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She moved with that dancer’s grace toward the set of windows only to unlatch one and climb through it, beckoning Vi to follow her.
Vi’s mouth went dry, her palms sweaty and her heart in overdrive. Heights were not her strong suit. In fact, heights were not her suit at all. She meekly followed Chiara, shaking like a leaf all the way. A few turns, a few stairs, and they were on the roof of Lilien Haus with Paris all around them, the Eiffel Tower soaring on the other bank of the Seine, the myriad of roofs rising and falling, making the skyscape unforgettable.
Vi turned around, trying to both not look down and still give the impression of taking in her surroundings, only to run headlong into Chiara’s assessing look from earlier, accompanied by the same head tilt.
“It’s so strange, Ms. Courtenay. It took you a week to straighten out those hellions from Rue de Bretagne. Quite a feat since nobody has managed until now. To ingratiate yourself to Aoife, who is quite a prickly specimen, if I may say so, as her best friend. And now I find myself compelled to welcome you here, where so very few people ever step foot. What is it about you, Ms. Courtenay?”
Her face didn’t show much, eyes hooded and reserved. With her fear momentarily forgotten, Vi didn’t know how to answer the question, or even if she should. She’d been allowed into the inner sanctum. It remained to be seen why and for how long.
Chiara didn’t seem to require anything from her, though. She’d finished her monologue and was now standing an arm’s length from Vi, gazing into the distance where the Tuileries could be seen, her face a picture of ease.
Vi looked in the same direction, staring at the horizon, but whatever was left of her own peace was coming from her unwillingness to question it too deeply. All she wanted to do was lie down and bask in the last rays of sun this warm evening and soak up Chiara’s presence. And it made her a little brave. She could perhaps even handle being on the roof. As long as she didn’t look down. And why would she need to when Chiara was right here? She handed her the white food box and got her courage up.
“Why do you insist on calling me by my last name?”
Chiara opened the container and pulled out what looked like neither falafel nor a tuna sandwich. Zizou would have a lot to answer for tomorrow, Vi decided, accepting half a chicken wrap.
“Isn’t that your name? And isn’t that the reason for your presence here?”
Touché.
What others were silent about, what Aoife only hinted at, Chiara suddenly confronted her with. Yes, she wouldn’t be here if she wasn’t a Courtenay with all the connections that implied.
But before Vi could gather her wits to answer, Chiara reached out, and Vi suddenly felt incapable of moving. The words had hurt, but then the cool fingertips touched her face, gently tracing the corner of her mouth, and Vi belatedly realized Chiara must have wiped away some of the darn mayo that seemed to be following her everywhere this evening.
Still, it felt that the tender thumb lingered on her lower lip a little longer than strictly necessary and like Chiara was wiping away the sting of her words.
“Um…” Vi cleared her throat, desperate to remember what they were talking about. “Well… it is, and that may be true, though I’m not sure what I am doing here. I think Aoife's need for gophers could have been satisfied more easily.”
Chiara let her hand fall when Vi started speaking, but for just a second, Vi had felt her own lips move against that gentle fingertip and her knees went weak.
“Sure, however, Aoife deserves the best. And bar that, royalty.” This time Vi knew Chiara was joking, because the dimples were peeking out, and she couldn’t help but return the smile.
“You could call me Vi, you know. Since that’s my name, too.”
“Except it’s not.Genevieveis.” Chiara took a delicate bite of her own wrap and gave Vi an appraising look. Then she shook her head, and they both laughed.
“Yeah, I don’t think it suits me either. It’s a family name.” She shrugged. She hadn’t picked it, so she wasn’t particularly fussed, but Chiara’s reticence was interesting.
“I heard. And not just any ancestor’s, but one who slept with kings, it seems.” The no-longer-sad eyes danced with merriment as she took another bite of her food.
“Aoife.” Vi tsked and Chiara shrugged.
“We are horrible gossipers here. All of us. It’s an insulated world we live in, and spending days and days with the same people in and out of the building doesn’t particularly lend itself to anything other than recounting each other’s secrets.”
“I did share it with her freely, though now I know she’d be incapable of keeping it to herself.” Vi winked to make sure Chiara didn’t have any hard feelings about her friend being disparaged. “And all you ever had to do was ask.”
Instead of lightening up, Chiara’s eyes darkened though, and Vi was afraid she had, indeed, overstepped. She was about to say something—anything to lift the returning veil of sadness from that beautiful face—when Chiara spoke.
“Yes, it was that simple, wasn’t it? And you know that’s all you have to do, too. Just ask me. You seem to be curious. It’s been a while since I’ve encountered genuine curiosity…” Chiara looked into the dusk falling on the city lying at her feet, but Vi could tell her eyes were unseeing. “So any question, I’ll answer.”
And suddenly, Vi knew what this was all about. The roof, the questions. Chiara wanted Vi to ask about the last time they’d seen each other. The time Vi had wanted to ride to the rescue of the princess with the bloodied fingers and too-wide wedding band.
But despite Chiara’s wishes, the last thing Vi wanted to do was hear about Frankie, or what the raving and ranting had been about. Because Frankie and the fighting put that awful closed-off, melancholy look into the amber eyes that sparkled so brightly when happy, that Vi wanted to avoid the conversation at all cost.
“What is the one memory you cherish most?”
Chiara’s eyes widened.
