For such a kind boy, Oliver has a sullen mouth. It’s turned down now, slick with alcohol, and I want to kiss it, to catch his bottom lip between my teeth, to feel the expanse of his back under my hands.

His eyes flick to my lips. I want this with him, I always have.

The gates to the building groan open with a push from Maxine, and the spell of the night is broken.

“Good night, Frances.”

“Get home safe, Oliver.”

Sneaking out the next morning isn’t difficult. Upon our return from the Sacre Cœur, Maxine’s mother and stepfather, having just gotten home from their evening engagement, invited us into the parlor for a late-night game of charades. Maxine and her mother kept bursting out into laughter at inside jokes in French, and her stepfather insisted we “make the game more interesting” by laying down stacks of francs on the table. Lena made a killing, but I suspect her clairvoyancy skills had more to do with that than her skill at charades.

I joined in for one round, but quit after not being able to guess the clue “the particular emotion of making a sandwich.”

Sleep was blessedly dreamless, though it did take me a long time to feel calm enough to drift off. Waltzing with Oliver and the incident with Pascal left me feeling as seasick as if I were still on the ship.

The house is quiet this morning. The only sound is the shuffling of the housekeeper across the flat in the kitchen.

The family will take breakfast in bed this morning as I’m sure their post-champagne headaches demand.

I dress myself quietly as the first golden rays of dawn creep over the city. Then, on socked feet, I creep through the halls like a thief… well, not like a thief, I suppose. I am a thief.

I don’t have to steal a map. I could ask to borrow one from the housekeeper or buy one from any number of stalls on the street. But I mostly want to see if I still can. It’s like scratching an itch. This need to do something still nags for reasons I can’t explain.

I stop at the door the housekeeper pointed out as Maxine’s stepfather’s study the first day.

I tug the handle. Locked, as I suspected it would be.

“Briseadh,” I mutter under my breath, waving my hand over the brass knob. I mutter a prayer to the magic: “Please work.”

Again, there is that strange feeling of being shocked. Despite how many times it’s happened, I can’t get used to the sickening sensation, the way the pain travels down my limbs and up through my throat, leaving me choking for air.