If I Should Die by Amy Plum Page A

out of the kitchen with the tea tray.
    Everyone fell into a reflective silence and focused on Jeanne’s delicious meal until she returned minutes later. “Status report?” I asked.
    â€œYour grandmother seemed to be holding up well. She didn’t look overjoyed, but she was listening to what Jean-Baptiste and Gaspard were saying,” Jeanne said, retying her apron.
    â€œWhich was . . . ,” I prodded.
    â€œThey were proposing some kind of plan where you and your sister would be accompanied everywhere you go,” she responded matter-of-factly, and then turned to check something in the oven.
    Georgia and I shot each other worried looks.
    â€œI know we’re waiting for Jean-Baptiste to give us instructions,” Arthur said, prying his attention away from my sister. “But we might as well get suited up until he’s done talking to Madame Mercier. I have no doubt he’ll send us on a scouting trip when we inform him that Henri’s team lost track of Violette.”
    Standing and taking his plate to the counter, Ambrose leaned down to give Jeanne’s shoulders a squeeze. “No dessert?” she asked.
    Ambrose patted his stomach with both hands. “Naw, I couldn’t, Jeanne. I’m watching my figure.” She guffawed as he walked toward the door. “I could use a bit of a workout if we’re just hanging out for a while. Swords, anyone?” he called.
    â€œThat’s an invitation I can’t resist,” responded Charlotte, and thanking Jeanne for the meal, she followed Ambrose out the door.
    â€œI’m on for a fight!” exclaimed Geneviève, and Arthur stood to join her.
    â€œI’ll watch,” muttered a paler-than-usual Georgia. I smiled. It was just like her to hide out as long as possible rather than face Mamie’s wrath.
    â€œLeave your dishes, dears, and go work off some of that steam,” said Jeanne, waving them away from the table and out the door.
    â€œI’ll be right down,” I called. I was still picking at my lasagna, attempting to move pieces of it around my plate so that Jeanne would think I had eaten.
    â€œI see what you’re doing, mon petit chou ,” she said as she stood at the sink with her back toward me.
    I laid my fork on the table. “Busted,” I replied.
    She turned, and her lips curved into a compassionate smile. “You know what? I have something for you. Something that might be a comfort in the hard days ahead.”
    Taking my hand, she led me out of the kitchen to her room down the hall. It was one she used on the rare occasion when she needed to spend the night, and I had never been inside.
    Walking across the carpeted floor, she switched on a frilly lamp and picked up an object sitting next to it. Returning, she placed it in my hand. It was a heart-shaped locket made of crystal and silver.
    I fingered the tiny bauble. A sprig of flowers was engraved into the silver side, and I ran my finger over the delicately grooved metal. “Forget-me-nots,” said Jeanne, and it felt like a hand clenched my heart and squeezed tightly. Vincent’s body was gone, but I would not forget him. Or would I? Would his face start disappearing from my mind like my parents’ had, replaced by the images of them preserved in photographs?
    I turned the locket over to the crystal side. Through the transparent glass I spotted something dark enclosed within and held it up to the light. It was a single lock of raven black hair.

EIGHT
    â€œIS THIS VINCENT’S?” I GASPED.
    Jeanne nodded.
    â€œWhere did you get it?” Stunned, I rolled the strange bauble around in my hand.
    â€œThe locket is from Gaspard’s collection of memento mori,” Jeanne responded. “He said I could give it to you.”
    â€œNo, this,” I said, holding it up to indicate what was inside the crystal prison. “Why do you have a lock of Vincent’s hair?”
    Jeanne