“Perfectly sufficient.”

“Shut up.” He laughs again. “Hey, you know why they cal this the Latin Quarter?”

I raise an eyebrow.

“Centuries ago, the students at La Sorbonne—it was back there.” He gestures with his hand. “It’s one of the oldest universities in the world. Anyway, the students were taught in, and spoke to each other in, Latin. And the name stuck.”

A moment of reserve. “That was it? The whole story?”

“Yes. God, you’re right. That was pants.”

I sidestep another aggressive couscous vendor. “Pants?”

“Rubbish. Crap. Shite.”

Pants. Oh heavens, that’s cute.

We turn a corner and—there it is—the River Seine. The lights of the city bob in the ripples of the water. I suck in my breath. It’s gorgeous. Couples strol along the riverbank, and booksel ers have lined up dirty cardboard boxes of paperback books and old magazines for browsing. A man with a red beard

strums a guitar and sings a sad song. We listen for a minute, and St. Clair tosses a few euros into the man’s guitar case.

And then, as we’re turning our attention back toward the river, I see it.

Notre-Dame.

I recognize it from photographs, of course. But if St-Etienne is a cathedral, then it is nothing, NOTHING compared to Notre-Dame. The building is like a

great ship steaming downriver. Massive. Monstrous. Majestic. It’s lit in a way that absurdly reminds me of Disney World, but it’s so much more magical

than anything Walt could have dreamed up. Mounds of green vines spil down the wal s and into the water, completing the fairy tale.

I slowly exhale. “It’s beautiful.”

St. Clair is watching me.

“I’ve never seen anything like it.” I don’t know what more to say.

We have to cross a bridge to get to it. I hadn’t realized it was built on an island. St. Clair tell s me we’re walking to the Île de la Cité, the Island of the City, and it’s the oldest district in all of Paris. The Seine twinkles below us, deep and green, and a long boat strung with lights glides underneath the bridge. I peer over the edge. “Look! That guy is so trashed. He’s total y gonna fal off the bo—” I glance back and find St. Clair toddling on the road, several feet away from the edge of the bridge.

For a moment, I’m confused. Then it hits me. “What? You aren’t afraid of heights?”

St. Clair keeps his eyes forward, on the il uminated figure of Notre-Dame. “I just can’t fathom why anyone would stand on a ledge when there’s a

respectable amount of walking space right next to it.”

“Oh, it’s about walking space, is it?”

“Drop it, or I’l quiz you about Rasputin. Or French verb conjugation.”

I lean over the side of the bridge and pretend to wobble. St. Clair turns pale. “No! Don’t!” He stretches out his arms like he wants to save me, then

clutches his stomach like he’s about to vomit instead.

“Sorry!” I jump away from the ledge. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize it was so bad.”

He shakes a hand, motioning for me to stop talking. The other hand stil clings to his queasy stomach.

“I’m sorry,” I say again, after a moment.

“Come on.” St. Clair sounds peeved, as if I was the one holding us back. He gestures to Notre-Dame. “That’s not why I brought you here.”

I can’t fathom anything better than Notre-Dame. “We’re not going inside?”

“Closed. Plenty of time to see it later, remember?” He leads me into the courtyard, and I take the opportunity to admire his backside. Cal ipygian. There is something better than Notre-Dame.

“Here,” he says.

We have a perfect view of the entrance—hundreds and hundreds of tiny figures carved into three colossal archways.The statues look like stone dol s,

each one separate and individualized. “They’re incredible,” I whisper.

“Not there. Here.” He points to my feet.

I look down, and I’m surprised to find myself standing in the middle of a smal stone circle. In the center, directly between my feet, is a coppery-bronze octagon with a star.Words are engraved in the stone around it: POINT ZÉRO DES ROUTES DE FRANCE.

“Mademoisel e Oliphant. It translates to ‘Point zero of the roads of France.’ In other words, it’s the point from which all other distances in France are measured.” St. Clair clears his throat. “It’s the beginning of everything.”

I look back up. He’s smiling.

“Welcome to Paris, Anna. I’m glad you’ve come.”

Chapter nine

St. Clair tucks the tips of his fingers into his pockets and kicks the cobblestones with the toe of his boots. “Wel ?” he final y asks.

“Thank you.” I’m stunned. “It was real y sweet of you to bring me here.”

“Ah, well .” He straightens up and shrugs—that ful -bodied French shrug he does so well —and reassumes his usual, assured state of being. “Have to

start somewhere. Now make a wish.”

“Huh?” I have such a way with words. I should write epic poetry or jingles for cat food commercials.

He smiles. “Place your feet on the star, and make a wish.”

“Oh. Okay, sure.” I slide my feet together so I’m standing in the center. “I wish—”

“Don’t say it aloud!” St. Clair rushes forward, as if to stop my words with his body, and my stomach flips violently. “Don’t you know anything about