Juliana Hastings was Bastien’s best friend of over ten years. She had been sent by her father to Paris a few years before the Great War, to live in a snug little townhouse along with her governess, and study at theAcadémie de Musique. Evidently, the choice of residence in the 16tharrondissement had brought her right opposite the Ménard mansion. She had become Bastien’s best friend—the only friend in the private alley where they lived. But that was before Anaïs and Jacques had moved in, and before Juliana had moved out to join her milieu of artists in Montparnasse.
She could have afforded an apartment anywhere in Paris. The Hastings, as Juliana had told him once, werenouveau riche—new money—but still money. But Juliana had wanted to feelcloser to the whole idea of thestarving artist, so after booking her first performance at a burlesque, she had joined everyone else in the poorest neighbourhood she could find.
Since then, Anaïs had met her only a handful of times, but by the shock splashed across Bastien’s face it was clear that he knew nothing about her fascination with his friend.
Although he knew about her preferring women—it was the only secret Anaïs had trusted him with that Jacques didn’t know about.
“Is that so?” Bastien hummed. “What happened to that other girl?”
“She’s history,” his sister sniffled. “Now unhand me before I scream.”
He complied, largely because he was well acquainted with Anaïs’s earsplitting shrieks and didn’t want to suffer a headache that wasn’t caused by heavy drinking. Plus, if thegarde municipalewas around, it would be extremely difficult to convince them they were siblings who bickered like this all the time. Anaïs was Jacques's sister by blood, and the only thing that set them apart was the lighter shade of hazel in her eyes. Next to Bastien, she could barely pass for his cousin.
They started up the street again.
“How long are you going to stay with Juliana anyway?” she asked as they turned up a low hill. The neighbourhood here was quieter, or as quiet as it could get when countless chairs filled the sidewalk along the boulevard, buzzing with conversation under the dim glow of gas lamps and café awnings.
“Why? Are you calculating how many times you can come here to see her?”
“No.” She marched forward, her pace fast. “I’ll miss you, that’s all…and you were in the middle of teaching me how to drive.”
Bastien hastened to catch up to her and patted her head, upsetting the diamond headband she had fixed around her hair. “And here I was, mistaking that whole speech for a magnanimous heart-pouring on your part,” he said, indignant. “Besides, we have a driver. Make use of him.”
“Ugh, you sound just like Jacques.”
“Bite your tongue!”
Anaïs rolled her eyes. “If I werecompletelyhonest,” she went on, “I’m glad I will have a few days of peace without you two fighting.”
Bastien would be lucky if his period of exile lasted only a few days. He had never been able to entirely predict his grandfather’s decisions.
It didn’t matter. As long as he ensured Celine won that competition and he replenished his accounts again, moving out of the mansion was merely a pebble in his shoe.
Eventually, Juliana’s building appeared into view, standing like a solitary soldier on top of the hill. They both let out a breath of relief.
“I’m starting to think you don’t feel bad about me at all, sister,” he heaved for air, suddenly remembering why he had blocked out the way to Juliana’s apartment. He hated this hill.
Anaïs, unaffected in comparison, shrugged. “My empathy is a work in progress.” Reaching the doorway, she rang the bell that read J. Hastings inart nouveauengraved lettering. There was a crashing noise on the other side, followed by a yelp. Anaïs held back a laugh.
A moment later a window shuffled open on the first floor. Then Juliana’s head stuck out, whistling at them so they could face her.
“What happened to ‘I’ll move in before noon.’?” she asked, tilting her chin upwards so that the breeze that blew through thealley wouldn’t muss her gelled hair. “I’ve been waiting for you all day.”
“Santa’s little helper wasn’t helping,” Bastien replied, pointing at Anaïs with his thumb.
Juliana had always carried a dismantling air about her; eyes sparkling like the cutting edge of a sword; lips always a vicious shade of red. It was part of her charm as a showgirl. But right at that moment, Bastien could have sworn her cheeks pinked when her eyes landed on Anaïs.
The plot thickens.
Bastien held himself from imparting all the teasing remarks that flashed across his mind. “We’re here now, so take off that feather boa and come open the door.”
Juliana shot him a dirty look, like she already regretted saying yes to Bastien staying with her. “Wait there. I’ll be out in a second,” she shouted, disappearing inside again.
A moment later, she was at the door, greeting them. “Welcome to your new home, exiled son.”
Her marble cut features were even sharper up close, though the blush, still persistent, softened them somewhat. Bastien pushed Anaïs forward and entered the apartment right behind.
It felt like entering another timeline; the living room was absolutely bohemian, with everything being either silk, velvet, or embroidered and decorated with Chinese motifs. Juliana had several lamps on, neither of them casting much light. Bastien nearly tripped over the row of heels by the entrance.
