The beeping of the safe’s keypad carries my attention away from Slate and to Papa, who’s drawing the door open. Behind colorful stacks of euros twinkle the two golden leaves. “Gaëlle, can you grab your piece?”
I can’t believe we already have two.
I can’t believe we’re still missing two.
Her arm trembles as she darts it inside the safe. “Which shelf? Oh,mon DieuI don’t remember which shelf . . .” Her voice quivers as brutally as her extended arm.
“The second shelf, Gaëlle,” Papa says calmly.
She picks the leaf up, pinching it between her fingertips as though it were a dead rat, lips curled in repugnance.
“You have to let go of the girl’s hand, Slate,” Papa says. “Bodies are conductors.”
Emilie’s knuckles whiten. “Y-you s-said you w-wouldn’t let go,monsieur,” she stutters, tears curving around her heart-shaped mouth. I sense Slate struggle with the promise he made her.
He crouches and grips the back of her tiny neck. “This nice lady is going to hold your hand, and then as soon as you touch her pretty gold leaf, you come right back to me, okay? And then we’re going to go find your maman.”
Emilie’s eyebrows writhe as though it’s shredding her to release him.
“I promise.” He strokes away her tears with his thumb. “I’ll be right here, kiddo.”
A breath ratchets up her throat as her fingers loosen.
“Gaëlle, the second her hand’s out of mine, she’ll transport somewhere. You need to catch her.”
Gaëlle blinks and then she jerks her head in a nod and steps closer to the girl. What if her fingers fall right through her, though?
“Ready?” I’m not sure whether Slate’s asking Gaëlle or Emilie. Probably both. “Now!” He pulls his hand from the girl’s, then straightens.
Emilie tries to throw her arms around his middle, but as she lurches for Slate, she flickers, vanishes, and then reappears behind Papa’s glass desk, her sobs the only noise in the room.
“Gaëlle, come on!” Slate stuffs his hands in his coat pockets as though to keep himself from catching Emilie himself.
Gaëlle whips around, her curly black hair flogging her scarf-free neck. I thought she was missing something, but it’s only just hit me what. And then of course, it reminds me of why it’s missing, and I taste ash. Ash and sour grape. Emilie dematerializes and then pops up between Gaëlle and me.
Gaëlle punches the air, knocking the gold leaf against the child’s sternum. “S-sorry,” she whispers.
Emilie dips her chin into her neck and stares down at the shiny leaf.
Gaëlle crimps her other hand around the girl’s shoulder. “You need to touch it, Emilie.”
Although the girl flickers, she doesn’t vanish. Emilie looks over her shoulder, her eyes going straight for Slate.
“I’m right here,” he says, arms folded now, hands shoved under his armpits.
For some reason, the bump on his forehead seems like it’s swelled again. I make a note of grabbing something from our medicine cabinet and an icepack after this. Nursing Slate is a pleasant distraction, but a distraction nonetheless. I refocus on Emilie, who’s inching her hand closer to the leaf.
Please work. Please work.
She grabs it, and her body sharpens, stops shaking. I release a breath, relief sinking through me as fast and headily as last night’s alcohol. But then her mouth pops open around a noiseless gasp and her eyes glaze over. And she crumples to the floor.
Gaëlle’s the first to scream. “Rainier? Rainier! What do I do?”
Slate starts to pounce forward, but I put myself in his path, planting my two palms into his chest in case he tries to bulldoze past me. He doesn’t. He freezes, his eyes going from Emilie, to me, and then back to the little girl.
“What’s happening, De Morel? Why isn’t she moving?” he growls, brisk heartbeats filling my palms.
I look over my shoulder at Papa who’s staring down at Emilie, a tightness between his eyebrows. He rubs the vertical groove as though attempting to iron it out. “Maybe the magic is still working itself through her . . .”
