The Collector of Dying Breaths by M. J. Rose Read Free Book Online Page A

of her. Did he want her to visit or speak to these people as they appeared? She continued reading down. She came to the last item.
    10. Call Melinoe Cypros/Barbizon.
    Yes, she’d forgotten about this till now. On his deathbed, Robbie had pressed Jac to go retrieve the books he’d taken there from their own library here in Paris.
    Barbizon was only an hour-and-a-half drive out of Paris. Suddenly the idea of going away was attractive. She wasn’t sure if it was losing Robbie—the one constant in her life—or Marcher’s concern, or a combination of both, but Jac hadn’t been comfortable since the detective’s visit. It might be good to get away and escape her extended family’s well-meaning but overwhelming kindnesses for a day or two.
    It was also a chance to escape from the silver box containing her brother’s ashes, which she’d hidden away in the armoire in Robbie’s bedroom. Even there, in a room she never entered, behind a closed door, they haunted her. She needed to find a resting place for them—but then she’d have to let him go. Accept that he really was gone. And she couldn’t do that yet.
    Jac called ahead and made arrangements with the contact her brother had given her—Serge Grise—to come to Barbizon the next morning. She also called a hotel in town and booked a room for that evening.
    In the garage downstairs, the sight of Robbie’s car gave her a fresh pang. He’d bought and restored the sleek 1964 silver Mercedes when he was eighteen, and had never owned another car. This vehicle was one of the few things that tested his Zen-like attitude toward objects. He adored it and fussed over it and worried about every scratch.
    She opened the door. His smell overwhelmed her. Intense and powerful. As if he’d just gotten out of the car himself. Jac tossed her overnight bag on the back seat, slipped inside, and adjusted the seat to fit her shorter frame. She put her hands on the wheel and caressed the smooth wood. Suddenly she sensed Robbie, right there beside her.
    She listened, sure he was going to talk to her, and when she felt the air beside her vibrate a little, she shivered. Instead of upsetting her, it made her comfortable to think that she wasn’t quite alone. With a relief she hadn’t felt for weeks, she put the key in the ignition and started up her beautiful brother’s beautiful car.
    Driving away from Paris was liberating. As if she were leaving part of her intolerable sadness behind her. No matter that she was venturing out to collect Robbie’s belongings—the freedom of the road was invigorating. As soon as she was out of the city proper and driving through the countryside, she opened all the windows and let the damp early spring air in.
    After an hour she reached her destination. The “village of painters,” as Barbizon was known, consisted of a long curving street lined with gray stone buildings and ancient trees. A bit bleak on this March day, but still charming. It seemed time had not touched the town. Jac imagined it had looked exactly like this in the early nineteenth century when a group of painters rebelling against the Romantic movement came here to form an art colony. They availed themselves of the wondrous forest of Fontainebleau, where they worked from nature—a hallmark of their movement.
    It was before lunch and there weren’t many people on the street, so Jac could imagine that when she did see the villagers they were going to be dressed in nineteenth-century garb.
    “No wonder you were so enchanted with this place,” she said out loud, unconsciously, to Robbie. She wondered if that was a bad sign, and then decided it didn’t matter. She wanted to talk to him. It made her less sad to think he was hovering and could hear her.
    Jac reached the end of the road and the inn. After checking in, she spent a quiet afternoon exploring the town and then having a simple dinner of salad and coq au vin in one of the small restaurants lining the street. It was filled with