For a moment, Cally considered asking Noah to come back in and sharing everything. But if she did, Noah would tell Antoine as soon as they next visited, and that wasn’t the solution. “Right,” she agreed instead, and took a sip of her water.
Zoey’s glare intensified. “That’s it? That’s all you’re going to say?”
Cally swallowed a sigh. “Look, I wasn’t off getting my hair done. I understand I hurt Noah, and I’ve already apologized to him. This was something we needed to do, okay?”
“And you’re not going to tell us?”
“I will, but this isn’t the right time.”
Zoey gave her a searching look, then threw her hands up. “Fine, keep your secrets. Just don’t do it again, all right?”
“Where’s Gabe?” Eve asked around a mouthful of sandwich, deliberately changing the subject.
“I believe he’s at his apartment,” Marcel replied. “Most likely asleep.”
“Are you okay if we stay here for a few days?” Eve asked.
“Of course, madam.”
Zoey narrowed her eyes but said nothing, then turned and left.
“She’ll get over it.” Eve reached across the table to pat Cally’s hand. “Noah, too.”
“Will he?” Cally asked Marcel. He would know best.
“I am certain of it,” the elderly retainer replied. “He is fond of you.”
“Today?”
Marcel tilted his head. “Perhaps.”
“Good. Because I want to go and see Antoine.”
Twelve
Le Havre, France, 1750.
The harbor stank with a dense mix of salt, rot, fish, tar, excrement, and spice, thick and cloying in the air. Antoine wrinkled his nose and kept his breathing shallow.
The coach stopped well short of the dock.
“I cannot go any further, monsieur,” the driver called out in regional French. “It is too busy.”
It was just an excuse; he wanted to be rid of Antoine. He’d been reluctant to take the fare, despite how much gold had been offered. Antoine didn’t blame him; it was understandable when he insisted upon traveling only at night, and when his complexion didn’t look quite human, no matter how much he had practiced with his glamour.
Still, they were four nights from Paris, and there’d been no indications of pursuit.
Yet.
“Very well,” Antoine replied, disembarking.
A low mist clung to the damp stone quays, diffusing the lantern glow of watchmen and dockhands already at work. The sky was still dark, but the eastern horizon hinted at sunrise with a faint spill of indigo. Weather and tide favored early departures, and a pair of three-masted barques sat waiting, sails furled tight, shifting restlessly against the pier like hounds eager for release.
Winches rattled and ropes groaned as crates and barrels were lifted from dock to deck. Horses snorted and pawed the cobbles, yoked to carts laden with goods. Traders, sailors, fishermen, and port guards worked in concert in a never-ending ballet.
Antoine couldn’t help but look over his shoulder, expecting to see another coach arrive, its doors and livery black on black, the horses whipped to a frenzy. Long before now Belle would have known he was gone. There was no doubt she was in pursuit; the only question was how close she was.
He hurried toward the waiting ship.
