Page 41 of A Resistance of Witches
“Why would she do that?”
“I don’t know. But you didn’t see her take the book, so there’s still hope. And if René is—” He stopped. There was a quick sound in his throat, a sort of choking spasm. Lydia knew it well. “Please. Tell me about the house.”
“It was just an ordinary house. The books were in French, so maybe France, but it could just as easily be Belgium or Switzerland, or a hundred other places. It was abandoned, like everyone had been spirited away in the middle of dinner.”
Henry closed his eyes, thinking.
“Any landmarks?”
“No.”
“Rivers? Lakes? Bodies of water?”
“No. I looked everywhere. No address, no landmarks, no photographs.”
“Artwork? The Louvre hid pieces in homes and castles all over France, maybe René went to one of them.”
The cold, helpless feeling was rising in her again, ready to drown her. “No. The only art was a child’s drawing. And some sort of silver ornament hanging by the door.”
Henry tilted his head. “An ornament?”
“Yes. Long and narrow, the size of a finger. Nailed to the doorframe.”
He closed his eyes. “A mezuzah.”
“A what?”
“A mezuzah. Jewish families hang them on their doorposts as a sign of faith.” His voice was low. Almost mournful.
Lydia remembered the overturned chair, the broken crockery. Food left on the table, as if the family had been dragged away mid-meal.
“What about the drawing?” He didn’t look at her, but Lydia could feel something dark and heavy slip into the room with them. Something ugly.
“It was a cat. It was signed ‘Jean-Luc.’ ”
Henry stood, rubbing the bridge of his nose as if he had a headache. He was silent for a long time.
“Jean-Luc is René’s nephew.”
The heaviness crawled inside Lydia’s chest, coiling itself around her heart.
“How old is Jean-Luc?” She’d nearly said,How old was Jean-Luc?
“Nine.”
Mother, protect him, she thought.
She looked at Henry. His posture was rigid, as if even the slightest movement would cause everything he was feeling to burst out of him. She wanted to tell him she was sorry. She wanted to tell him she understood what it was to lose someone, how it feels like you’re the one who’s dying, even when you keep on living, day after day.
“Maybe it isn’t René.” She almost reached out and took his hand, butsomething in the shape of his body let her know the gesture would not be welcome. “The body. Maybe it’s someone else.”
Henry didn’t look at her. Instead he stared into the darkness in front of him, grappling with some monster only he could see. After a moment his eyes cleared. He looked at her, his face resigned.
“I know where the house is.”
Fourteen
Rebecca’s contact was late.
