Susan Dennard - A Darkness Strange and Lovely

“The what?”

“It’s a newspaper for English-speaking visitors in France. It details what everyone is doing, thereby fulfilling the gossip needs of society—and you can be certain that a glowing girl with a handsome lad such as myself is the sort of story people talk about.”

“You’re changing the subject.” I puffed out my lips. “If I really am a lit fuse, then I suppose you’ll have to teach me necromancy.”

“Are you joking?” He folded his arms over his chest. “What do you think I’ve been trying to do for the last week?”

“Well, I was scared. I am scared. It is scary, don’t you think?”

He grimaced. “Remind me never to drink with you. You babble like an idiot.”

“Humbug.” I snorted. “But I do want to learn it now. It feels so good! And I don’t want to cast any more accidental spells. Plus . . . oh! Just imagine what I could do to Marcus with necromancy. Boom! ”

I wiggled my fingers like an explosion. “Fight fire with fire, you know.”

“Or you could simply talk him to death. I feel on the verge of suicide myself—”

“I’m serious, Ollie. Teach me necromancy. I order you to.”

“Fantastic.” His mouth quirked up, the faintest sheen of triumph in his eyes. “But in about ten minutes when this stupor wears off, do not forget what you said. Now come on.” He held out his hand.

“The train is here, and you have a team of Spirit-Hunters to find.”

The view outside the train was exactly as Henry James described it in Madame de Mauves: trees of cool green, meadows rolling onto the horizon, and a gray light that made the sky look silver.

I pressed my face against the window while Oliver maintained his usual slouch in the seat across from me. I groaned inwardly. Why had I ordered Oliver to teach me necromancy? And why, now that the magic had worn off, was I not regretting that decision more?

What was wrong with me?

Despite my frustration with my scruples (or lack of them) and despite the fact that my legs were going numb sitting on the hard seat, before I knew it I had dozed off against the polished wood wall. I was soon traipsing through As You Like It ’s Forest of Arden with Orlando shouting his love to me and posting love poems on all the aspens.

Although, when I awoke five hours later, it occurred to me that the grassy green of Orlando’s eyes and the wool of his gray flat cap were entirely too similar to a certain Spirit-Hunter’s I wanted to forget.

“Did you have a nightmare?” Oliver asked. “You look awfully pale.”

I gulped and sat up straighter. “I just . . . dreamed of someone. Someone I’d rather not think of.”

“That inventor fellow?”

I gaped at him. “H-how did you . . .”

He chortled. “Let’s merely say that when you told me about the Spirit-Hunters, your careful avoidance of discussing him, combined with the lovesick look on your face—”

“I am not lovesick!”

“Of course not,” he said flatly. “Does he know how you feel?”

“I refuse to discuss this with you.”

“Fine. Suit yourself.” He shrugged. “It’s good you could nap. You wore yourself out with that spell.”

“And blazes, am I hungry now.” I folded my arms over my stomach. “I cannot wait to feast on croissants.”

He grinned. “They are the best pastry in the world, aren’t they? Did you know they were brought to

France by Marie Antoinette? They’re actually an Austrian creation.”

“Really?”

He lifted a flat-palmed hand. “I swear. I met her ghost. She was not pleased with death. She kept moaning, ‘ Pas chance pour l’amour. ’ No chance for love.”

“Is that true? Is there no love on that side?”

“Of course it’s not true. You saw Elijah. His love for you hasn’t faded or else he wouldn’t have come into your dream and saved you from the Hell Hounds.”

I frowned and turned my gaze out the window. Russet and gold-tipped trees were sprinkled over foliage still clinging to summer-green. As we roared by, it all blurred together like some Impressionist painting.

If Elijah had come to my rescue out of love, then what did that mean about Clarence Wilcox? Why had he saved me?

“However,” Oliver continued, “there is a much higher chance for broken hearts in the spirit realm.

More often than not, lovers get separated.” He spoke as if he’d experienced that separation firsthand.

I swallowed, my mouth suddenly dry. “Ollie, have you ever loved?”

He nodded slowly. “I loved your brother, and . . .” A shy smile spread over his lips. “I find I am starting to love you.”

I shifted in my seat, surprised by his honesty. “You do not mean . . . that is to say, you do not love me romantically.”

He barked a laugh. “Egads, no! Not for you—no, no.” Then his face sagged, and he turned away to stare out the window.

I desperately wanted to ask “For whom then?” but the way his lips compressed . . . he looked so utterly sad that I could not bring myself to do it.

Plus, at that moment, he withdrew a silver flask from his coat pocket and drank back something that smelled like whiskey.

“Where did you get that?” I demanded.

He smacked his lips. “I saw it in your roommate’s luggage and decided it was the perfect size for my hand.”

“You stole from Laure? But she’s your friend!”

