Jacqueline’s apartment was on the top floor of the building. Because of course it was. 

Even though I was exhausted, my options were to follow her or stay behind with a man I’d yelled at for having one eyebrow. Both choices were unfavorable, but at least Jacqueline wouldn’t strangle me within an inch of my life. I hoped not, at least.

So, with a deep intake of breath that caught like fractured ice in my lungs, I started up the stairs, cursing Étienne’s sister under my breath with each step I took. 

Jacqueline. Has. Ruined. My. Entire. Life. And. Has. Absolutely. No. Business. Having. Eyes. That. Large. And. Alluring.

I paused, frowning down at my feet before I resumed my climb. 

I. Did. Not. Mean. That. Last. Part. About. Her. Eyes. They. Are. Only. All. Right. I. Suppose. 

My progress was slow, made slower by me having to stop every few steps to catch my breath. Even so, I expected to at least reach Jacqueline and speak to her about what was to be done next. But halfway to the third floor, Jacqueline rushed past me, flying down the stairs with as much determination as she’d flown up them mere minutes ago. 

“Wait, murderer!” I called after her. “What are you doing?” 

“The journals are gone,” she responded. Her voice sounded wet and thick. 

She continued down the stairs. Though she wasn’t quite fast enough for me to miss the bit of sunlight that flashed over the metal clutched in her fist. 

A knife. 

I flicked my eyes to the ceiling, running my gaze across the cracked white plaster, dark spots of dampness and decay seeping out between the cracks like clusters of tangled spider webs. Surely, if I slid down to the floor and allowed my winded heart to stop for good, it would fix more problems than it would cause? Surely, no one would miss me? But then I heard Jacqueline cry out from the clock shop, and I ripped my eyes from the ceiling, starting for the first floor. 

I found her in the corner of the shop next to Duvaux, one hand on his shoulder and the other holding the knife against his throat. “Who came looking for the journals?” she asked. 

A sharp fear swam in Duvaux’s green eyes. He was almost twice Jacqueline’s size, and thus could have overpowered her and snapped her wrist in seconds if he wished. But he remained frozen on the chair, fingers curled in at his sides. “If they find out I told anyone, they’ll come back and kill me.” 

“If you don’t tell me—” Jacqueline pushed the knife deeper into Duvaux’s neck “—I’ll kill you now.” 

I stepped forward. “Erm, perhaps that isn’t the best idea.” 

She whipped her head around. “And if you don’t quit talking, Olivier, I’ll kill you next.” 

I snapped my mouth shut.

“No. No, I can’t!” Duvaux shifted in his chair, inching his hand toward Jacqueline. In it, was a shining clock screw, its tip sharp and silver and sure to cause substantial damage if shoved into someone’s throat. Which, I supposed, was exactly what he was planning to do.

I stared at the screw, eyes wide. Jacqueline’s focus was entirely on Duvaux’s neck, and I couldn’t warn her about the danger without startling her and potentially making things worse. But Étienne would hate me if I let anything happen to her, and she and Renée were growing close, and she might understand what it was like to feel uncontrollable panic, and. . . and— 

"DID YOU KNOW THE HOODED GREBE IS A MONOGAMOUS BIRD WITH A DANCE-LIKE MATING RITUAL?" 

Both Jacqueline and Duvaux turned to me in confusion. I leapt forward, yanked the screw out of Duvaux’s hand, and hurled it across the clock shop. It hit the window with a tiny ping. Jacqueline retaliated before the surprise melted off Duvaux’s face, shoving her knee into his crotch—I flinched a little at that—and angling her dagger closer to his neck. 

“I won’t ask you again,” she said. A bead of blood welled up underneath the blade and landed on Duvaux’s white cravat, blossoming on the linen like a single poppy bursting in a field of snow. “Who took the journals?”  

“One of the Comte de Coligny’s men,” Duvaux gasped out, voice shaking. “He tried to keep his identity hidden, but he had a pocket watch with the de Coligny family crest on it. I remember seeing the same crest on a carriage when they came here to commission a clock.”

Jacqueline held his gaze for a moment, then pushed him away, sheathing her blade. His head cracked hard against the stone walls. 

“Let’s away, Olivier,” she said, slipping the knife into her pocket and starting for the door.

I hesitated, my gaze moving from Jacqueline to where Duvaux sat hunched in his chair, one hand pressed against the cut on his neck. “But—” 

“Now.” 

With one last glance to Duvaux, I followed after her. The only sound that rang out in the shop as we walked was bits of porcelain and glass crunching underneath our shoes. 

