“Open it then, if you insist,” Maxine says, head lolling back on the stairs, one leg propped behind her, the other stretched out front. She’s hiked her skirts as high as she can around her shins, and her hair is coming loose from her lady’s maid’s careful pinning.

Pascal fiddles with the wax wrapped around the cork, peeling it off bit by bit with his thumbnail. When the cork is finally revealed, he looks at it through narrowed eyes, as if he’s only just realized we don’t have a corkscrew.

He tucks the wine bottle in his coat again and turns away from us. Lena’s eyes are closed, Maxine’s face is tilting up toward the stars, and Oliver is looking at me. But I am looking at Pascal, and what I’ve just seen doesn’t make any sense.

He pulls the bottle of wine from his lapel with a “ta-da!” It’s been uncorked. He tips the bottle to his lips, taking a swig.

I blink a few times, but I know what I saw. I didn’t drink more than a glass of champagne at the club.

Pascal didn’t have a corkscrew, so he couldn’t have just popped the cork out of the wine bottle like it was nothing. I’m not an expert on wine bottles, but I am an expert on magic.

Before I can say anything, Maxine sits bolt upright, her eyes flying open.

“You!” she exclaims, her arm outstretched and pointing at where Pascal is sitting dumbfounded, his mouth stained red.

“Me?”

“You…” As soon as the word comes out of her mouth she thinks better of it. Her eyes narrow, calculating, she glances around and sees we’re alone on the cathedral steps.

She finishes her thought. “What did you just do?”

Pascal hesitates. “I opened the bottle of wine?”

“How,” she demands, stony-faced. I don’t envy anyone on the other end of Maxine when she has that expression on her face.

“I—” Pascal trips over his own words. “I do not know the words in English.”

“Dis-moi en français, alors,” Maxine replies in fluent French.

Silence stretches between them as the three of us watch. Then, slowly, a smirk spreads across Maxine’s face. She’s caught him like a fox catches a mouse.

“You’re one of us.”

CHAPTER SIX

Pascal sputters. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Does Oliver know?” Maxine presses.

“Does Oliver know what?” Oliver asks. His brows knit together, and I repress the urge to press my fingers between them and soothe the lines that appear there.

“Yes, Maxine,” I say. “What does Oliver need to know?”

“That Pascal has magic,” Maxine quips. Her gaze flits between the two boys. She’s still leaning as casual as you please on the cathedral steps, but her face has changed. Her sharp eyes glint as she grins like a cat with a canary in its teeth.