He frowned. “Not Laure. That old goat-faced lady—”

“Mrs. Brown?” I squealed. “No! No! She carries a flask?”

“Carried,” he corrected.

I sniffed. “You’re awful. And you really must stop stealing.”

He opened his hands in a noncommittal way, and then after taking another long swig, he slumped down in his seat. “You know,” he drawled, “I actually know quite a lot about love from my many years of watching the universe—”

I groaned. “Oh, the wise demon doth speak. Hark so that we all may learn!”

He laughed, straightening slightly. “I’m serious. I’ve seen a lot of souls pass through my home, and I’ve seen a lot of loves still hanging on. Those long-lasting ones”—he tapped his heart—“are the ones filled with tenderness and smiles.”

“Oliver, the demon poet,” I said drily.

He rolled his eyes. “One last piece of advice, El: if this Spirit-Hunter does not love you back, then good riddance. Real love isn’t about drama or heartbreak. Real love just is.”

I ran my tongue over my teeth and stared silently outside. Oliver was right—I knew he was right.

With a sigh, I turned back toward him. “You remind me of Elijah, you know. The way you talk to me.

The things you say. You’re just like he was before . . . before . . .” I shook my head, unable to say the words.

A heartbroken smile dragged at Oliver’s lips and eyes. “I’m not surprised. When a necromancer calls for a demon, the one that answers is the one most similar to the necromancer.” His fingers went to the locket. “Elijah was a good man before revenge took over his mind.”

I tried to swallow, but my throat was pinched too tight. “He sacrificed himself at the end—jumped in front of one of the Hungry to save me.”

“That doesn’t surprise me.” He bent forward, propping his elbows on his knees. “He cared about you more than anyone else in this universe. Even more than me— hard to imagine, I know.” The edges of his mouth twisted up.

“Tell me about him,” I urged. “Tell me what you used to do together.”

“Other than chess and riddles?” Oliver’s face shifted into a frown. “There was a great deal of eating . . . and sleeping. Oh, and studying. Can’t forget all the bloody libraries he used to drag me to.”

“What about . . . what about necromancy? I know you said you were more his friend than his tool, but surely he used your magic some. What spells did he have you do?”

Oliver’s frown deepened. “I’d rather not talk of it.”

“Please?”

“No.” He sat up. “Please, El. It’s too . . . too fresh.”

“Oh.” I hugged my arms over my stomach. “Then perhaps later?”

“Or perhaps never.”

“But why?”

He clutched at his heart and turned away. “Because it’s personal, that’s why. Can’t you be satisfied with knowing that he cared about you?”

“No.” I slid to the edge of my seat. “I can’t be satisfied with that. I need to know more—”

“Well, you won’t learn more from me.” He gestured almost tiredly to the window. “We’re coming into Paris, if you care to see.”

That ended my protests immediately, and I pressed myself as close to the window as I could get. In the distance, cast in pink, was a crowded city with layers that rose up like a cake and crawled with movement. It was like watching the dancers in a ballet, and I felt a sudden, deep urge to write bad poetry.

But the closer we got, the more the charm started to vanish. And the more complex the labyrinth of streets and buildings around us became, the more the filth and soot stood out.

“It’s so . . . so dirty,” I said at last.

“Ha!” Oliver barked. “Isn’t every city?”

“Philadelphia certainly is, but . . . I had this idea of Paris being . . . well . . . perfect.” I gnawed my lip. “Where are all the electric streetlamps? Or the bridges and gardens? The ones you see in the prints?”

“Oh, you’ll see them—just wait until we reach the center of the city. It’s always dirtiest on the edges.”

Soon enough we were zooming through the Paris of which I’d dreamed. All around were the quintessential beige buildings with their iron-fenced windows and dark, shingled rooftops. Chimneys poked up in organized rows, silhouetted by the evening sun.

But what impressed me most was the number of electric lamps that rose up, elegant and iron, to illuminate the streets. City of Light, indeed! It was like a fairy world twinkling at sunset, and I could honestly say I had never seen or imagined anything like it.

“Tell me what everything is,” I ordered, my face smashed against the window.

Oliver scooted beside me and pointed. “There’s a house, there’s a house . . . that looks like a boulangerie, and over there’s another house.”

I glared at him. “I mean the famous places. The Arc de Triomphe or the Louvre or Notre Dame or

—”

“All the places that aren’t beside the train tracks.” He snorted. “Patience, El. You will see them in good time. But look.” He pointed to the hill with its jagged rooftops and crooked, ever-rising angles.

“That hill is Montmartre, the home of the bohemians: the artists and Gypsies who don’t want to live in the city.” He grinned as if remembering fond times. Then he pointed again, this time to where the train was aimed. “And that, up ahead, is our train depot.” He turned toward me, opening his hands wide. “Et voilà Paris, Mademoiselle. ”