Until I Die

thumping away as I felt awash in a tide of guilt. What in the world was I doing? I was sure JB and Gaspard wouldn’t mind me using the library, but taking an old, valuable book home with me? I couldn’t imagine they would be very happy about that. I’ll bring it back tomorrow , I thought, and made my way out of the house of the dead and back into the world of the living.

EIGHTEEN
     
    I SAT IN MY ROOM, STARING AT THE TWO OLD books that lay open side by side on my bed. The word that had been crossed out in Papy’s book was easily legible in Jean-Baptiste’s copy—it was “Audoniens.” However, the “Sign of the Cord” bit had been crossed out so thoroughly that it was impossible to decipher. Both books were needed to fit together the puzzle pieces: the guérisseur lived among the Audoniens and could be found under the Sign of the Cord.
How strange , I thought. Someone wanted to make this guérisseur very hard to find. But not impossible. Well, if someone’s identity was being protected, that must mean that this was more than just a fairy tale. I just wondered if the healer’s descendants were still around, twelve hundred years later.
So, I was looking for a faraway land (at least far away from Goderic, wherever he had lived) and for a people called les Audoniens . Once I found them, I had to find out what the Sign of the Cord was. “Selling relics to pilgrims,” it said. So probably near a church.
I checked my clock. It was a half hour until my lunch with Georgia—a half-hour away—at a restaurant in the Marais. But Georgia was always late.
Slipping my laptop out of my desk drawer, I typed “Audoniens” into Google … and almost jumped out of my chair when I saw what appeared on my screen. “ Audoniens ” was the French moniker for people who lived in Saint-Ouen. Saint-Ouen … as in the neighborhood in the north of Paris. Of course, in medieval times it must have been its own town. As Paris grew, it gobbled up all the little towns on its borders and incorporated them into the city. So the healer didn’t say “Paris” or “Parisians” because he was referring to the then separate village of Saint-Ouen.
It was so close, I could go there every day if I needed to until I found what I was looking for. Or found that what I was looking for no longer existed. Pushing my luck, I searched for “Sign of the Cord” in English. And came up with a lot of references to spinal cord injuries. There was nothing of interest when I checked in French. I closed my laptop and stuck it back in my desk, then lay JB’s book carefully in its own drawer.
I threw my coat on and left the apartment at a jog, with Papy’s copy of the book in my bag. I had what I needed, and could at least give his book back today. Hopefully he hadn’t had the chance to go through his inventory cupboard and wouldn’t notice when I replaced it. Not that he would mind me taking things from the gallery. Papy had always been overly generous with me and Georgia. I just didn’t want to draw attention to the fact that the book that I took was all about revenants. He would definitely be suspicious after my “numa” slip last year.
I Métro’d over to the Marais and walked down the tiny street called rue des Rosiers, which was infamous for the World War II roundup of Jews for transport to concentration camps. One Jewish deli still had a bullet hole in its window: the owners left it as a testament to that darkest of times in the neighborhood’s history.
I neared the end of the street and saw the three famous falafel shops, lined up in a row. Heading toward the one with the green facade, I spotted Georgia already seated inside. On time. Which had to be a personal record for her.
Over squishy falafel sandwiches smothered in tahini sauce, my sister and I caught up on the last couple of days.
“So it takes your boyfriend being dead for you to come out with me?” Georgia teased.
“Not dead—dormant. And you’re the one who’s so busy I never see you anymore.”
“Yes, well, being a rock star’s girlfriend takes up all my extracurricular time.” She pretended to do an over-the-shoulder hair toss, even though her hair was way too short to be tossed, and took a big bite of pita.
“Rock star ?” I teased. “When did he get the promotion from ‘wannabe’?”
“Ha, ha,” Georgia deadpanned. “You’ll see for yourself next Saturday night. Because you are coming. So … tell me. How’s your hunt for Vincent’s miracle cure?”
“I