“And who is that?” comes the acid reply.

“The kind of guy who gets out of bed, even when things are crap. The kind of guy who cal s his mother to say ‘Happy Thanksgiving’ instead of avoiding

talking to her because he’s afraid of what she might say. The kind of guy who doesn’t let his ass**le father win. But I guess I’m wrong. This”—I gesture

around his room, even though his back is to me; he’s very stil —“must be working for you. Good luck with that. Happy holidays. I’m going out.”

The door is clicking shut when I hear it. “Wait—”

St. Clair cracks it back open. His eyes are blurry, his arms limp. “I don’t know what to say,” he final y says.

“So don’t say anything. Take a shower, put on some warm clothes, and come find me. I’l be in my room.”

I let him in twenty minutes later, relieved to find his hair is wet. He’s bathed.

“Come here.” I sit him on the floor in front of my bed and grab a towel. I rub it through his dark hair. “You’l catch a cold.”

“That’s a myth, you know.” But he doesn’t stop me. After a minute or two, he gives a smal sigh, some kind of release. I work slowly, methodical y. “So

where are we going?” he asks when I finish. His hair is stil damp, and a few curls are forming.

“You have great hair,” I say, resisting the urge to finger-comb it.

He snorts.

“I’m serious. I’m sure people tell you all the time, but it’s real y good hair.”

I can’t see his expression, but his voice grows quiet. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” I say with formality. “And I’m not sure where we’re going. I thought we’d just leave and . . . we’l know when we get there.”

“What?” he asks. “No plan? No minute-by-minute itinerary?”

I wal op the back of his head with the towel. “Careful. I’l make one.”

“God, no. Anything but that.” I think he’s serious until he turns around with half a grin on his face. I swat him again, but truthful y, I’m so relieved for that half grin that I could cry. It’s more than I’ve seen in weeks.

Focus, Anna. “Shoes. I need shoes.” I throw on my sneakers and grab my winter coat, hat, and gloves. “Where’s your hat?”

He squints at me. “Mer? Is that you? Do I need my scarf? will it be cold, Mummy?”

“Fine, freeze to death. See if I care.” But he pul s his knitted stocking cap out of his coat pocket and yanks it over his hair.This time his grin is ful and dazzling, and it catches me off guard. My heart stops.

I stare until his smile drops, and he looks at me questioningly.

This time, it’s my voice that’s grown quiet. “Let’s go.”

Chapter nineteen

There it is! That’s my plan.”

St. Clair fol ows my gaze to the massive dome.The violet gray sky, the same sky Paris has seen every day since the temperature dropped, has

subdued it, stripped away its golden gleam, but I am no less intrigued.

“The Panthéon?” he asks warily.

“You know, I’ve been here three months, and I stil have no idea what it is.” I jump into the crosswalk leading toward the gigantic structure.

He shrugs. “It’s a pantheon.”

I stop to glare, and he pushes me forward so I’m not run over by a blue tourist bus. “Oh, right. A pantheon. Why didn’t I think of that?”

St. Clair glances at me from the corner of his eyes and smiles. “A pantheon means it’s a place for tombs—of famous people, people important to the

nation.”

“Is that all ?” I’m sort of disappointed. It looks like it should’ve at least crowned a few kings or something.

He raises an eyebrow.

“I mean, there are tombs and monuments everywhere here. What’s different about this one?” We climb the steps, and the ful height of the approaching

columns is overwhelming. I’ve never been this close.

“I don’t know. Nothing, I suppose. It’s a bit second rate, anyway.”

“Second rate? You’ve gotta be kidding.” Now I’m offended. I like the Panthéon. No, I LOVE the Panthéon. “Who’s buried here?” I demand.

“Er. Rousseau, Marie Curie, Louis Brail e, Victor Hugo—”

“The Hunchback of Notre-Dame guy?”

“The very one. Voltaire. Dumas. Zola.”

“Wow. See? You can’t say that’s not impressive.” I recognize the names, even if I don’t know what they all did.

“I didn’t.” He reaches for his wal et and pays our admission charge. I try to get it—since it was my idea in the first place—but he insists. “Happy

Thanksgiving,” he says, handing me my ticket. “Let’s see some dead people.”

We’re greeted by an unimaginable number of domes and columns and arches. Everything is huge and round. Enormous frescoes of saints, warriors,

and angels are painted across the wal s. We strol across the marble in awed silence, except for when he points out someone important like Joan of Arc

or Saint Geneviève, the patron saint of Paris. According to him, Saint Geneviève saved the city from famine. I think she was a real person, but I’m too shy to ask. When I’m with him, I’m always aware of how much I don’t know.

A swinging brass sphere hangs from the highest point in the center dome. Okay, now I can’t help it. “What’s that?”