Revolution - Jennifer Donnelly [149]
And suddenly the music stops and all at once they turn to me, eyes glittering, color high. And then they smile. Not funny smiles or kind smiles—hungry smiles. One of them beckons to me. I open my eyes wide and they’re gone and there’s only dust—lying heavy on the mantels, floating in the light of an uncurtained window.
I keep going, into another dining room—a small one. And I realize I know this room. This is where Orléans took Alex after she tried to steal his purse. This is where he fed her supper and gave her wine. Where he cut her hair off and made her his own.
“You need to help me,” I say. “This place is huge. I’d need a week to search it. Help me.”
And then I smell it—cloves. So strong. In a shuttered, empty room. She’s here. I know she is. She’s the shadow in the mirror. Ashes swirling in the grate. I can feel her quicksilver spirit—nimble and bright—rush past me. I follow her out of the room, down corridors, around corners, up staircases, until I arrive at a garret room. It’s bleak, with faded curtains, an unmade bed, a table and chair, and a small fireplace. It was hers.
I get busy. I look everywhere. Under the bed. Behind the curtains. I pull the thin mattress off the bed and rip it open. I get down on my knees and try to pull up floorboards. I check the fireplace for loose bricks. But I don’t find anything.
“Where did you put it, Alex?”
The only answer I get is the sound of birds screeching from inside the chimney. They must’ve built a nest inside it. There’s a scratching sound. More shrilling. Soot crumbles down onto the hearth. And then something explodes out of the fireplace. I feel the beating of wings against my face, little claws in my hair.
I yelp and swat at the bird. It flies high above me, then lands on the mantel. It’s a sparrow. A little brown sparrow. Its eyes are dark and bright. I can see its tiny heart pounding in its breast. It lets out a cry. And then another.
“Hey. Chill,” I tell it.
Moving slowly so I don’t scare it, I cross the room and open the window. The bird shakes the soot from its feathers. Cocks its head at me. And doesn’t move.
“Go on,” I tell it. “Fly away.”
It still doesn’t move.
“Flap those wings. Go, sparrow, go.”
Sparrow.
I practically dive into the fireplace. I pull the grate out, kneel down, and try to stick my head up the chimney. I can see a bit of light up above me, but nothing else. I crawl back out, get my flashlight out of my bag, and try again. Its beam is weaker than it was, but it’s still strong enough to illuminate the inside of the chimney.
I see a lot of soot, not much else. But I keep looking and then I see something weird—a small area, high up, that seems darker than the rest of the chimney wall. Like an empty space. A hollow.
I stretch my hand up, but I can’t reach it. I’m stuck. My shoulders are too wide. I put the flashlight down, raise both arms over my head like a diver and try again. Almost there. I can feel the bottom edge of the hollow with my fingers. I go up on my tiptoes and stretch every muscle in my arms, and then I touch something. Something hard. A box, I think. I try to get hold of it, but only end up pushing it in farther. I stoop down again, get the grate, and stand on it. I can’t see a thing without the flashlight. I can barely move. A horrible thought occurs to me: What if I get stuck? There’s no one to hear me scream for help.
Just a little higher, I tell myself. I push myself up on my toes as far as I can go, and feel for the hollow. My hands close on the box. I drag it out. Soot falls on my head. And then the box does.
I crawl out of the chimney clutching it. It’s about the size of a candy box. Flowers and dragons are painted all over it. A paper label gives the address of a Paris tea shop. I raise the lid. There are about a dozen gold coins inside. Two diamond rings. Three emerald bracelets that look like fakes. A gold pocket watch. A silver snuffbox. Half a dozen ruby buttons. A little sack of cloves. It’s no Ali Baba’s treasure, but it’ll do.
I’m sifting through the coins, holding a ring up to the