Madame Myrtille gave Selene a quick hug. Selene stood frozen, surprised by the gesture. “I’m so happy you’re here.”
Selene didn’t know what to say. She wouldn’t stay long. She turned the handle on the door.
There were flowers painted all over the walls. A little cottage, on a hill by the sea. Every inch of the space was covered in paint. A man sat in the corner of the little hospital room. Drawing bird after bird. Nightingales, every one.
Selene inhaled sharply. The sound startled the man and he spilled his water. It spread rainbows over the tile floor.
He turned.
Giuseppe Dreshé stared back at her.
Chapter 36
Selene counted her breaths. Tried to find a rhythm in her frantic heart. This wasn’t possible. Couldn’t be happening. She’d seen the smoke rise from his body, limp against the floor. He was dead. This was a ghost. The images of that day slammed back to her in the same impossibly bright colors from before the magie du sang, as if his presence had restored the memories. She hadn’t quite realized how much she’d forgotten, how much the magie du sang had taken from her. Every memory she’d used had been compressed and smudged, and it wasn’t until she looked at her father that she even realized how much she’d given up.
He dazzled her with a smile.
Giuseppe Dreshé was very much the same, despite the years. There was a lightness to him, a comfortable ease. She counted the differences. His hair was mostly silver, a little thinner on top. His arms were softer, not strong and cut like she remembered. He had wrinkles on his forehead and beneath his eyes.
“Selene,” he said. He tapped the wall, the rhythm familiar.
He knew her.
“Yes?” She dropped down to her knees beside him.
He pulled away from her, startled, and pointed to the wall behind him.
Madame Myrtille stood in the doorway. She’d brought tea. “He’s talking about the painting.”
There it was, on the wall. A painting of a man and a girl on the beach. They were surrounded by nightingales. A murmuration of them, each of their mouths open to sing. For a moment, Selene thought there might be some order to it all. She could almost make out the music in it. But the more she looked, the more she was sure she was looking at the art of a madman. She was looking for something that couldn’t be there. A weight settled on her. He remembered her, at least. He remembered something. But he didn’tknowher.
Madame set down the tray. Father got up and sat on the wooden chair. It had been painted in gold and navy, like a seat in the Opera Magique. “It’s not unusual for them to gain some sense of themselves over the years. Our doctors and therapists do their best.”
“I didn’t know,” Selene said.
“Not many people do, love,” Madame Myrtille said. “They’re different, not gone. It’s hard for some families to adjust.”
“I didn’t know he was here.” Selene pressed her fingers to her eyes, trying to stop the tears. Trying—and failing. Her father pulled his long legs into himself, as if he were trying to disappear.
“Oh. We thought … Never mind that.” Madame Myrtille handed her a cup of tea. “You’re here now.”
Tea splashed onto the saucer. Selene’s shoulders shook. “He’s afraid of me.”
“Just give it time,” Madame Myrtille said.
Time, such a slippery thing.
But Madame Giroux had spoken of his death, hadn’t she? She must have known. The betrayal was a knife in so deep that Selene didn’t know how to get it out.
Giuseppe leaned conspiratorially toward Madame Myrtille. “Can she see me?”
“Yes, Pippo, she can.”
Her father had hated that nickname. He’d once sung a raincloud on a courtier who dared to call him that. The man had been flirting with Selene’s mother. Father had soaked her silk dress but stolen her heart. He’d made a name for himself as a temperamental artist. The narrative had been reapplied to make sense of his impending madness. It was an unfair framing. This wasn’t a feral madman. He was loving and gentle and kind and perfectly controlled.
He picked up his tea and sipped it carefully. “Who is she?”
“I’m Selene,” she said.
