strawberry blond guy was standing between Petra and Ouida. He was taller than Richard but not as tall as Luc. He had fair skin and blue eyes and looked more Irish than French. He was wearing a brown monk’s robe.
When we walked in, he glanced up, then drew in breath with an audible gasp. He actually stepped back and put his hand up, his eyes wide. I wheeled to see if something was behind us.
Oh. It was just us, the miracle twins.
Petra gave a sad smile and took his arm. “Marcel, this is Clio and Thais—Clémence’s daughters. Girls, this is Marcel Theroux, one of the Treize.”
I stepped forward and held out my hand. “Nice to meet you.”
The seconds ticked by awkwardly, until Marcel seemed to force himself to touch my hand briefly. “Hello,” he murmured, looking down.
“Hi,” said Clio, not offering to shake hands. Marcel looked relieved.
“Clio, could you please see if any mint survived in the backyard?” Petra asked her. “I’ll make us something soothing to drink. Let’s go back into the kitchen.”
“We have to get you some new clothes,” Ouida said, taking Marcel’s arm, almost like he was an invalid, I thought. “Where are you staying?”
“Nowhere,” Marcel said faintly. He had a bit of an English? Irish? accent, and I wondered where he’d been and what he’d been doing. Something monkish, I gathered. They were walking in front of me, and I happened to glance up as he blocked out the sunlight in the doorway.
This time I gasped, stopping in my tracks. His silhouette, the outline of his head and shoulders—he was the man who’d leaned over the dark-haired woman in the vision Clio and I had shared, the day we’d set fire to the house. He had killed someone in the swamp.
They turned to look at me, and I shook my head, looking down. My face flushed. “Saw a spider,” I said awkwardly.
“Spiders, snakes—I guess you haven’t seen snakes in a while, have you, cher ?” Petra asked Marcel.
“No,” he said.
“Can you come stay with me?” Ouida asked as they sat down at the kitchen table. Clio came in the back door, the strong scent of spearmint preceding her into the room.
“Yes,” Marcel murmured, not looking at either me or Clio. “I would appreciate it.”
“Have a drink, and then we’ll get you settled,” Ouida said. “You must be exhausted.”
“It was a . . . long journey.” His voice sounded tense and sad, as if he were in physical pain. He was very different from the other men in the Treize: pompous Daedalus, quiet but kind Jules, weirdly dark Richard, and then Luc. Marcel seemed even more otherworldly.
And he had killed someone; I’d seen it myself. But Ouida and Petra both seemed to trust him and care about him. I couldn’t imagine them feeling that way about someone capable of murder. Yeah, Petra had lied to Clio about huge stuff, and I didn’t fully trust her to be completely straight with us. But I did believe that the lies she’d told had been to protect Clio and me. She and Ouida were good people at heart. And if they trusted Marcel . . .
Maybe he hadn’t really killed that woman in our vision?
I thought about what I had seen. The woman had been facedown in the mud of the swamp. We’d seen someone chasing her—she’d had dark hair and dark eyes, but she’d looked nothing like anyone else we’d met in the Treize. Think, think.
Oh my God. Melita, the dark one who had worked the spell—it had been her . Marcel had killed her . Or had not killed her. Everyone in the Treize assumed Melita was gone since she’d never surfaced after that crazy rite so long ago.
But . . . if Melita hadn’t died, if she was in fact still alive, then Daedalus wouldn’t need both me and Clio for the rite to make a full Treize. I stood frozen in thought, my mind whirling.
What if someone knew that Melita was alive, knew where she was now? They would know that they needed only one of us for the rite. Would they be trying to get rid of one of us, then? Maybe
When we walked in, he glanced up, then drew in breath with an audible gasp. He actually stepped back and put his hand up, his eyes wide. I wheeled to see if something was behind us.
Oh. It was just us, the miracle twins.
Petra gave a sad smile and took his arm. “Marcel, this is Clio and Thais—Clémence’s daughters. Girls, this is Marcel Theroux, one of the Treize.”
I stepped forward and held out my hand. “Nice to meet you.”
The seconds ticked by awkwardly, until Marcel seemed to force himself to touch my hand briefly. “Hello,” he murmured, looking down.
“Hi,” said Clio, not offering to shake hands. Marcel looked relieved.
“Clio, could you please see if any mint survived in the backyard?” Petra asked her. “I’ll make us something soothing to drink. Let’s go back into the kitchen.”
“We have to get you some new clothes,” Ouida said, taking Marcel’s arm, almost like he was an invalid, I thought. “Where are you staying?”
“Nowhere,” Marcel said faintly. He had a bit of an English? Irish? accent, and I wondered where he’d been and what he’d been doing. Something monkish, I gathered. They were walking in front of me, and I happened to glance up as he blocked out the sunlight in the doorway.
This time I gasped, stopping in my tracks. His silhouette, the outline of his head and shoulders—he was the man who’d leaned over the dark-haired woman in the vision Clio and I had shared, the day we’d set fire to the house. He had killed someone in the swamp.
They turned to look at me, and I shook my head, looking down. My face flushed. “Saw a spider,” I said awkwardly.
“Spiders, snakes—I guess you haven’t seen snakes in a while, have you, cher ?” Petra asked Marcel.
“No,” he said.
“Can you come stay with me?” Ouida asked as they sat down at the kitchen table. Clio came in the back door, the strong scent of spearmint preceding her into the room.
“Yes,” Marcel murmured, not looking at either me or Clio. “I would appreciate it.”
“Have a drink, and then we’ll get you settled,” Ouida said. “You must be exhausted.”
“It was a . . . long journey.” His voice sounded tense and sad, as if he were in physical pain. He was very different from the other men in the Treize: pompous Daedalus, quiet but kind Jules, weirdly dark Richard, and then Luc. Marcel seemed even more otherworldly.
And he had killed someone; I’d seen it myself. But Ouida and Petra both seemed to trust him and care about him. I couldn’t imagine them feeling that way about someone capable of murder. Yeah, Petra had lied to Clio about huge stuff, and I didn’t fully trust her to be completely straight with us. But I did believe that the lies she’d told had been to protect Clio and me. She and Ouida were good people at heart. And if they trusted Marcel . . .
Maybe he hadn’t really killed that woman in our vision?
I thought about what I had seen. The woman had been facedown in the mud of the swamp. We’d seen someone chasing her—she’d had dark hair and dark eyes, but she’d looked nothing like anyone else we’d met in the Treize. Think, think.
Oh my God. Melita, the dark one who had worked the spell—it had been her . Marcel had killed her . Or had not killed her. Everyone in the Treize assumed Melita was gone since she’d never surfaced after that crazy rite so long ago.
But . . . if Melita hadn’t died, if she was in fact still alive, then Daedalus wouldn’t need both me and Clio for the rite to make a full Treize. I stood frozen in thought, my mind whirling.
What if someone knew that Melita was alive, knew where she was now? They would know that they needed only one of us for the rite. Would they be trying to get rid of one of us, then? Maybe
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