The Book of Lost Fragrances

Twenty

PARIS, FRANCE

WEDNESDAY, MAY 25, 10:00 A.M.

“Dead?” Valentine repeated, staring at William in disbelief. He’d said more than that, but she wasn’t sure she’d heard anything else. “François can’t be dead.” As sometimes happened, she’d slipped out of French and into the Chinese dialect her mother had used with her when she was a child.

“But he is,” William said. Even though it was a warm morning, he was shivering. His arms were crossed over his chest, hugging himself. “My contact emailed me a copy of the police report. And the death certificate.”

“It’s a mistake. Someone else’s.”

“There’s a photo, Valentine. A photo taken of François. In the morgue-”

She screamed over his words. “Shut up! Just shut up! It’s not true!”

William reached out for her. Took her in his arms. Put his head on her shoulder. She felt his tears through her thin T-shirt.

Gagging, she pushed him away and rushed to the bathroom. Leaned over the bowl. Retched.

When she’d finished throwing up, she slipped to the floor and lay down on the cold tile.

It was impossible. It was all a mistake.

William had called her at midnight when François hadn’t returned home. She’d told him not to worry. Things happened on a job. François never gave up. He was probably chasing the perfumer through Paris. At two in the morning, William called again. And again at dawn. Each time she told him to calm down. To wait.

Tuesday had been the longest day she could remember. No matter how many times William broke, she held strong.

“You know the rules,” she told him, echoing what François had taught her. “Without confirmation, no assumptions.”

William came into the bathroom without knocking. Helped her to her feet. Wet a washcloth with cold water. Gently washed her face. He squeezed out an inch of toothpaste and handed her the brush. “It will make you feel better,” he told her and left her alone.

When Valentine came out of the bathroom, he was sitting at the dining room table staring at an empty vase. Valentine sat opposite him, pulled an ashtray and her cigarettes closer. Shook one out of the pack and lit it. Took a long, deep drag.

“You said asthma?” she asked.

He nodded.

“I’d have known if François had asthma. He would have said.” She looked down at the burning ember between her fingers. “I smoked in front of him.”

“I’m going to make tea.” William got up.

“Tea?” Her laughter sounded hysterical in her own ears. François always made tea, too. Was never without a cup, especially in a crisis. Crisis equaled tea in so many cultures. As if heat could heal. Who started this nonsense: the Indians, the Chinese, the British? Macerated dried leaves wouldn’t solve anything.

In the kitchen, William started the ritual. Every sound-the water running, the cabinet squeaking open, the china cups clinking on the countertop-grated on her nerves. She needed to try calming down; to practice one of the meditation techniques that François had taught her when he’d first taken her in.

“Why would he let me smoke in front of him?” she called out. “Why wouldn’t he tell me he had asthma?”

“He didn’t want anyone to know.”

“Not even me? I don’t believe it.”

William came out of the kitchen, holding a tray, shaking his head. She thought she detected a little smile of satisfaction on his lips. William was always slightly jealous of her relationship with his lover. She’d even wondered if he’d joined the Triad just to keep an eye on François. He’d never seemed to care about the cause, the brotherhood, or the thousand-year-old traditions. She and François had been the true soldiers. Comrades in arms. And now she was left with the wrong partner.

“He wanted to appear invincible,” William said.

“He was invincible,” she whispered.

“Will you come to the hospital with me this afternoon?” he asked quietly.

“Where?”

“To the hospital. We can’t leave his body unclaimed. We have to honor him.”

She looked at him as if he were insane. “How can we claim his body? Who do we say we are?” She realized that she was yelling and raised her hand in apology.

“You took an oath,” William said.

Since the nineteenth century, all members had taken the same thirty-six oaths. She’d memorized them and still knew them by heart.

I shall assist my sworn brothers to bury their parents and brothers by offering financial or physical assistance. I shall suffer death by five thunderbolts if I do not keep this oath.

William was right: she had to help him. “But not yet,” she said. “François would tell us this job comes first.” Trying to keep her voice from cracking, Valentine clenched her fists. She’d killed someone once with her hands wrapped around the man’s neck as François stood nearby, giving her instructions on how and where to press.

She tried to summon him.

What should I do? With you gone, who do I ask for help?

François had trained her for this contingency.

“No one of us is as important as the society,” he’d asserted. “If one of us is caught, even killed, the rest of the team continues.”

He’d given Valentine marching orders and made her memorize them like she’d memorized her oaths.

“If a plan fails, create a new plan. Don’t forget that if you need to, you can go on without me. You’re ready.” He’d smiled proudly. “You’re ready. Do you understand?”

Valentine crushed the cigarette out. Drank the strong black tea that François favored. That she always found so bitter.

“I need to call in the rest of the team,” she said. “Reorganize. We need to get someone outside the House of L’Etoile with directional microphones and find out what’s going on.”

“Shouldn’t we contact Beijing first?”

“It’s too late in the game for that. They might send in someone new to oversee us. We’ll lose our momentum. We need to take charge.”

“So you’re appointing yourself incense master?” William asked, referencing another of the oaths they’d all taken.

I shall be killed by five thunderbolts if I make any unauthorized promotions myself.

“No. Of course not. Beijing can name anyone they want to fill the official position. We need to finish the job François started.”

He was looking at her as if she were a stranger. “You’re ready to go back to work? We have to mourn him, Valentine.”

“There’s no time now. The Dalai Lama will be in Paris on Saturday. We have four days to make sure the Egyptian pottery doesn’t wind up in his possession.”

Now she placed her hands on William’s shoulders and looked into his red eyes. “I promise, we’ll mourn him properly when this is over. For now we honor him best by finishing the work he died for.”

François had been worried about this job from the beginning. But not for himself. For her.

“It’s one thing when the enemy is unknown,” he’d warned her just two days ago. “When your victim is a stranger. But this could be the most difficult test you’ve ever faced. You’re going to have to steel your soul, Valentine.”

There had been just two men who’d mattered to her.

François Lee, who’d saved her life and had been the only father she’d ever known.

And Robbie L’Etoile, who’d opened her heart and been the only lover she’d ever taken.

Now in avenging one’s death, she might have to kill the other.