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I cock my head. “What is the problem?”

Her jaw works furiously, and she shakes her head hard. “Why do you have to be so pushy? This isn’t going to—there’s nothing—look this was a bad idea. I don’t—I think it’s better if—”

Suddenly, the door opens, and Madame Boularès stands before us in all her bouffant-hair, scarlet-lipstick, black-heeled glory.

“Excuse me for interrupting,” she says, “but must you two argue right on my doorstep?”

Eloise looks like she just swallowed a lemon. Her whole face puckers, and her eyes widen. She shoves the mason jar out in front of her, like it’s a lit stick of dynamite. She squeaks out a word that might be “Tea,” but it’s hard to tell.

Madame Boularès’ eyes brighten. “Ah! Ze girl with ze dogs.”

Eloise nods vigorously, still holding the tea.

“Eloise, oui?”

Another nod. Her lips are pressed so tight together they’ve turned white.

“I don’t remember your name,” Madame Boularès says to me.

“Agustín,” I say with a little wave.

“Agustín. Wonderful name. From the Latin, Augustinus, meaning venerable or majestic.” She swipes the tea out of Eloise’s hand. “Come in, come in.”

Eloise shoots me a terrified look. I gently take her elbow and walk her across the threshold. She yanks her arm from my grip and follows me down the short hall to the living room. This apartment is the same layout as Eloise’s but there aren’t nearly as many plants—Madame Boularès seems to favor large oil paintings in gilt frames, and velvet covered couches. She’s got a vintage record player and a record collection that would impress my father.

“Do you take milk or sugar in your coffee?” Madame Boularès calls from the kitchen.

“None for me, thank you,” I say.

Eloise shakes her head.

She can’t see you, I mouth.

She glares at me. I don’t want coffee, she mouths back.

So tell her that, I suggest.

“Eloise?” Madame calls.

“No coffee,” Eloise croaks out.

I smile encouragingly and give her a thumbs up as Madame comes back with a silver tray laden with cups and saucers and an ornate coffeepot. It seems Madame has decided we are getting coffee whether we want it or not.

“Eloise is a French name, you know,” she explains as she sets the tray down and starts to pour. “Héloïse. Derived from the Old German name Helewidis, meaning healthy or wide.”

“Wow,” I say, giving Eloise a tiny nudge toward the couch to encourage her to sit. She keeps glancing toward the door. One more little nudge and she plops down on the sofa. “You know a lot about the stories of names.”

“A hobby of mine,” she says.

I perch beside Eloise as Madame hands me a cup.

“You have a very beautiful home,” I say. “Eloise, doesn’t Madame Boularès have a beautiful home?”

Madame Boularès hands Eloise her coffee. Eloise’s hand is shaking so hard it’s a wonder she doesn’t spill it. She takes a sip, makes a face, then puts the cup down.

Madame Boularès watches her thoughtfully. “You are a very strange person,” she says.

Eloise coughs and turns pink. I can feel the tension vibrating off her in waves. She’s gripping her knees with her fingers, the tendons on her hands popping.