He sat upon a couch, brushing aside the newspaper he’d left there.
He had in fact written to Nina. He had not been able to mail the letters, pausing when he had only one paragraph down, then tossing his efforts in the wastebasket. Pages suffused with horrid guilt and imprinted with another, ghastly feeling he couldn’t even name, but which caused him to count the days since he’d last seen her and to rip the letters to shreds. Six letters, and the sixth he did finish but it was terrible, so lacking in every sense that he’d given up and decided that his first instinct, never to write to her, had been correct. Now she was in the city and he thought, It wouldn’t have been proper but I should have written to her. The idea circled his mind, refusing to leave.
He performed that evening and the bit with the shark went well, the applause rising like a wave from the crowd. He bowed low, a hand pressed against his chest. When he was leaving the theater, he caught sight of Mr. Dufren.
“Mr. Dufren,” he said, “I have a novel request for you. Do you think you can find me someone who sells beetles in the city?”
“Beetles?” Dufren asked, looking baffled. “For a new act?”
“No. I need pinned specimens.”
“I suppose I can manage that.”
Hector nodded. He hoped it wouldn’t be too difficult. There must be a market for collectors, and anything you could imagine could be purchased in Loisail. He grabbed the door, ready to open it, and paused.
“Mr. Dufren, not mere beetles. Get me precious specimens, pretty ones.”
“Pretty. Why … yes, Mr. Auvray. When do you want it?”
“As soon as you can. And I’ll need something else. The address for Lise and Linette Beaulieu,” he said.
“Very well.”
Two days later, Mr. Dufren ushered an old man into Hector’s dressing room. He came accompanied by an assistant who carried a large box, which they set on Hector’s desk. They opened the box and showed Hector the contents: a multicolored collection of beetles, carefully preserved and mounted. Azure, yellow, red specimens.
“Green,” he told them.
The men nodded and laid out green beetles until Hector paused over one that had a delicate metallic shimmer.
“I’ll purchase this,” he said.
The men nodded and began putting their specimens back in the box. Mr. Dufren waited patiently to escort them back outside. Hector, behind his desk, tapped his fingers against its surface, frowning.
“Twenty of them,” he said.
The men looked at Hector in confusion.
“I don’t need one beetle. I need twenty.”
“Twenty beetles like that?” the assistant asked.
“No. Nineteen more. The rarest specimens you have, if you must go back to your shop to get them, do so. Twenty total. Mr. Dufren, do you have that address I asked for? I want you to send this one beetle there. Find a box for it, will you?”
“Yes, of course. Gentlemen,” Dufren said, and motioned to the men.
A while later, Dufren returned and stood in front of Hector’s desk. He placed a box on the desk. Hector raised his head and nodded at his assistant, handing him his calling card.
“Please send it,” Hector said. “Tell the messenger it should be delivered into the hands of Nina Beaulieu.”
“Sir, shouldn’t you attach a note to this?”
“The card will be all. Please make sure those men bring me the beetles I need.”
“If you don’t mind me asking, what do you need twenty beetles for?”
The question caught him by surprise. He had not considered what he meant to do; it was all knitting itself together, a wild amalgam of thoughts coalescing into a single thread.
He wanted to make amends. He had no idea if it could be done but he wanted to try. She deserved it.
He’d been frozen in listlessness and self-pity for a long time now, and he finally felt himself thawing, as if the spring and her presence had spurred him into action.
How strange, he thought.
“I forgot a lady’s birthday,” he said.
“You do realize it would be more appropriate to send flowers for a birthday, don’t you?” Dufren said with a sigh.
“She will like this better.”
Hector turned his attention back to his papers. It’s done, he thought. It’s done and nothing may come of it, but I hope something does.
CHAPTER 3
Lise and Linette lived in Three Bridges Quarter, a section of the city where the river flowed beneath the eponymous three bridges, and tiny houses, all painted white, rose three stories high. The color was traditional in the quarter. Once, twenty years before, the mistress of a famous composer had attempted to paint her home a pale shade of blue, but this had been met with such ardent opposition that she had to refrain.
Each house in the quarter was a century old and had a garden at the front of it, with an iron fence bordering it and a path that led three steps up to the door. For the homes on the easternmost side of the quarter, the back door of the house led five steps down to a canal. Once upon a time barges had sailed there, following the current, though most of the traffic had now been diverted and went down the Erzene.
Lise and Linette’s house was humdrum; the only detail setting it apart was the profusion of crocheted items inside. Lise had a passion for it, and she had made tablecloths and many doilies. There were doilies under cups and glasses, doilies on the sofa, doilies on the bookshelves. If Lise could have wrapped their cat in crocheted dresses, she might have done it.
Lise and Linette welcomed Luc Lémy into their crochet museum, wondering at the sight of him. He was outfitted in a plaid jacket, a jaunty cap angled on his head, as befitted a man engaged in a sport.
“Which is this one? Is this the Lémy who was married last fall?” Lise asked, taking out her spectacles. “Let me see you, young man.”
“No, Great-aunt, this is Luc,” Nina replied.
“Bah, if they bothered to look different, I might tell them apart.”
“What?” Linette yelled.
Nina could not help but giggle. Luc, however, was the picture of courtesy. He greatly flattered both women and he was as charming as he had been at Oldhouse, which meant it took them nearly an hour to leave since her great-aunts kept chattering with the young man.
Once outside, Nina surveyed the promised motorcar. She’d seen a couple from afar, but they were rarities and carriages dominated Loisail. Etiquette said a lady could ride with a man in these contraptions, the same as a man could escort a woman home in a carriage after a ball, but driving one was another story. The devices were the toys of city boys who, like Luc, might drive them around the block to impress their friends with the apparatus.
The motorcar was a two-seater, finely constructed and painted a glossy black. Luc held the door open for her, and she admired the upholstery. It suited Luc well, she thought, being as new and ostentatious as he was.
The streets nearby were empty and Luc was able to maneuver the motorcar with ease, humming to himself as they went around. At length they stopped by an area of greenery bordered by more of the white houses that characterized the quarter. It was not a park proper, merely a plot of land where the locals had once cultivated vegetables in an impromptu communal garden, now abandoned and growing wild with weeds. Someone would build more tiny houses there one day, but for now it was forgotten.