“Do you likechamomile?”
“I likeeverything.”
Smiling, she popped the top off the box, poured dried buds into a strainer, then grabbed two teacups with the same polka-dot pattern as the pot, and set everything on the table. As the tea steeped, she went back for a large round tin. She removed the lid, and a buttery aroma wafted straight into mystomach.
“Chocolatesablés,” she said. “I made them thismorning.”
I dipped my hand inside the tin and fished out a cookie. When I bit into it, I swore I could hear the arias twittered by our rainbow-winged sparrows. I committed its taste to memory to conjure it up in Elysium. Perhaps, my diet would consist of only chocolate shortbread andmacarons.
I must’ve moaned, because Muriel smiled as she poured thetea.
“I cannot think of any word to describe how incredible these are.” The hard, crumbly treat melted on mytongue.
“They’re my grandmother’s recipe. I could teach you how to makethem?”
“I wouldlovethat,” I said before remembering I’d be gone by tomorrow. I curled my fingers over the warm porcelain. “I mean maybe. I’m not sure I’ll be allowed back inside this houseanymore.”
Muriel lifted her cup and blew on the billowing steam. If she was curious as to why I’d be barred from the Court of Demons, she didn’task.
“So . . .” I said. “Mikaela?”
“Ah, Mikaela. She was a”—her cheek dimpled as though she were biting the inside of it—“complicated woman. One day, she’d be giddy with happiness, the next, she’d hide out in her bedroom. Jarod’s uncle referred to her as bipolar, but I believe her mood swings were rooted in something deeper . . . something from her childhood. She rarely spoke about it, but right after Jarod’s father passed, she contracted this fever that lasted days. As I sponged her forehead and administered medication, she would moan that they’d taken her wings and hadn’t that been enough? Why had they taken the man sheloved?
“She rambled on about a place called Elysium and then about another called Abaddon.” She took a sip of her tea. “It’s one of the names for Hell,” Muriel explained, thankfully mistaking my shock for confusion. “It was at this point that I realized she must’ve incurred a strict religious upbringing. Perhaps, in a convent? I tried to find out, but she would drift in and out of consciousness, and after her feverish episode, she was never quite thesame.
“Jarod was four then. Even though his uncle and I tried to shield him, he became a quiet child, kept to himself. Some days, I’d find him curled against his mother; others, I’d find him sitting on the floor of his closet, hugging his knees against him.” She took another sip, then set her cup down. “Monsieur Isaac—his uncle,” she added in case I didn’t know the man’s name. “He told me to move into Jarod’s apartments since Mikaela had become quite incapable of caring for her son. They lived in the right wing of the house.” She lifted her eyes to the ceiling, probably to indicate where the right wingwas.
“It’s not the wing he lives innow?”
“No. He took over Monsieur Isaac’sapartments.”
Apartments?Is that how they called bedrooms here inParis?
“Night after night, Jarod and I would fall asleep in separate beds, but morning after morning I’d wake up to his tiny body snuggled againstmine.”
My chest tightened as I imagined Jarod as a child, clinging on to what little warmth and stability he couldfind.
“Monsieur Isaac walked in once and flew into a rage about how I’d defiled the propriety of his family. He ordered me to return to my service apartment. Jarod cried for twenty-four hours straight. He cried until Monsieur Isaac came to my room to fetch me and ordered me back into Jarod’s.” A smile stretched over her lips, as though she still savored winning thatbattle.
“His mother was still alivethen?”
“She was, but once her husband passed away, she became a ghost in this house, existing but not trulythere.”
Had her husband passed to our world or had he been a Triple like Jarod? And what ofIsaac?
I poured myself some more tea. “I heard Jarod was the one to find her the day she . . . the day she died.” I drank even though the buds had steeped so long the ochre liquid had turnedbitter.
Muriel’s eyes gleamed, but I couldn’t tell if it was with sadness or anger. “We’d just returned from the park where he’d made a friend, Tristan—Jarod didn’t spend much time around children, so this was momentous for him.” Her lips softened before pursing, creating rays of tiny wrinkles around them. “He ran up the stairs to tell his mother, and I chased after him, because he hadn’t removed his shoes, which were full of sand.” Tapping the tabletop with her fingertips a few times, she heaved a deep sigh. “Mikaela was . . . she was”—Muriel inhaled slowly—“bleeding.Profusely.I ran down to call for help. When Amir, Monsieur Isaac, and I made it back upstairs, Jarod’s hands were”—she shuddered—“they were covered in blood.” She closed her eyes, her wrinkles deepening. “And Mikaela had stoppedbreathing.”
My saliva turned thick as plaster in my throat. “He told me he killedher.”
Muriel’s lids flipped open. “He did no suchthing!”
I jerked at hertone.
“I’m sorry, Leigh. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to take it out on you, but I hate that he still believes he’s to blame. I hate that he still thinks removing the knife was the reason she bled out.” She huffed, fiddling with the collar of her robe. “Leaving it in wouldn’t have kept her heartbeating.”
Even though I’d sensed he wasn’t to blame for his mother’s death, hearing Muriel confirm it loosened the tension coiled aroundme.
