The Adventures of Mademoiselle Mac 2-Book Bundle by Christopher Ward Page A

sewer, I was seriously beginning to compete with Rudee’s stove for odour champion of Paris.

Fourteen
    I woke with a start as rain rattled the windows of the turret. The wind cracked and snapped like sheets flapping in the storm, but I felt oddly comforted by the sound and fell back to sleep right away. I dreamed about surveying Paris from the sky sitting on a giant hook that swung gently in the wind, until I was dropped down a chimney that turned into an endless tunnel, out of which I landed hard on the ground.
    â€œYou alright, Mac?” Rudee called out. He must have heard me tumble from my bed.
    â€œYeah, I’m okay, Rudee,” I answered groggily as I entered his room. He looked up a little sheepishly from burying his face in a bunch of flowers that he was putting in a tin can.
    â€œFrom Sashay,” he grinned, “to thank me for my little gift. She is the cream of the cat parade, no?”
    Hard to disagree , I thought. I tried to wash last night off me in the tiny bathroom and thought about what to tell Rudee. I didn’t have much of a chance, since he tapped on the door. “Hacks practice time. You coming?”
    I didn’t want to spend any time without friends, so I threw on some clothes and chased Rudee, who was carrying an armload of sheet music and a shopping bag to the cab. As he pulled out of the lane, he eyed me in the rear view mirror. “You slept late, ma petite . Storm keep you awake?”
    I could tell he was checking out the bruised-looking circles under my eyes. I really wanted to tell him about last night’s excursion to Les Halles and Shadowcorps, but he was acting so protective toward me that I felt guilty. He also seemed less morose than usual, even perky, as he chattered away like a magpie between rude gestures at anyone who risked sharing the road with us. “Last practice before the Bastille Day party.” Mention of the national celebration made me shudder, thinking of last night. “What did you think of Sashay’s dance, Mac? You know she is famous for taking the audience around the calendar to their childhood days when she performs. That’s why they call her the ‘Queen of Dreams.’”
    I knew what he meant as I recalled my own reverie at the club.
    â€œBah, they won’t let me in there. Not that Sashay wants me dangling around anyway. Blag’s family owns the club, so I’m banned, and of course he can go whenever he wants.”
    Madeleine cut in on a burst of static. “ Bonjour, all my low rollers, ça va ? Just a reminder to all of you that the Bastille Day party at CAFTA features our very own Hacks starting after the fireworks ... if there’s room on the stage for all that talent.”
    Rudee positively glowed at this announcement.
    â€œFree blue, white, and red earplugs at the door!” Madeleine cackled, and it sounded like more static.
    Rudee laughed and waved at the radio. “We’ll show them. They’ll be dancing their shoes away.”
    The practice was in a room above CAFTA that, as my dad would say, looked like a tornado had passed through it. Instruments, amplifiers, speakers, microphones, music stands, coffee cups, pastry wrappers, coats, and sheet music were scattered randomly. On the walls were posters of bands I’d never heard of like The Stereo Types, The Uncalled Four, and Colour Me CooCoo. I was sure I wasn’t missing much.
    â€œIt’s Mademoiselle Mac. She’s back,” said Mink Maynard from behind his drums.
    Dizzy said “Hi” and gave me a knowing wink.
    After a round of secret handshakes, Rudee introduced me to the brothers Maurice and Henri Rocquette on stand-up bass and banjo. They bowed and smiled, showing perfect teeth beneath tiny moustaches. Henri, the younger, had slicked-back grey hair, while Maurice, the older, had a shiny black dome that glistened like motor oil and featured a little hint of grey. Rudee handed out set lists and sheet