The Collector of Dying Breaths

Chapter 35

THE PRESENT

MONDAY, MARCH 24

BARBIZON, FRANCE

Jac woke up in the laboratory, feeling drugged and groggy. Looking at her mother’s wristwatch, she calculated that she’d been sleeping there, at René’s work space, for over three hours. The dream-but it wasn’t a dream-wasn’t blurred and ephemeral. The memories were as fresh as if she’d lived them the day before. As she relived what she’d experienced, sadness overwhelmed her, and she sat there and wept.

After a few minutes Jac roused herself. The solution needed to macerate for twenty-four hours, and it had already begun without one important ingredient. She needed the lemons.

Serge was in the kitchen. He was wearing maroon silk pajamas and a silk robe, with distinctive paisley velvet slippers from a store Jac knew on the Right Bank in Paris. Despite all the accoutrements he looked tired. His skin looked gray.

“Good evening,” he said.

“Hi. Can’t sleep?”

He nodded. “The last twenty-four hours have left me shaken.”

“Me too.”

“Would you like a cup of chocolate? I made enough for an army.”

“Yes, that would be great,” she said.

As he stood, he seemed to take note of her clothes. “At least I tried to go to sleep,” he said.

“I’ve been downstairs all night. I started mixing the formula. I didn’t think I was going to but…”

His eyebrows lifted. “Really? How far did you get?”

“I’ve done everything but add the lemons.”

“And after the lemons-what next?”

“We wait twenty-four hours before the next step.”

“What does it smell like so far?”

“A very aromatic liqueur. The brandy is overwhelming everything else.” She thought about René and his personal oak moss and musk scent.

“I’m relieved that you have everything you need…”

“Except the lemons.” She smiled. “By far the easiest ingredient.”

He smiled back at her, but it was halfhearted. Serge turned off the burner and poured out the dark shiny chocolate. After putting a steaming cup in front of her, he returned to his seat.

“You did everything you could to save that man’s life,” Jac said.

Serge picked up a spoon and stirred the liquid in his cup, but he remained quiet.

“I watched you. You gave him your own breath.” Jac lifted the cup and took a sip. “This is delicious. My grandmother used to make it just like this with real melted chocolate, not powdered cocoa.”

“It takes more time to melt the chocolate, but it’s an effort that more than pays off.” He took a sip but then shook his head as if the taste had been so good he felt guilty.

Or was that Jac’s imagination?

“It’s very difficult to watch someone die,” Jac said.

“Yes. It is. And I’ve seen too many people lose their battle…”

She interrupted. “Serge, how could Melinoe have gone back and taken the ingredients from Bruge’s laboratory? In that moment-with all that was going on-how could she have been so merciless?”

“She’s not someone who is easy to understand.”

“No one is easy to understand… but how can you watch someone dying and think to use that moment to steal something from them?”

“I’m sorry.”

“What are you apologizing for?”

Serge turned away. Looked at the stove. At the sink. Anywhere but at Jac’s eyes.

“It didn’t happen exactly the way you think it did…” he whispered.

Jac had to lean in to hear him.

“What didn’t?”

“Bruge’s accident… it was an accident… but…”

“But what?” Jac was certain that Serge, despite his one weakness for Melinoe, was not a cold-blooded killer.

His face was collapsing. His features softening into misery. His eyes filled with tears that remained unshed. His voice was barely even a whisper now. “Melinoe had wanted me to create some kind of accident so he’d be hurt and then to help him… save him… so that he’d feel so grateful that he’d sell her the ingredients.”

“Did you somehow make that branch fall?”

“No, it just happened. The branch broke off and knocked him down.”

“And then?”

Serge was quiet. Had Bruge really cracked his head on the stone, or had Melinoe bashed his head in with the rock?

Jac didn’t bother to ask. Even if Serge knew, which she doubted, she was certain he’d never turn his stepsister in.

“When Melinoe realized that Bruge had been mortally wounded, she took advantage of that fact to go back and take what she wanted?” Jac asked.

Again, Serge didn’t respond. But someone else did.

“No!”

In reaction to the single word, Serge closed his eyes.

Jac turned. Melinoe stood in the doorway. Her hair was wild with Medusa-like curls. Her eyes blazed with anger. The skin around her mouth was white with rage. She was wearing a long silk black robe edged with silver lace. Her large diamond earrings sparkled in the dim light. She looked like one of the furies.

“Discuss our business with a stranger? Serge, how could you?”

Even though she’d voiced it as a question, Jac knew it was an accusation. There would be consequences for Serge for having broken a confidence. And for her too, she feared. For she’d been the one to hear his confession, and that might have been the greater sin.