A Drop of Night by Stefan Bachmann Read Free Book Online Page B

her. They were talking, but they all stop as soon as I step out and stare up at me with too-round eyes.
    â€œHey,” Hayden says after a second. Grins his stupid 1940s movie-star grin.
    I step around them and head for the stairs. “Hey,Blue Eyes,” I say, in a way that I hope also communicates I hate you.
    I don’t know why I’m angry. Big surprise that they didn’t wake me up for their discussion round. What was I expecting after the last twenty-four hours?
    I pass Will as he’s leaving the boys’ room. I start down the stairs. I wonder what they were talking about. Probably me. Something along the lines of Anouk is going to be such a pain, and maybe we should just burn her at the stake right now.
    The hall is empty, the columns forming shadow triangles across the checkerboard floor. I drop into a chair in front of the massive, cold fireplace and lean over the armrest. Rifle through a basket of magazines and newspapers. Will isn’t exactly bursting with friendliness, either, but I bet no one was talking about that.
    Lilly comes down a minute later and sits next to me. Glances over surreptitiously like she’s trying to think of something to say.
    I pick up three newspapers and spread them over my lap. They’re all from today, unwrinkled and unread. The headlines are about car accidents, bombings, ahead of state looking constipated about something. I start drafting better headlines in my mind, proper daydream-y screamers:
    T HE F RENCH P HARAOH : E IGHTEENTH- C ENTURY B ILLIONAIRE B UILDS A T OMB OF E GYPTIAN P ROPORTIONS
    M AD M ARQUIS: A S ECRET H ISTORY
    U NEARTHED !—A D RAMATIC T ALE OF U NDERGROUND P ALACE F ULL OF M YSTERY AND E XCLAMATION P OINTS !
    â€œI was going to wake you up,” Lilly says quietly. “I was, I just forgot. I know you think we were talking about you, but I swear—”
    â€œI actually don’t care,” I say.
    I slap down the newspapers and dig for my phone. My pocket’s empty. I left the phone upstairs. I look around for a clock. There’s one across the hall, twelve feet high, dark and thin, like a loner Goth kid at a jock party, standing in the corner, spiny hands creeping over a pale face.
    I can feel Lilly peering at me, hurt. I don’t know what to do. The ticking is weirdly loud and harsh. My brain must have been filtering it out, because I didn’t notice it a second ago.
    Will comes down the stairs, looks at Lilly and meand the empty chair next to us. Deems the waters too dangerous. Leans against the wall.
    Hayden and Jules come down.
    At precisely 5:30, a door opens and Professor Dorf and Miss Sei come snapping toward us over the marble.

Aur é lie du Bessancourt—October 18, 1789
    We remain in the château like ghosts. It is so quiet here, the gardens and the park slowly succumbing to neglect and silence. All five of us—Mama, me, Bernadette, Charlotte, and Delphine—are draped across the sofas or curled on the rugs in a tense sort of stupor. The servants have all been sent down. I watched them crowding the staircase, a procession of cooks and maids in dirty aprons and snowy caps, butlers in gleaming livery, musicians, wigmakers, and tailors, their faces stiff as funeral masks.
    Mama is pretending that all is well. She dresses for dinners that are not served, thanks maids and footmen who are no longer here—pantomiming desperately to us that we are not alone in the path of thousands of starving, angry peasants.
    Yesterday I went into the lower passage and stared at the little panel, the secret way into the Palais du Papillon.I saw Father’s motto, picked out in tiny brass letters along the cornice, almost invisible: To Good Luck and Safety and Everlasting Peace.
    â€œWe should not stay, Mama,” I say, sitting up, and every head but hers turns to stare at me. The windows are open onto the park. A breeze is whispering in, warm at first touch and then chilly. “We should take