The Witch of Painted Sorrows

Chapter 27

I arrived at the bottom of the tower, shaking and disoriented. I looked around, trying to figure out which direction to take to leave, to make my way to the road, to find a carriage, to go home.

There were so many people milling around I couldn’t see any street signs.

To the right, at least a dozen uniformed officers had formed a barricade and were blocking off a section of the plaza. Was that where Charlotte had fallen? Was her body there on the pavement? I tried to see through their legs, but they had formed too solid a wall. Standing on my tiptoes, I searched for a glimpse of Julien between their starched caps. I didn’t see him, but I did catch sight of the German.

Then one of the policemen shifted position and nothing but uniforms were visible.

Not knowing which way to go, I decided just to walk in the opposite direction from the disaster site. I would be able to find a carriage on any street. It didn’t matter if it was in the opposite direction from La Lune. Heading a few blocks out of the way was of no importance now. I needed to get home. Everything would be all right once I got home.

I began to walk, two terrible words going around and around in my head, in some crazy rhythm that wouldn’t abate.

Fire, fall… fire, fall… fire, fall…

There was no avoiding the awful truth. The fire had been her first attempt. This had been her second.

My legs were shaking so badly each step seemed to take forever.

I began to notice more police had arrived. Or had they been there all along? Dozens of them, their hats standing out like white caps on a stormy sea. It appeared the gendarmes were stopping random people and asking them questions.

What would happen if they interrogated me?

Nothing, I reassured myself. I had nothing to hide. No reason to be so nervous, to be this nervous.

Trying not to attract any attention, I continued moving through the crowd, heading toward the street. Despite my efforts, one of the gendarmes focused on me. I bent to pick up an imaginary something from the ground.

How was I going to answer his questions? I didn’t even understand what I’d seen. I was only sure of what I’d felt-someone in the crowd had shoved me; the wind had pushed me. Such a strong wind. It was the wind that had picked up the umbrella. Why had Charlotte been determined to grab it? Had she drunk too much champagne?

“Monsieur?” The policeman blocked my path.

I stood up and looked at him, meeting his glance, at the same time pretending to put whatever I’d picked up from the ground into my pocket.

“Oh, excuse me, Mademoiselle.” He was embarrassed to have gotten my sex wrong.

“That’s all right.”

“Were you up on the terrace?”

I nodded.

“You are aware of what happened?”

“It’s so terrible,” I said, my voice breaking.

He gave me a sympathetic nod. “It is. Did you witness the accident?”

“No, I didn’t. I was on the other side of the balcony.”

He was trained to know when people were telling the truth. Would he know that I was lying?

“And so how is it you know what happened?”

“On the steps… it’s a long way down… there were people who saw it and were talking about it… Is it true what they said? A woman fell to her death?”

Was he looking at me strangely? Had he guessed? Did he think I had been involved? Had I somehow implicated myself? But I hadn’t been involved. There was no way I could be found guilty. It was not me. I had not touched Charlotte. I had nothing to do with her accident.

“So then, you didn’t actually see anything?”

“No, nothing but the crowd surging toward that side of the terrace.”

“Thank you then.”

I turned.

“One more thing.”

My heartbeat quickened.

“Yes?”

“May I have your name?” He had taken out a pad and a pencil.

“My name?”

“We need to keep a record of the eyewitnesses.”

“But I didn’t actually see anything,” I insisted.

“A record of people on the platform.” His pencil was poised; he was waiting.

“Of course. My name is Eloise Bedford,” I said, giving him the name of the same girl I’d gone to school with whom I’d used in another lie the day I’d applied to the École des Beaux-Arts.

Closing his notebook, he moved on.

I tried to keep my pace calm and not hurry as I kept walking. Fire, fall. Fire, fall. I wanted to run. I could barely breathe. My clothes were drenched in sweat. I was shivering. And still I had to keep going at an even gait. Fire, fall. Fire, fall.