Surely this couldn’t be happening?
Was this her punishment, then, for leaving?
Who did she think she was, to believe she could bargain with fate?
“But... when did that happen?”
“Oh, must be well-nigh a month ago.”
A month ago! Right after she’d left Gabriel!
How surreal that this man before her could sound soblitheabout what constituted the end of her world.
“But... but what about Mr. Marchand? Where did he go?” She was nauseous with terror now.
“Oh, God only knows whereMarchandhas got to,” the man said, irritably.
He again consulted his watch.
She gave another start when she became aware of voices calling to each other very nearby. It sounded like two men engaged in a passionate debate.
“Steady! Back it up, back it up. What thedevilare you doing, Jenkins? This thing don’t bend, for God’s sake!”
She stared, astounded, as a man dressed in workman’s trousers, heavy boots, and a cap emerged from the alley between the former Lucifer’s Fall’s building and the building adjacent. He was walking backward in a crablike crouch, his hands behind his back. In them he balanced one end of what turned out to be a long, rectangular slab of wood, about three feet tall.
A few moments later, another man in workman’s attire appeared—Jenkins, no doubt. He was supporting the weight of the back end of the slab. All in all, it was a good ten feet long, if she had to guess.
They didn’t see her as they gracelessly swung their cargo about.
She staggered backward as she dodged out of their way.
They maneuvered the slab until it was horizontal with the front of the building. Then lowered it gently to rest against the wall and stood back, swiping their gloved hands in that universal gesture of satisfaction with a job well done.
On it, in tall, regal gold letters, the slab read:
The Marchand Academy
Her breath stopped. The words seemed to shimmer with portent.
It was a sign.
In more ways than one.
A blast of hope thawed the frozen knot of her heart. Goose bumps spangled her arms.
What washappening?
She whirled at the sound of yet another man’s voice coming from somewhere in the alley. “We’re going to need at least two ladders to hang that, lads.”
And just like that, her heart soared like a flung discus.
“Threewould actually be better, because that sign is so fine and heavy.” The voice, closer now, sounded pleased about this. “I think we can borrow a ladder from—”
At last the man belonging to the voice came into view.
“Oh,that’swhere you’ve got to, Mr. Marchand,” the supercilious fellow with the watch said, with great relief. “I’ve been waiting for you, sir. The carpet delivery will be here any minute and your signature will be needed.”
The poor man might as well have been a ghost.