Jacqueline bolted out in front of me, not stopping until she’d been running down Rue de la Monnaie for upwards of two minutes. At first, I thought she was going to check over her shoulder to see if I was there, but then she seemed to fall into herself, crumpling onto the cobblestone streets like ash dumped from a pipe. 

I gave a frenzied look from my left to my right, but no one spared either of us a glance. Jacqueline had her knees pulled up to her chest, arms clasped together and head buried in her coral skirts. Memories of the night before came flooding back—the sound of Jacqueline struggling for breath, the odd sense of recognition, the fear that there was nothing I could do. Only this time, it was worse. Because Etienne wasn’t here to act first. It was just me and the uninterested passersby. 

You can’t freeze up again, I told myself. Think, Olivier, think. What did Étienne always do to make you feel better when you were having an attack? 

I slid down next to her, reaching out a tentative hand. Étienne and Renée always comforted me by placing a hand on my shoulder or wrapping their arms around me, to let me know I wasn’t alone. Jacqueline didn’t even seem to like me, however, so I wasn’t certain if my touch would help, or if it would make things worse. 

“Jacqueline?” I asked. Her name was soft on my lips. “Is it all right if I touch you? It helps sometimes, I think.”

She didn’t answer, simply continued to try and suck in air, shoulders heaving with the effort. I returned my arm to my side. My hands moistened, a choking lump forming in the pit of my chest. No, no, no! I forced myself to swallow the lump back down. I couldn’t become panicked, too, because then where would that lead us? I had to overcome my own reservations and think of a way to help her. I had to. 

“Great spotted woodpecker,” I said. My cheeks grew hot, but I made myself continue. “Sapsucker, wryneck, piculet.”

She glanced up. Her dark eyes were rimmed with red, and tiny wet tracks trailed down her flushed cheeks. Something in my chest twinged at the sight. 

“What. . .are you. . .doing?” she asked. Each word was punctuated by an intake of breath. 

“Erm, listing off different types of woodpeckers?” The blood beneath my cheeks was near molten now, the sensation accompanied by a massive urge to tear off my skin. “When you asked if talking about birds helped me feel less panicked, you were right. I list off bird types or blurt out bird facts whenever I’m starting to feel out of control. I thought it might help you as well.”

Her dark brows crinkled together. Though her breaths still came out short and erratic, they were beginning to slow. “But I don’t know anything about birds.” 

“Oh.” I scrubbed my sweating palms on my thighs. What should I do? What should I do? What should I do? “Clocks parts, then. You like clocks, correct?” I scratched at the back of my neck. “Minute hand, hour hand, the glass that covers the clocks sometimes, erm. . .the thing that makes that other thing turn—”

She laid her hand atop mine, and I stopped, eyes drifting to where our fingers brushed against each other. Her skin was cool. 

“I’m fine now,” she said. 

“Oh.” My voice squeaked, and I cleared my throat. “That’s good.”

“Thank you for helping.”

I nodded, unable to squeeze a word out. Our fingers were still brushing, and I ripped my hand away, shoving it beneath my thigh in an attempt to keep the damnable thing from shaking. 

“They took my journals,” she said, voice sounding far away. 

“It’s no matter.” I brought my knees up to my chest and looked up at the sky. The previous sunshine had been replaced by clouds, dark and heavy with rain. “We don’t need the journals to understand the clocks. You’re smart enough to figure it all out without them.” 

She shook her head. A few strands of hair whipped around her face and stuck to the dampness on her cheeks. “You don’t understand. I’m usually not like this. I taught myself how to make the fear go away, because there was never anyone else to help. And for so many years it worked. But everything with Étienne. . . And those journals—those journals were the only things I had left of my parents. They had my father’s plans, yes, but they also had my mother’s designs and notes they wrote to each other while they were working and now—” she sucked in a shaky breath “—now they’re gone. And I’ve ruined my relationship with Duvaux, and I can never go back home.”

“Wait!” I thrusted my hands out, terrified she might have another nervous attack. I already listed off all the clock parts I knew, so there was nothing left to say if I had to help again. “Please don’t get upset; it’s all right. We’ll just have to get them back.”

“What?” 

“We’ll have to get the journals back. I know where the de Colignys live. We can find a way to sneak in and get them back.” 

She blinked, confused, as if seeing me for the first time. “But that’s dangerous. Why would you take that kind of risk for me?” 

Because you’re precious to Étienne, I thought. Because you understand my nerves and my panicked outbursts. Because you might be able to teach me how to control my fear.

