codirector, since she was a teenager and Robbie had been the one to introduce Malachai to Griffin North, he’d never been here before. Now, with a thrill of excitement, he climbed up the six stone steps, each one bringing him closer to deciphering what he’d found in Paris among his father’s papers.
When Robbie had started searching for the formulas for Rouge and Noir that his sister had asked for, he’d been horrified at the mess he’d discovered. The disease that had confused his father’s mind seemed to have manifested as physical chaos in the workshop. Every cabinet and drawer had been emptied onto the floor. Every book on every shelf had been removed. Stacked in piles. All the oils and essences and absolutes had been left open to evaporate. Hundreds of thousands of euros’ worth of supplies, ruined. Slowly and methodically, Robbie had tried to sort through the detritus of—how many years? No one was quite sure how long his father had really been ill. Louis had always been eccentric; the line from there to dementia was a blurry one.
And then Robbie came across a cache of broken pottery scattered in the bottom of a carton. At first he thought the turquoise, coral and black designs on the glazed white background were abstract. But when he found two shards that fit together, he realized they were hieroglyphics. Bending over his puzzle, trying to fit more pieces together, he’d detected a very faint scent. Only a trace. But that trace was everything to him. He needed his sister to smell it. Jac had the most attuned nose of them all. When they were children, their father would test them on combinations of essences and absolutes on linen squares. Robbie was right only half the time. Jac never got one wrong. With study, he improved, but he’d never have the innate ability she did. Their father said that Robbie had the faith and Jac had the nose—and as long as they worked together, the House of L’Etoile would be safe for yet another generation. Except they weren’t working together, and the house was in danger.
But at least, now, finally, he was in New York. And Robbie was sure the time was right for his Zen approach. For tranquil, spartan scents based on natural accords. Each orchestrated to evoke a sense of spirituality, of meditation, of connectiveness. Someone was going to fall in love with his new perfumes.
And maybe the time was also right for him to be the member of his family to discover a very old scent that could matter even more to the House of L’Etoile.
Standing in front of the large wooden door, Robbie inspected the bas-relief of a large bird rising out of a fire, a sword in its talons. There was a glyph on one of the pottery shards depicting a similar bird. Robbie inspected the mythical image. Tempted to pull the photographs out of his briefcase and compare the two phoenixes right away, he resisted and instead reached out and rang the doorbell.
A few seconds later, he heard a responding buzz and pulled open the door. On the other side, he found himself back in time. The décor was nineteenth century. A Tiffany chandelier cast soft green and blue reflections on the foyer’s polished black-and-white marble floor. A potted palm with elongated, leafy fronds sat beside a carved giltwood table.
“Can I help you?” A receptionist beckoned him forward.
“I have a meeting with Griffin North.”
“Yes—Mr. L’Etoile. He’ll be out in a minute.”
While he waited, Robbie admired more of the décor. He’d guessed the ornate moldings that capped the high ceilings and framed the autumnal colored Art Nouveau wallpaper were originals—though in America you could never be sure. His family’s maison in Paris dated back to the mid-eighteenth century. One shouldn’t tear down the past to make way for the future. That’s how lessons were lost. The art of keeping a civilization alive, like the art of making perfume, was in the blending.
“Robbie. It’s so good to see you,” Griffin said,
When Robbie had started searching for the formulas for Rouge and Noir that his sister had asked for, he’d been horrified at the mess he’d discovered. The disease that had confused his father’s mind seemed to have manifested as physical chaos in the workshop. Every cabinet and drawer had been emptied onto the floor. Every book on every shelf had been removed. Stacked in piles. All the oils and essences and absolutes had been left open to evaporate. Hundreds of thousands of euros’ worth of supplies, ruined. Slowly and methodically, Robbie had tried to sort through the detritus of—how many years? No one was quite sure how long his father had really been ill. Louis had always been eccentric; the line from there to dementia was a blurry one.
And then Robbie came across a cache of broken pottery scattered in the bottom of a carton. At first he thought the turquoise, coral and black designs on the glazed white background were abstract. But when he found two shards that fit together, he realized they were hieroglyphics. Bending over his puzzle, trying to fit more pieces together, he’d detected a very faint scent. Only a trace. But that trace was everything to him. He needed his sister to smell it. Jac had the most attuned nose of them all. When they were children, their father would test them on combinations of essences and absolutes on linen squares. Robbie was right only half the time. Jac never got one wrong. With study, he improved, but he’d never have the innate ability she did. Their father said that Robbie had the faith and Jac had the nose—and as long as they worked together, the House of L’Etoile would be safe for yet another generation. Except they weren’t working together, and the house was in danger.
But at least, now, finally, he was in New York. And Robbie was sure the time was right for his Zen approach. For tranquil, spartan scents based on natural accords. Each orchestrated to evoke a sense of spirituality, of meditation, of connectiveness. Someone was going to fall in love with his new perfumes.
And maybe the time was also right for him to be the member of his family to discover a very old scent that could matter even more to the House of L’Etoile.
Standing in front of the large wooden door, Robbie inspected the bas-relief of a large bird rising out of a fire, a sword in its talons. There was a glyph on one of the pottery shards depicting a similar bird. Robbie inspected the mythical image. Tempted to pull the photographs out of his briefcase and compare the two phoenixes right away, he resisted and instead reached out and rang the doorbell.
A few seconds later, he heard a responding buzz and pulled open the door. On the other side, he found himself back in time. The décor was nineteenth century. A Tiffany chandelier cast soft green and blue reflections on the foyer’s polished black-and-white marble floor. A potted palm with elongated, leafy fronds sat beside a carved giltwood table.
“Can I help you?” A receptionist beckoned him forward.
“I have a meeting with Griffin North.”
“Yes—Mr. L’Etoile. He’ll be out in a minute.”
While he waited, Robbie admired more of the décor. He’d guessed the ornate moldings that capped the high ceilings and framed the autumnal colored Art Nouveau wallpaper were originals—though in America you could never be sure. His family’s maison in Paris dated back to the mid-eighteenth century. One shouldn’t tear down the past to make way for the future. That’s how lessons were lost. The art of keeping a civilization alive, like the art of making perfume, was in the blending.
“Robbie. It’s so good to see you,” Griffin said,
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