Rosalyn tried to imagine the intrepid thief who would make his or her way up to this level, past all the rest the house contained.
Madame Bolze tried several keys in the ancient lock until she finally found the right one. She pushed the door open and stuck hergray head in, as though to be sure they weren’t disturbing anyone. After a moment, she stepped back.
“Bon.There is an old black steamer trunk in the corner. It has been there since before we moved in. I do not know if it contains what you are looking for, but my father-in-law bought this house after the Second World War, so... it is possible.”
Madame Bolze turned and began her slow descent down the stairs, holding tightly to the metal banister, the treads creaking underfoot.
Blondine and Rosalyn looked at each other.
“Do you suppose there’s someone living in here?” asked Rosalyn in a low voice.
“It sort of felt like she was checking for someone, didn’t it? Probably just ghosts.”
“I ain’t afraid of no ghosts,” Rosalyn said in English, parroting a film from childhood.
“Comment?”Blondine asked.
“Never mind. You don’t have earthquakes in this area, do you?” Rosalyn asked. Everything about the old house suggested it would tumble down at the slightest provocation—if not because of the crooked timbers, then due to the sheer tonnage of junk on every floor.
Blondine shook her head. “I’m more worried about fire, myself.”
“Oh great,” said Rosalyn, realizing there was no way out of the house other than the cramped stairwell, or a window. “Now I am, too.”
“Good thing we don’t smoke, eh?” Blondine said.“Allons-y.”
Chapter Twenty-seven
The attic space itself was like the rest of the house, but more so: Objects were piled high, a few covered with sheets, most not. They zigzagged their way between piles of musty books and old magazines, cardboard boxes and decrepit small appliances, the air smelling of dust and abandonment.
Rosalyn moved a box aside and jumped back in alarm.
“A mouse?” Blondine asked.
“No... a painting.”
A stern-looking older woman stared out of a gold-framed oil painting, tight curls on the side of her head, lace at her throat and wrists.
“Speaking of theveuveClicquot,” said Blondine, peering over her shoulder. “That looks very much like a famous portrait of her. She was...intimidante.”
“This one certainly looks intimidating. In English we would say ‘formidable,’ but that word means something different in French.”
“Back in the day, women in portraits were either young and beautiful or old and scary.” Blondine gazed at the portrait, her headtilted to one side. “I’m not sure what that means, really, but maybe this woman was also a widow, ready to rule the world.”
“And more than a little annoyed,” said Rosalyn.
Blondine laughed. “Yes, more than a little annoyed. I said those wealthy widows were impressive, not that they were a lot of fun to be around.”
They made their way farther into the cluttered attic room, pushing aside a sewing mannequin, a baby’s cradle, and a stack of dining chairs.
Blondine picked up what looked like a large scrapbook that was sitting on a small cupboard. “Oh, my grandmother had one of these.”
“What is it?” Rosalyn came to see the book, which held embroidered scraps of linen.
“A young woman’s journal, from nineteen twenty-seven. These are samples of how to fold napkins for different sorts of occasions. It’s the sort of thing a well-brought-up young lady was expected to know before marriage. Can you imagine a life like that?”
“It’s a far cry from Pilates classes and Netflix marathons—that’s for sure. But it’s also sort of sweet, thinking of a girl putting that book together.”
Blondine nodded and replaced the scrapbook where she had found it.