I couldn’t say any of that to her, however, so instead I let out a loud burst of laughter. A passing lady startled, nearly dropping her basket full of shiny red apples. “It’s not for you; it’s because the king will be angry if he comes to my house tonight and sees we didn’t get the journals.” I cleared my throat and added in a quieter voice, “But if you’re able to have back a little piece of your family, I suppose that wouldn’t be a bad thing, either.” 

For a handful of moments, Jacqueline said nothing. She continued to look at me, running a lace sleeve over her cheeks to wipe away the lingering wetness. Then, as she was parting her lips to respond, the sky cracked with thunder and opened above us. 

We were soaked within seconds, great fat drops of rain landing on my pristine coat and breeches and ruining all the pomade the servants put in my hair. I shot up and placed a hand over my head, though it did nothing to help shield me from the deluge. 

“God, I abhor rain!” I cried, searching for somewhere to take cover. But all that was around us were homes and muddy alleyways and shops with darkened windows that we wouldn’t be allowed into unless we had sous to spend. I cursed myself for not thinking to grab any money before we left. 

“Follow me!” Jacqueline said. She had to yell to be heard over a peal of thunder. 

She led us past shoppers scurrying down the street. Past merchants scrambling to cover carts full of pastries topped with jewel-toned marmalades and sliced meats glistening with oil. When we reached Pont Neuf—the Seine below the stone bridge rippling and pockmarked by droplets of rain—Jacqueline made a sharp right, leading us straight to Saint Germain l’Auxerrois. 

“Must we take shelter in a church?” I whined, staring up at the massive stained-glass rose window, and the iron balustrade built over the arched entryway. “I’m certain God hates me for all the times I slept through morning services.”

Ignoring my protests, Jacqueline opened the door and we barreled inside, bringing with us puddles of mud-flecked rainwater. Jacqueline was far too eager for reprieve from the rain, and she slipped over the tan and white checkered floors in her haste, colliding with a golden candlestick holder next to the doorway. It clattered to the floor, resulting in a resounding crash that echoed all the way to the top of the soaring ceilings. 

She turned to me, failing to hide her furious blush behind waves of drenched hair. “Don’t you dare laugh.”

I clapped my hands over my mouth. “Too late.” 

Closer to the altar, a pair of women who had been basking in the silent glory of God turned to shush us. 

“Apologies, mesdames,” I called out cheerfully. “The poor woman next to me is pregnant with the Devil’s baby. We came to pray for her salvation.” 

The ladies gaped. One flinched back so greatly, she nearly toppled onto the ground.

“My God, Olivier.” Jacqueline dragged me to two wooden chairs next to a towering brass organ. “Shut up.” 

Once we were seated, Jacqueline buried her head in her hands. Her shoulders shook, and my stomach dropped. I’d said those things in hopes it would make her feel better, not because I wished for her to cry. 

“I’m sorry,” I said in a tentative whisper. “Please, don’t cry.” 

But when she looked up, she wasn’t crying. She was laughing. Her hair was falling out of its updo in wet clumps, and her coral dress was stained with rainwater and mud. But her smile was wide, bright amusement dancing behind her brown eyes. 

And before I could stop myself, I was laughing, too. 

“God, you’re awful,” she said through peals of laughter. “I pity Étienne for having to put up with you for fifteen years.” 

“I believe you were the one who offended God by vandalizing His holy place of worship.” 

Jacqueline leaned over and squeezed all the rainwater from her hair onto my lap. My answering yell garnered another series of angry shushes. 

“Quit it, we’re going to be kicked out,” I hissed, wiping at the newly formed wet spots on my breeches. 

“And whose fault is that?” 

“Yours. This has all been your fault.” 

We continued to laugh, burying our faces in our hands and clutching at our stomachs. Twice, we thought we had calmed enough to speak again. And twice, we broke into hysterics the second we made eye contact. What must have been at least ten minutes later, we were finally silent. I closed my eyes, angling my head to the ceiling as I listened to the rain lash against the roof. 

“Olivier?” 

I waved a hand at her, eyes still closed. “Don’t interrupt me. I’m praying for your soul.” 

Jacqueline knocked her shoulder against mine. “Were you serious about what you said earlier? Are we truly going to try to get the journals back?” 

“Why not? The day is young. We can leave here as soon as the rain stops.” 

After a moment, Jacqueline whispered, “Thank you. I’m glad you’re here.”

But the words were so quiet, I wasn’t certain she even said them at all.