Tickets for the crypt tour are sold inside the church vestibule. I buy one for myself, then I lean beside a slab of stone a foot thick that reaches my shoulders. After I assure Chang I don’t need an escort, she waves goodbye and joins the throng of people exploring the crowded nave of the church. According to a plaque on the wall above, the stone was knocked loose from the rectory during World War II bombings. A dusty smell lingers here, like these massive columns first began supporting the marble rafters a thousand years ago and have witnessed countless major events in the time since. Angela would have glowed here in all this history, while all I can feel is impatience for the tour to start.

Blonde hair flashes in my peripheral vision, and I snap my gaze to a woman with a chin-length bob. Not Jean-Luc. A scan of the vestibule confirms tourists surround me, their bulky cameras poised to capture activity. I raise two fingers to my neck and count to thirty before my pulse slows back to a normal rhythm.

A man in a black robe cuts toward a thick wooden doorway, gated and locked, leading to the crypts. Beyond the iron bars there’s a spindly railing descending below. Groups of people bunch together while the man wields a ring of keys, trying this one and that until we hear a click. The gate swings open. A few of the prayerful in the closest pews raise their heads our way. When I look again for Chang, she’s out of sight behind the choir.

The spiral staircase winds down into darkness. We make four full turns, then all eleven of us find ourselves on a dirt floor. I’m the only one who hangs back near the stairs, taking slow, measured inhales until my eyes adjust. A green-lit sign, SORTIE—exit—sits on the wall opposite behind another gate; cracked steps climb up and out of sight. Construction lamps, the handheld kind, are suspended on hooks and positioned at intervals along the ceiling, offering comforting orbs. The crypts are larger than I expected, with several chambers branching off the main artery we stand in. Deep stone compartments are stacked three high along the walls. Our tour guide, Loïc, recounts the history of Notre Dame and the famous cadavers that once graced these shelves. I wander into the first adjoining room, taking care to duck a protruding section of rock. One of the family’s little girls twirls by herself in the back, her red backpack providing extra momentum to swing round. She sees me, then stops, running to join her mother in the main area. Loïc asks our group what we know about embalming.