.”
Nelle shrugs. Talking about her past puts her in a somber mood. “His wife and daughter haunted him.”
“Like ... actually haunted him?” In this new world where women can be created out of ink, who’s to say ghosts can’t be real, too?
“Metaphorically.” The plane shakes again. James takes Nelle’s hand, and her fingers dig into his palm. “He created me to fill the void they left behind. I guess what he didn’t realize is that, more than he missed them, he was angry that they died. I reminded him of what he’d lost.”
Imagining how horrible Quill was to Nelle makes James want to tuck her in a blanket and tell her that she’s safe. But is she? Quill found her in DC and again on a random street in New York. James barely slept the night she told him about the encounter, knowing that anywhere they go, Quill is likely lurking behind.
“You’re right.” Nelle relaxes her grip. “It’s not justified, but don’t get caught up on it. Look where I’m headed now.”
“To Paris.” James lifts his airplane-supplied cup of champagne.
Nelle echoes, “To Paris.”
The silver waters of the Seine tremble under Nelle’s swinging feet. She sits on the cobblestone walkway and takes in the architecture sweeping above her. Across the wide river and the Pont d’léna, past a white yacht, and surrounded by luscious green trees, stands the Eiffel Tower.
Sitting in its shadow is an out-of-body experience, a dream she never imagined would become reality. Sitting here with James is even harder to comprehend. A breeze in his brown hair, the morning sun illuminating his face. The last hour of their flight was nauseating, and they arrived to baggage claim to learn that the airline lost their luggage. James suggested they go with just the clothes on their back, so they left the airport in a taxi and went directly to the Eiffel Tower. Beneath the iron behemoth, people chatter, carrying coffees and lightweight coats.
“Is it everything you thought it’d be?” James asks.
Just like her drawing, the Eiffel Tower is like a spoon swirling the clouds. Iron lacework peaking to stab the blue. The only piece missing is the girl at the top.
“More,” she says.
James guides her to her feet and writes for her to follow him toward the bridge. “I thought we could spend the day drinking coffee and browsing bookshops. How does that sound?”
Not for the first time, Nelle has to tackle the urge to slip her fingers in his hair and kiss him, but his voice on the roof in New York rings back to her.I’m getting tired of waiting, she thinks.
Another urge follows, surprising her. She used to be fluent in seeing the angles and colors that make up the world. Painting came as natural as breathing, but somewhere over the years, she lost the joy in it. It deteriorated from disuse, but now that she has dipped her brush back in, she sees color in blades of grass, periwinkle clouds, a magenta scarf. They reach the stone steps up to the street and Nelle stops, unable to leave until he writes for her again.
